Andy Murray cut a subdued figure as he left the Kia Arena after his chastening defeat to Tomás Martín Etcheverry. Having offered a few congratulatory words to the victor, he packed his belongings, waved to the crowd with both hands, then disappeared down the tunnel. If his salute had the look of a farewell gesture, it was with good reason: Murray later admitted he may have played his last match at the Australian Open.
Murray’s career has been defined by obstinacy, defiance, sheer will. In an era of giants, it could not have been otherwise. But the inner fire failed to ignite against the powerful and mobile Etcheverry, and in truth it has been flickering for a while. Murray has now lost seven of his past eight matches, and the abject manner of his latest setback, a 6-4, 6-2, 6-2 defeat that ceased to be genuinely competitive well before the final ball was struck, spoke of a body worn down by injury and, perhaps, a spirit weary of swimming against the current.
Even a warrior like Murray can only defy the odds for so long. For five years, he has been playing at the highest level with a metal hip, an unprecedented achievement in a sport where the physical demands are brutal and the consequences of frailty almost invariably fatal. That he is currently ranked 44th, having reached a post-surgery high of 36 as recently as last August, borders on the miraculous. But whether it is miracle enough for Murray – a former world No 1, three-time grand slam champion and double Olympic champion, but also an incorrigible perfectionist – is another question.
“It’s a definite possibility that will be the last time I play here,” said Murray. “I think probably because of how the match went and everything, I don’t know.
“Whilst you’re playing the match, you’re obviously trying to control your emotions, focus on the points and everything. When you’re one point away from the end, you’re like, ‘I can’t believe this is over so quickly, and like this.’”
Time and tide have made things increasingly difficult for Murray in the final phase of his career. At the age of 36, he is giving away years almost every time he walks on court. Crucially, he is also having to work harder than his younger peers simply to be on court. Murray’s pre-match routine consists of endless hours spent alternating between carefully devised warm-up routines and the physio’s table, a necessary evil to ensure his body is in optimum condition. His painstaking dedication is admirable, but the mental toll must be enormous. With tens of millions in the bank and a wife and four children at home, at what point does the law of diminishing returns kick in?
Only Murray knows the answer. But having already hinted that this season could be his last, the manner of his latest defeat will have done little to keep thoughts of retirement at bay. Murray has repeatedly stated that his future will be shaped primarily by two factors: how well his body holds up, and how much he is enjoying himself. His performance against the 30th-seeded Etcheverry, a 24-year-old Argentinian who stands 6ft 5in tall and has firepower to match, offered little encouragement on either front.
“It’s not usual for players to come back from eight, nine months away from the game, a year away from the game, and start feeling amazing immediately,” said Murray. “It does take time.
“For me, this time, it’s never really come back. It’s difficult, when you played at the top of the game, to change your perspective on how you should be performing and how you should be doing. I would have the highest expectations, and a lot of the players coming back, like the Osakas, the Wozniackis, Kerbers, Rafa [would feel the same]; all of them have played right at the top of the game.
“It’s difficult if you come back and you’re not at that same level. It’s hard.”
On this occasion it was hard to watch, too. By the latter stages, Murray was in obvious pain. Facing a break point in the fifth game of the third set, he grimaced and clutched at his resurfaced right hip after stretching for a backhand volley. No less alarming was the sight of Murray limping after the opening point of the next game, then landing gingerly as he tucked away an overhead. In those moments, the mind drifted back to the summer of 2017, when Murray hobbled his way to the Wimbledon quarter-finals and was not seen on court again for almost a year. Enjoyment comes hard in such circumstances.
Etcheverry hit all the right notes afterwards. He talked of how tough it was “to play with a legend like Andy” and then, reflecting on a 61-minute first set added: “A long battle, I know that’s bad for me.” The respect was genuine, but in truth the contest was a tale of two players on starkly contrasting trajectories. This time last year, Etcheverry was ranked 80th; then he made finals in Santiago and Houston, reached the last eight at the French Open, and discovered a level that he hopes will carry him into the top 20. Murray, meanwhile, has fallen away markedly since narrowly failing to secure a Wimbledon seeding last summer, a reality of which he is all too aware.
Murray has always lived off his emotions, but he has resolved to rein himself in, fearful that his combustible nature may have affected his performances at times last season. He wondered out loud whether that altered approach contributed to what he described as a “very, very flat” performance – and perhaps it did. But the one emotion that has always shone through with Murray, even at his chuntering, self-flagellating worst – perhaps especially at those moments – is his love of the sport. Here, joy seemed to give way to weary resignation. Pain will do that to a person; even one as innately positive and battle-hardened as Murray.
“At times in the last year I’ve really struggled, haven’t really enjoyed it that much,” Murray told Eurosport’s Laura Robson, herself a veteran of three hip surgeries. “I still feel like I can play good tennis, but it’s not happening when I go out there on the match court, and that’s where it matters, not in practice.”
How far Murray is able to bridge that gap will go a long way to determining when and where his storied career ends. So too will his ability to rediscover the joy of competing. How much more perseverance he can summon? How much more pain can he endure?