One of the few compensations of growing old is that you are less likely to be disappointed by Britain’s sporting defeats. Indeed, it is possible to come up with a version of Shakespeare’s seven ages of man according to how disillusioned you are by our national sporting heroes.
At first the infant, cheering along without a clue; then the school-boy, experiencing the first stirrings of nationalist fervour when the England football squad qualifies for an international tournament; then the lover, completely besotted with the latest British hopeful at Wimbledon; then the soldier, doggedly standing by the England rugby players even though their chances of winning anything are slim; then the sceptic, telling yourself not to get too excited when the England cricket team comes close to reclaiming the Ashes; then the cynic, betting against the British contender in the Welterweight Championship; and, eventually, the soothsayer, predicting an endless series of defeats long into the future.
I am currently at the stage where scepticism is hardening into cynicism. When I tuned in to watch England in the European Under 21 Championship final on Monday I wasn’t exactly hopeful -- we were playing Germany, after all -- but it was still a bit of a shock when we lost 4 - 0. As for Andy Murray, at the time of writing he has yet to be knocked out of Wimbledon but his five-set thriller against Stanislas Wawrinka looked suspiciously like one of Henman’s battles to make it into the last eight. It is almost as if he has been sent by the Gods of false hope to torture us. When apologists claim he is “improving” I can’t help reminding them that Boris Becker won Wimbledon at the age of 17.
Sometimes, I feel obliged to mount a defence of British sport, claiming that our chronic inability to win anything is due to our natural sympathy for the underdog. At the crucial moment, when we have our opponents in our sites, we lack the killer instinct. Better they should win than us -- it will mean so much more to them.
But in truth it is a cause of unremitting shame and embarrassment. Will the summer kindly come to an end? I don’t think I can take any more.
