Naked Hero - The Journey Away

afternoon – or more precisely to its repercussions. There he was, out of the blue, the nation’s new sporting hero. He was on the television playing down his chances, and on the back pages giving it large, pumping his arm as he wound up the crowd, looking like he was up for another round in The Falklands.
    ‘That was a bit naughty,’ Lewis now conceded, although he certainly didn’t think so at the time. He later claimed that he didn’t do it consciously – it was just youthful exuberance that got slightly out of hand – but that was a whole load of bollocks. He’d seen a weakness and exploited it to the full - put on a performance which was a means to an end, adding the crowd to his arsenal of weapons that rained down on his furious opponent. Perhaps it wasn’t very sporting, but then life isn’t always fair. Lewis certainly knew that from bitter experience, and his two year ban was only the tip of the iceberg.
    Sporting or not, the tabloids loved it - a Brit was winning at Wimbledon, and beating an Argentinean into the bargain. It was gutter press ecstasy and they milked it to the full. With the sleeve and his looks and his arrogant bluster, and with no other home player for the hacks to focus on, Lewis became an over-night sensation, and his life was irrevocably changed.
    Fame! Fortune! And especially notoriety! That was the day when it really all started: that Centre Court match with his juvenile display, which wasn’t really necessary as he would have won the match anyway without all the theatrics. But the fuse had been lit and Lewis had fanned the flame. It was only a matter of time before the bomb would go off.
    The phoning and texting, tweeting and trending, all carried on at a furious pace. But now the professionals had entered the chase anxious for snippets about him. The drug thing came up, which was manna from heaven, but after that there was an unusual void. Where were the girls wanting to sell their story was the question on editors’ minds. Drugs and sex went hand in hand, especially where a good-looking lad with attitude and tats was concerned, but no one came forward to spill the dirt on that particular aspect of Lewis’s life.
    Of course young Mr. Macleod was kept protected from much of this. His coach Jim Murdoch placed him in a bubble, refusing to entertain any media interaction beyond the obligatory post-match interviews. But Lewis wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going on. And he knew without question what he had to do once his Wimbledon experience was over for the year – give them the story that would rock the sport, for no other man had ever dared tell it.
    The rounds continued, as did the wins. The theatrics stopped by mutual consent between Lewis and his coach, but the frenzy of interest escalated by the day, into the second week as the draw opened up with the main danger man in his half surprisingly losing, giving Lewis a relatively easy run to the final.
    The final!
    At his first attempt he’d made the final. The whole country was going mad, the press was going berserk, and tabloid editors were apoplectic that their reporters hadn’t uncovered any further scandal. Cut away from it all, but aware of the fuss, Lewis himself could scarcely believe it. Somehow it had come true, or part of it had - this mission he had set himself, the dream he had held. Suddenly his young life was under the microscope and would take physical presence on a global stage that no one thought he was ready to enter: a Wimbledon final on the Fourth of July against Tommy Jackson the world number one and defending champion, who just happened to be an American.
    The omens didn’t sound good. If ever there was a mismatch then surely this was it. There would be loads of bluster, and patriotic hype, plenty of hope and prayers offered up, but little real belief in the fans that would watch. With all the pressure on the lad, his lack of experience and such a lowly ranking, few really expected the upstart Brit to spoil the American Independence Day party.
    Lewis felt a tingle as he relived the moment. It was a glorious day, so the roof wasn’t needed, which certainly suited Macleod’s attacking game better. But it was a shaky old start that the young Scotsman made - the early match nerves seemed to linger a bit longer on that sunny afternoon in London. He lost the first set having won only one game – an embarrassing trouncing looked on the cards, just as most people had predicted. But Lewis Macleod was