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By Giri Nathan
[vc_empty_space height="15px"]I buried Andy Murray too soon. The visible pain, the wrenching press conference, the unconventional surgery—sure seemed like time for fans, players, writers, the general population of Scotland to grab a shovel and pay their respects. I had an elegy up by the next morning. And I was elated to see it rendered obsolete in the same calendar year. Murray’s pseudo-retirement conference was in January; his goal was to squeeze in one last Wimbledon, and even that figured as mostly symbolic. By June, he was playing doubles again. By August, he had tiptoed back into singles. In October, he beat world No. 13 Matteo Berrettini; two weeks later he lifted a 250-level trophy in Antwerp. Then came a long layoff, lengthened by the pandemic. And last week in “Cincinnati”–via–New York, Murray dispatched world No. 7 Sascha Zverev, which, Sascha slander notwithstanding, remains an astounding feat for someone who was busy getting his femur coated in metal some 20 months ago. On Tuesday Murray began his US Open, the first major of his comeback, and eked out a five-set win over Yoshihito Nishioka.