"What if I could write the story, what if all this ends in glory ... what if only dreams could live. And I'd never have to say what if."
There has perhaps never been a more apt song put to a tennis montage than the soul-searching ditty What If by Alistair Griffin as the embers of another Wimbledon began to fizzle out on the BBC last night.
After a day in which we all seemed to get a tad giddy on large vats of spent emotion, Griffin's words neatly rounded off a quite breathtaking cocktail of images from the sort of sporting theatre that this onlooker does not think will be beaten for another 77 years. Certainly not in my lifetime.
With the Wimbledon trophy and the US Open in his possession, Andy Murray can no longer be called the nearly man. That sounds infinitely more heartwarming than being described as a true champion.
Watching a fellow Scotsman overcome the unflinching Serbian Novak Djokovic yesterday, it was difficult not to feel one's heart swell with immense pride as an array of baseline bullets containing more venom than grapeshot were exchanged between two wonderful exponents of the sport, men who seem to turn tennis into a barbaric yet oddly noble pursuit.
Patriotism can certainly creep up on you at weird moments. As Murray finally scrambled over the line in the 10th game of a third set that seemed to last forever, the Scottish actor Gerard Butler summed up the mood of a nation when he leapt out of his not so cheap seat.
Butler's fellow actor Bradley Cooper was perched next to him. Butler last roared with as much venom when he bellowed: “This is Sparta” as King Leonidas in the movie 300. Yesterday, he bowed to King Murray, the first British man to clasp the Wimbledon trophy since Fred Perry in 1936. Harold Mahony in 1896 is the only other Scot to manage the feat, but he never had to handle the Djoker.
Derided as dour by some critics and a diffident chap by others, Murray is obviously not arrogant. Just naturally a little shy and a bit deep, qualities that are misconstrued as some sort of aloofness when it is obvious he is a typical bloke at the age of 26. He is a wonderful, glorious example of all that should be celebrated about a professional athlete.
He has a self-deprecating sense of humour, but the British public finally appear to “get him” even if it is easy to love a winner.
His coach Ivan Lendl, his mother Judy, girlfriend Kim and the rest of his backroom staff should be applauded for providing the kind of stability and emotional support needed to knock Murray into the required state, both mentally and physically, that saw him flower yesterday. Without the support network, this would not have been possible.
His home town of Dunblane in Scotland is a nice place to visit. Dunblane deserved this as much as its finest sporting son.
I recall being in a gym at Edinburgh's Commonwealth Pool in 1996 when the news broke that Thomas Hamilton, an unemployed 43-year-old - a figure of some dubiety ousted as a local scout leader several years earlier - had walked into the local primary school and killed 16 children and their teacher before turning the gun on himself.
There but for the grace of God, go I. Murray attended Dunblane Primary School at the time of the shootings. He was only eight. It must have crossed his mind in his private moments - but for a twist of fate he may not have been around to contest his final with Djokovic. He may never have fulfilled his potential.
The Dunblane shooting incident illustrates the fragility of life. Like Murray's match with Djokovic, we all live on a knife edge. The real pain of those horrors is that their parents will never know what lives the innocents murdered in Dunblane would have gone onto lead.
Murray poured something back into Dunblane yesterday. He proved that life, with all its unerring ability to hit you as hard as a Murray first serve down the T, cannot keep a good man down. Yesterday was full of the good stuff in life.
“It is just nice that I’ve been able to do something the town is proud of,” he said.
When Murray was wallowing in tears after his defeat to Roger Federer at Wimbledon a year ago, he did not embrace self-pity.
Clasping Olympic gold and the US Open to make good on his promise lanced such a concept. And yesterday he landed the whopper, the Holy Grail, the one they all wanted. Winning Wimbledon launches him into the stratosphere reserved for true tennis titans.
Untold riches await, but Murray stopped playing for money a long time ago. Others will look to ride on the back of the feel-good factor.
A few politicians seem to be jostling for position as much as Murray chasing down Djokovic's brutish forehands.
Scotland's first minister Alex Salmond waved the Saltire, no satire intended, branding it a very Scottish win, while Prime Minister David Cameron can point to the 'conservative' feeling of British success on Centre Court. This all comes ahead of Scotland's independence referendum in 2014.
Murray made it on his own if we want to politicise any facts. Britain never provided the infrastructure for him to flourish. He enhanced his game in Spain from the age of 15 after toiling to earn access to his passion at school. Scotland and tennis courts are not natural accompaniments.
A teetotaler, the art of self-improvement and self-awareness is the very essence of the man.
He has looked at where he needed to improve, worked himself into the ground and the result was what we witnessed yesterday: a figure oozing self-belief and a man who gradually realised he was talented enough to grow bigger than he could ever have imagined.
That is the real lesson of the Murray story: live in the moment, live for the moment by practicising self-discipline and espouse a work ethic to improve one’s self. Nothing worthwhile in life comes easy. Nobody can do the hard yards for you. It is only ever about you. Murray has had to take some hard knocks but the empty fears of self-doubt have been purged by his voracious appetite to seek, to find and not to yield.
For Scottish sport, this approaches the summit of a myriad of mountainous achievements.
Celtic winning the European Cup in football with 11 Scots in 1967 is a feat likely to never be repeated while there was the European Cup Winners' Cup successes of Rangers (1972) and Aberdeen (1983).
Sandy Lyle collecting golf's Open in 1985 and the Masters in 1988 were moments to cherish. There have been Olympians such as Eric Lildell and Sir Chris Hoy but for sheer scale, Murray's Wimbledon win is unlikely to be surpassed.
Murray not only beat Djokovic yesterday, he doused any lingering notion of second place. He looked deep into his soul, and found the solution. When we think of Andy Murray, we no longer wonder: 'What if?'