It started in ecstasy when Andy Murray sauntered on to the sweltering cauldron of Wimbledon's Centre Court yesterday afternoon.

Alex MacLeod

It started in ecstasy when Andy Murray sauntered on to the sweltering cauldron of Wimbledon's Centre Court yesterday afternoon.

We roared and cheered like bravehearts as our local tennis hero began his bid to become a sporting god.

But it ended in agony when a Murray forehand hit the net and the dream died - as we always knew, deep down, that it would.

Oh dear, how we wish that Scots playing that other ball game could hit the net as much as Murray did yesterday.

The whole nation had come to a halt as hundreds of thousands of us crowded round TV sets - at work, at home and in pubs - to watch his semi-final match against big-hitting American Andy Roddick.

We turned confidently to those next to us, smiled and said: "Of course he's going to win. This is no bottler like Tim Henman. This is Murray's year. Has to be."

But, buried in our national psyche, there was a niggling doubt. We're Scots, after all. Glorious defeat, not victory, is our sporting lot.

And Andy went the way of Tim close but no cigar.

What a roller-coaster it was for the fans - even those fans who think a racket is something that happens on a Saturday night.

Roddick won the first game and we were despondent. "Oh no, Murray's got no chance. That's it. Turn off the telly".

Then he hit back and won the second. "Yes! What did I tell you? The boy's unbeatable. He's going to be the champion this year."

Then Roddick won the third. "Oh no" Then Murray. "Yes" And so it see-sawed until the Scot made an error to lose the first set.

A million heads went down. A million fingers reached towards the TV's off button.

Set two was another nail-biting roller-coaster. So much of a nail-biter that we were all beginning to resemble another Scot - Gordon Brown.

But with a series of flashing backhands and forehands, Murray squared the match.

A million heads went up. A million backs were slapped. A million volume controls were turned up.

Set three was worse. Murray saved a break point in the fourth game and we all sighed with relief. But we sighed too soon, because he lost the next point and was in deep trouble. So were a million television screens. But he broke back and the set went to a tie-break - tennis's equivalent of a penalty shoot-out.

How we wished our boy was facing an England footballer, maybe Stuart Pearce. But the man on the other side of the net was one of the deadliest gunslingers in the game.

Murray was shot down A million hearts were clutched. A million heads were shaken. But there was still the hope that he would spring back to life. Jump back to his feet and blow the American party-pooper back across the Atlantic.

Unfortunately Roddick hadn't read the script.

His serves kept booming down. Somehow he managed to keep hitting the ball back over the net.

Every time Murray swung his racket, a million arms swung with him.

A million of us hit every serve, every lob, every smash, every forehand, every backhand. We even hit the ones Murray missed. If that's all it took to win a game, Murray would have been a cert to lift the trophy tomorrow.

It was brutal stuff. Murray's game, Roddick's game, Murray's, Roddick's.

A million eyes were watching the action through a million hands.

Another tie-break. Another heart-break. The bully from Nebraska pounded down the serves and Murray wilted.

When that last shot hit the net, Murray's dream died. A million hearts were broken. Many millions of tears were shed.

Murray ceased to be British - as far as the English-based media was concerned - and became Scottish again.

But we are proud of the 22-year-old from Dunblane.

He made us proud to be Scots. He put Scotland on the world map.

He made our hearts soar - and if they were broken in the end, that's what sport is all about. It's what being Scottish is all about.