Last night, for the first time, Andy Murray showed the kind of passion which fired up the Wimbledon crowd to an Henmanic-like orgy of nationalistic fervour. I have little doubt he wouldn't have won without their very vocal support.
I suspect I wasn't the only one who stayed in my car during the seemingly endless number of deuces at the end of the first game of the final set, which Murray finally won. Having got home, I didn't dare get out of the car and rush indoors to switch the TV on in case I missed the vital point. It was that game which showed why Andy Murray has a tougher aspect to him than Tim Henman had. Henman would have lost that game.
I find it very difficult to get worked up about tennis nowadays, but last night reminded me of the good old days, when I would get absolutely hooked on tennis for a fortnight to the virtual exclusion of everything else.