If Andy Murray is too old for tennis, why am I losing to people twice his age?

Well, that’s that, then. Sir Andy Murray’s farewell tour has come to an end.

On Thursday, the Scot and his partner Dan Evans were knocked out of the Olympic men’s doubles by American duo Taylor Fritz and Tommy Paul. The score was 6-2, 6-4. In professional tennis, that’s about as routine as it gets.

After Murray and Evans’ heroics in the previous rounds – which saw them save match points and win audacious tie breaks – this result felt heavy with anticlimax. Most sporting careers end in failure, of course, but there was something almost indecent about watching Murray – a knight of the realm, a grand slam and Olympic champion – lose for the final time in the cramped, boxy conditions of Court Suzanne Lenglen in front of grandstands scattered with empty seats.

Predictably, Murray had no time for this sort of sorrowing. “I feel good,” he said in a post-match interview with BBC Sport, “I’ve been ready for this moment for the last few months.” Standing next to him, Evans said nothing and looked on the edge of tears. “I feel lucky that I was able to come and compete here,” said Murray, in a voice as sturdy and level as a block of Glasgow sandstone, “but yeah, I’m looking forward to stopping now.”

It is a very Murray manoeuvre to resist the kind of easy sentimentality that usually accompanies the retirement of a beloved athlete. Indeed, he seemed a little embarrassed at the fuss being made – and the tears being shed – over him.

Perhaps that’s understandable. At 37, Murray has been subjected to just about every age-related cliche that professional sport can bestow. He’s the old guard. He’s defied the odds one more time. He’s giving it one last go. These are heavy statements of mortality to put on someone who is still a few years shy of middle age.

When he underwent hip resurfacing surgery in 2019, the phrase “Andy’s metal hip” entered the tennis lexicon, further cementing the image of Old Man Murray doing his best against the ravages of time. When he had the surgery, Murray was just 31 years old. Of course he’s the calmest person at his own retirement party. He’s been treated like a goner for years.

You don’t have to go far outside the world of elite tennis to see how narrow its conception of age really is. Club and county-level tennis is full of athletes of middle and later years who are truly, deeply, shockingly good at this sport.

The day before my own brief and wonderful trip to the Paris Olympics, I played a few games with some of the regulars at my local tennis club. The day was cloudless, the light was bright and coppery, and the ladies I played against were all old enough to be my mother. It would be evasive to say that they beat me. What they did to me – and I must stress at this point that all of these ladies are kind and sweet and good – was close to an annihilation.

I am a decent tennis player – no, I’m an Actually Quite Good tennis player – but I was no match at all for their patient and measured play. Between games, while I chugged water and tried to make my thrashing heart slow down, they chatted genially about their grandchildren.

The easy joy they take in this sport is a long way removed from the win-at-all-costs ferocity of the professional tour, but there is a steeliness to their play that even the top players would admire. They pounced on my mistakes in such a way that shamed my youthful arrogance. I am 33 years old and have a small patch of grey. Believe me, I did not think I still had youthful arrogance.

In many ways, Murray’s career has been shaped by his stubbornness, so it’s only right that his exit from the professional tour should be marked by it too. His refusal to play the part decided for him – especially by funereal “Thank You Andy” video montages – reminds us of something valuable: retirement isn’t the end; not really.

There is so much more to tennis than Wimbledon and the French Open and the Olympic Games. At almost every skill level, tennis really doesn’t care how old you are. If you can move around and swing at least one arm, tennis will welcome you. It is a sport that rewards both caution and bombast. It is equal parts geometry and poetry. It is the sport I love above all others.

Next month, I am slated to play in a club championship match against a man in his fifties. He is built like a barrel and has been playing tennis for longer than Murray has been alive. The last time I saw him at the club, he was comprehensively beating an opponent half his age, with stubborn, patient, and endlessly calm play. Please – and I really do mean this – wish me luck.