THE grey skies and relentless rain of a Glasgow Sunday seemed very far away from the brilliance of Wimbledon yet it was surely not just an old man’s wandering reflections that suggested something bright, bold and even illuminating had been transmitted through the ether yesterday.

Television can only show so much, but sometimes it is enough. The physical and mental difficulty of Andy Murray’s elemental struggle with Milos Raonic was laid before our eyes. But there was more to the Murray victory. There always is.

It is both the triumph and disaster of the observer, particularly of the professional variety, to take something of significance from two big men battering a yellow ball at speeds of up to 145mph for just short of three hours.

It is routine, even traditional to describe such victories as Murray achieved yesterday as inspiring. Yet what can a superbly honed athlete, dedicated in diet, obsessed in fitness, heavy in talent, offer in terms of life lessons to a 60-something scrambling from broadcast studio to newspaper office?

This inquiry has the most facile of answers.

The details of Murray’s triumph in SW19 can be gleaned elsewhere: the astonishing resilience in returns, the paucity of errors, the dominance on first serve, the brilliance of winners. But this is the stuff of victory and it need not detain us, or certainly not those of us who jumped over the puddles and ducked the chin into the chest yesterday as the rain did its best to imitate the malice of Milos forehand.

It is defeat that intrigues me, even consumes me. Or, more precisely, it is how sporting athletes deal with that blow to their very being, their very reason for existence on court or park or track. This, after all, offers me at least some hint of empathy and a deeper feeling of recognition.

Famously, Wimbledon proclaims Kipling’s description of triumph and disaster as impostors. Yet the latter has seemed chillingly authentic for many of us. It has too been a regular companion for Andy Murray. His failures, of course, have ben relative but they have been painful nevertheless.

Murray and his ilk play to win. Yet on eight occasions the Scotsman has stood by and watched others take the trophy, the plaudits, the honour in grand slam finals. It is in these moments that he has, almost perversely, revealed his greatness.

Not in his humility, doused in tears. He is, after all, gracious in victory and has a wee greet too. It is, rather his long-term reaction to such setbacks that have always intrigued this observer. It is not as if he brushes off the pain. His confidants will whisper of the depth of Murray’s despair when another final to the gallant Rog or the energetic Djoko ended in defeat. Those of us who have watched him over the world and have been privy to those moments in bland, stark corridors when he has tried to articulate his sense of loss have never been in doubt as to the worth Murray has put on being the best in the competition, of being the best he can be.

He has suffered both physically and psychologically. It is almost forgotten that he plays with a bipartite patella, a fancy name for having a split kneecap. He has also overcome, at least partially, a back problem and has ankles that have more miles on them than a Trabant owned by an East German taxi driver. And probably make more noise. He has endured all this without complaint.

But it is his emotional even spiritual travails that have a resonance with those of us whose proximity to top class sport is restricted to the sidelines.

There has been something dogged, determined, even edifying in Murray’s relentless ability to come back from defeat. It is made all the more attractive as these climbs are made under the unforgiving gaze of many in the media and the wider public.

How many times have you heard that Murray would never win a major? Could not beat Federer? Would never defy Djokovic? How many times have you been told that he was a choker, could not compete at the highest level or that his best days were behind him?

Yet he continued to pack his bags for his annual monthly training hell in Miami, he persevered in always trying to make himself better whether by diet, by yoga or by technical tweaks. He always insisted that playing with three of the greatest players of all time – the diabolically powerful trident of Federer, Djokovic and Nadal – had been a blessing rather than the most damning of curses. They have made me a better player, he would state simply.

They may, unwittingly but almost certainly, have made him a better, more rounded person. Murray has learned that even the hardest of labour cannot guarantee success. That sweat and blood can be rewarded with tears. Yet he has continued to answer defeat with an invitation to a rematch. He may not have embraced the pain but he has never avoided it.

He is, of course, a winner with extraordinary achievements on his cv. But he has been a loser too. On a day of his latest marvellous triumph, it was somehow uplifting for this old man to remember that reality and how a young man dealt with those blows, again and again.

There might just be a lesson in that. There might just be inspiration.