Tim Henman

They came, they queued, they expected to see a conquering by the British No. 1 in pursuit of a lifelong dream. Instead it was the British No. 10, a teenage Scottish swashbuckler, who needed to pinch himself awake on Friday morning.

Yes, it’s true. You won, Andrew Murray. You alone will march into Wimbledon’s third round, representing Britain, after a stupendous straight-sets win over the wily 14th seed, Radek Stepanek of the Czech Republic, as the heat and light of an astounding day faded slowly into evening.

But national joy was tempered by sad resignation. Tim Henman will never win Wimbledon now. Perhaps he never could, but he tantalised the world with the thought for so long it was hard to believe that Wimbledon had reached its first Friday and he was no longer there.

Henman out. Murray in.

Cruel business, this handing over of the baton to the new runner, 12 years younger, who inherits the hopes of a nation.

What can you say about Henman? He is a one-man rack, a thumb-screw on legs, but heroic in will if not outcome. His final surge in Thursday’s match against Dmitry Tursunov was entirely typical of the journey we have all endured before.

One minute secure, the next endangered, the five-set match switched speed and momentum to the point of nausea. The noise and elation when he saved two match points on the Russian’s serve in the 10th game of the final set to square the match at two sets, five games all, was akin to the tumult of the Roman Coliseum.

But you have to say that if Henman had been a gladiator, not much of him would been left to walk out of the stadium. Angstus Maximus, his game looked highly vulnerable to a young, devil-may-care Californian Muscovite spearing 130mph serves into juddering turf. But he did make the agony last. Over three and a half hours of solitary toil that ended in the bleakest of scorelines: 6-3, 2-6, 6-3, 3-6, 6-8.

But barely was the shock absorbed, and gaunt-faced souls in pastels and distress tumbling into the aisles and corridors of the All England Club, than the news was being whispered of the exploits of the understudy.

Was information reliable when being yelled through mouthfuls of lemon and cucumber in the Pimms tent? Was it possible that inexperienced youth, with a three-match career on the regulation tour before the fortnight began, could be leading Stepanek, finalist in Milan this year and winner of 104 career matches, by two sets to love on Court No. 1?

It was true and became truer. Electronic scoreboards recorded the rapture of the 6-4, 6-4, 6-4 victory, roars rent the air and the shimmering pain of Henman’s defeat could be suddenly dimmed by patriotic rebirth as well as neat shots of vodka.

Murray’s more outgoing personality was exemplified by the smile that lit his face. Henman was frankly, blankly stoic. He has suffered. We knew that from his choice of non-suburban words picked up by the BBC sound monitors during his match.

“If I said some bad words, I apologise,” he said afterwards, clear-eyed, hard-nosed, not betraying a flicker of the exorbitant pain he must have been feeling.