Heather Watson, British tennis and a man called Cameron

 Heather Watson, British tennis and a man called Cameron

Wimbledon legends past and present lined up almost regally on Centre Court. It was one for the photograph album or, in the modern currency, perhaps Instagram. They came from all four corners of tennis history, those who have graced and adorned the lush green grass of SW19. There was Rod 'The Rocket' Laver, surely one of Wimbledon's greatest players of all time, all debonair elegance and beautifully supple wrists, Stan Smith who once engaged Ilie Nastase in the most delightful Final against Ilie Nastase exactly 50 years ago and John Newcombe, still tall, stylish, statesmanlike, ageing gracefully and in a class of his own.

Then the gathering of the greats stood patiently awaiting their moment in the golden sun of a Wimbledon afternoon. It almost felt as if greatness had met genius in a lovely rendezvous. Firstly, the ladies stepped demurely onto Centre Court. Angela Mortimer was followed by Ann Jones, both very feminine and almost matriarchal, burnished with talent, style and ladylike refinement. There was Chris Evert, graceful as always, Billie Jean King, a proud feminist, active campaigner, pioneer and remarkable record breaker. 

For the men there was Jan Kodes, a Czech master of his craft, Pat Cash, the Australian who only won Wimbledon's men's singles title once but left the most engaging of impressions on the crowds, Stefan Edberg, who briefly came and went but still enchanted and finally the man who, having arrived at Wimbledon seemed to take up permanent residence on Centre Court. 

Bjorn Born was the Swedish nobleman who dominated Wimbledon's Men Singles for what seemed like for ever. Borg was quiet, taciturn, softly spoken, unruffled by the chaos and crisis that might have been raging around him and just the most charming tennis player you could ever wish to meet. He never fussed, never spoke out of turn and was always a model of composure. At times he restored your faith in tennis since there was a time when the likes of John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors threatened to play havoc with the game. He won five Wimbledon titles and on Saturday he walked out onto Centre Court, now grey of hair but still classically well proportioned and quite happy to wield the racket again if asked.

But on the middle Sunday of the tournament Wimbledon dressed up in its most attractive finery. Britain still had one Heather Watson, the next potential Wimbledon champion for another day. Watson is one of quite a few female British tennis players to emerge into the spotlight and is still hearteningly young. Nobody had expected to emulate the iconic feats of Virginia Wade 45 years ago. But Heather Watson announced herself in that most humble and unassuming fashion. Her day will come but not this year. 

Heather Watson could well have the makings of a Wimbledon superstar, a seemingly nerveless player, impeccably mannered and poised at all times. Watson has everything British tennis could possibly want in a champion. She is  possessed of an innate technique, wonderful powers of concentration and an economy of movement that leads you to believe that one day she will hold up the Ladies Singles winners trophy. Yesterday Watson skipped around the baseline, lunging at returns with unashamed heroism, then swinging miraculous returns of serve with all the accuracy of a player years older than her.

She was lithe, athletic, thrillingly energetic, never overcome by the occasion and frequently prepared to go for the shot that took the breath away. She whipped the ball powerfully across the net, chipping and slicing the ball deceptively and pulling her opponent all over the court. There were of course the forehand blasts that sent her German opponent Julie Niemeir scampering across Centre Court as if she genuinely believed that she could do it for British tennis. That she came agonisingly close probably says more about her all court game than anything we could have hoped for. 

Watson's opponent Julie Niemeir from Germany, was the very epitome of muscular strength, a powerhouse of a tennis player, full of pumped up aggression, feminine virility, inexhaustible energy and a flair for producing the right kind of shot at the right time. Yesterday Niemeir had far too much class and know how for her British opponents, sweeping Watson off and at times petrifying us with the enormity and variety of her game. Niemeir seemed almost effortless at times with cunningly executed drop shots and angled chips that seemed to baffle Watson.

During one unforgettable rally, Watson and Niemeir just refused to lose the point. There were the flashing and stunning forehands and backhands deep into both players midriff, the ball arcing up into the air and then falling over the net almost apologetically with breathless, beautifully disguised cross court exchanges. It was like watching a game of a children's pat-a cake, the ball flying across the net and then returned as if by magic in the same breath. What felt like a 40 shot rally finally came to an end but you could quite easily have watched this same match for the rest of the afternoon.

Niemeir though won the first set quite convincingly 6-2, the second 6-4 and never really looked in any trouble at any point of the match. Watson, though, you suspected, was just overcome by it all, millions of British eyes piercing through Watson's soul. Of course Watson, at times, showed hints of brilliance and an obvious aptitude for the all court game. Yesterday she committed herself whole heartedly to the task in hand but you feel sure that with the wind in the right direction and the stars aligned, Heather Watson will make her point felt and equal the marvellous achievements of Virginia Wade, Ann Jones and Angela Mortimer.

Meanwhile back in the man's game Britain has finally released another gem into the big time. Hot on the heels of Andy Murray, now comes Cameron Norrie. Now it may be that Norrie's best years are ahead of him and this is the foundation stage of his nascent career. He probably won't win the men's singles title for quite some time but these are years of development, maturity and adjustment. But yesterday everything seemed to click for Norrie and a relatively straightforward victory over American Tommy Paul did wonders for his morale, confidence and, quite possibly, ego.

Gone are the days when men's tennis in Britain was regarded as a music hall joke, some supporting act in a cabaret of high achievers. Before Andy Murray, there were few moments of consolation. Of course Tim Henman, now a BBC co-commentator, had transcended all class boundaries by emerging from a middle class upbringing in Oxford with something to offer the game. But Goran Ivanisevic and the intervention of rain soon put paid to any of his hopes of winning the tournament. 

Further back in time and also some 50 years ago, Roger Taylor, also clean cut, personable and respectable, reached the semi final at Wimbledon but faltered at the critical points during his match with the aforementioned Jan Kodes in an exhilarating contest that gripped the nation. We would have to wait another 50 years before Britain would finally produce its first men's singles winner since Fred Perry spawned a leisurewear industry.

And so Cameron Norrie formerly of New Zealand with Scottish and Welsh parents, came bounding onto Centre Court like a teenager pulling out of their driveway in a Nissan Micra having just passed their driving test. The afterburners were on at full speed, the enthusiasm almost pouring out of his racketwork. There were times when the Wimbledon crowd were almost spoilt so commanding had Norrie been in all three sets.

 Cameron has an explosive first serve accompanied by all the tricks of the trade, magnificent return of serves pinging and cracking from the tight strings with an almost orchestral harmony about them, deep, probing returns that reared up outrageously at Paul's face. There was a beefy bravado to Cameron's game that seemed to last for the whole of the match. Then there were those feathery touches, the delicious slices, the unpredictable backhand chips that almost seemed to plop over the net. There was a fearsome brutality about his groundstrokes that completely beat Paul all ends up, racing to a comprehensive 6-4 7-5 6-4 three straight sets victory.

So the American with a back to front baseball cap and daredevil exuberance that was somehow infectious, made defeatist gestures as if accepting that his time was truly up. Cameron Norrie went through the traditional routine of mini fist pumps to himself, a ritual at Wimbledon that somehow belongs in this intense environment. Then he progressed through to the next round of Wimbledon and there was a sudden realisation that this journey could go for much longer than most of us had expected.