Amelie Mauresmo

People felt sorry for Tim Henman. The weight of all that expectation! The weight of all that love! But Henman shouldered the burden of national hope from one Wimbledon to the next and it brought out the best in him. Even at his darkest hours — and there were many — no one gave up on him. Even when, after his annually great run and match point was finally called against him, it was still not the death of hope. Next time. Maybe next time, said all England.

Try being a French favourite. Now that’s what I call a burden. They cheer when you win, all right. They certainly go in for inflated expectations, every bit as much as we do. But when they are disappointed they turn in fury. Can you imagine a Wimbledon crowd shouting abuse at Henman? But that’s what happens to French favourites, and on an annual basis.

Amelie Mauresmo knows this better than most. Perhaps no player in history has felt the burden of being a French love-object more than she. The 28-year-old has learnt in a hard school that in France, public love is conditional. Miss a few backhands and affection turns to anger.

She was at it again on Tuesday: dodging the showers and riding the divide between love and fury, as she took on Olga Savchuk, of Ukraine, in the first round. It should have been a stroll even taking into account the injuries that have blighted her season; it ended up not far off from a classic, as the nervy Mauresmo met a feisty and ambitious opponent, aged 20 and ready to go in there blasting. Mauresmo just about escaped 7-5, 4-6, 6-1.

It is always a good plan to watch Mauresmo, if you have the nerves for it. She is one of the classic hot-and-colders of tennis, a guided missile of a one-handed backhand, a build unkindly described as “half a man”, and yet possessing the nature of a sensitive flower. She is a classic sporting contradiction and she feels the weight of expectation, and more, the French crowd’s tendency to turn, more than any French player that has ever lifted up a racket.

She has been world No. 1, she has two Grand Slam tournament titles, both from 2006, winning in Australia and at Wimbledon. But she also has on her CV no fewer than three first-round defeats at Roland Garros. Just think of it: the English willed Tim to four Wimbledon semi-finals; the French willed their own favourite to three first-round defeats. Could it be that there is some kind of cultural difference between our two civilisations?

Mind you, Mauresmo would drive a saint frantic. What I love about the way she double-faults is that she always keeps them for when it matters. On Tuesday, she threw in one at set point in the first set, and a belter of a set it was, too; could have gone either way, an hour’s worth of spectacular biff and bang and the occasional touch of subtlety to keep us on our toes.

It was a great contest, but every contest with Mauresmo must be defined as much by her frailties of temperament as by her strength of shot. Throughout that first set, and on into the equally fraught second, until the rain came yet again, the crowd mixed sounds of Gallic exasperation with protestations of enduring love. C’est la vie, pour Amelie.

Some of those first-round calamities have been accompanied by a frenzied whistling, intended as an expression of contempt and loathing. Hardly a wonder that Mauresmo’s greatest success has come abroad. There are times in life when it pays to be that little bit insensitive, but that has never been Mauresmo’s way. She and her national crowd bring out the worst in each other.