When Andy Murray strides onto Melbourne Park this weekend, with the expectations of a whole nation ringing in his ears, the chances are that the 22 year-old Scot will be among the calmest people in the arena. Perhaps that springs from the circumstances in which he has risen through the game with a rising tide of brilliance which has made his progress seem almost pre-ordained.

Maybe, too, his refusal to be caught up in the hyperbole is a consequence of having been involved in a genuine tragedy. Not of the puerile sporting variety which usually encompasses a missed penalty or fluffed drop shot, but as a survivor of the carnage which ensued when Thomas Hamilton entered the premises at Dunblane High School on March 13, 1996, marched into the gymnasium, and murdered 16 children and their teacher, before turning one of his guns on himself. After that, being labelled a spoilt brat must have been pretty plain sailing

Yet it is one of the most notable traits in the Murray family genes that, regardless of their differences, their strengths have complemented one another perfectly. As tyro teenagers on the international junior circuit, Andy and his older brother, Jamie, could pick an argument at 20 paces. But their mother, Judy, the guiding light and ubiquitous presence in both her sons’ development, was invariably on hand to restore the peace, while her now-divorced husband, Willie, nurtured and nourished the boys when required.

Even if the dynamics of the relationship suggested the younger son was the relentlessly driven personality, starkly at odds with Jamie’s mild-mannered nature, that contrast helped them get along in the often cramped confines of the tennis locker room. “Yes, they are very different characters. Jamie’s a nice guy, and everybody likes him, but he is almost too nice for his own good,” said Judy at the dawn of her sibling’s careers. “Andy, on the other hand, is a very focused person, he wants to learn and has always worked incredibly hard at anything he has done. He doesn’t like losing, whatever the game might be.”

In the early days, this manifested itself in some spectacular McEnroe-style eruptions and spats with officialdom. In 2003, Murray told me: “You have to be hungry and be ready to do anything to beat the guy on the other side of the net. When I was 13 or 14, I had a terrible temper, I picked up a lot of warnings, and got sent home by the LTA from a couple of trips, because of my behaviour, so I gradually came to appreciate that I had to calm down a bit and button my lip occasionally. That it was stupid to blow up and impossible to win every point of every match I played. But actually, nothing is really different and I still push myself 100% when I am out there on the court.”

By that stage, even when an opportunity to play football at Ibrox manifested itself, Murray chose to concentrate on turning himself into a lawn ranger, restlessly travelling the globe, in pursuit of future glory on the ATP Tour and basing himself at the Sanchez-Casal Academy in Barcelona. That was where he spent his winters, practicing from 9-12 every morning, fine-tuning his fitness, and increasing his upper body strength in the afternoon, as the prelude to catching a quick siesta, before resuming normal service in the evening.

It wasn’t a regimen for the faint-hearted, but whereas Jamie went to the LTA Academy in Cambridgeshire in 1998 and soon became homesick and disorientated, Andy knuckled down to life away from Scotland, with the same ingrained resolve that, no matter his infrequent bouts of loneliness, Judy, Jamie and Willie were only a phone call away.

In other circumstances, this might have sparked tensions, but the genial Jamie responded with a philosophy which explains why there is no surprise within the Murray clan at their man’s advance towards another Grand Slam final, less than 18 months was beaten by the world number one, Roger Federer, at Flushing Meadows in New York.

“The truth is that Andy is generally better than anybody at everything. He is such an intense competitor and he hates losing. Detests it, and I need to develop that a bit,” is Jamie’s analysis of the phenomenon, even though it shouldn’t be forgotten that he already has a Wimbledon [mixed doubles] title under his belt [with Jelena Jankovic].

From Andy’s perspective, their childhood rivalry was as healthy as it was instinctive, their competitive streaks accompanied by a mutual simpatico. “We wanted to beat each other and we had the drive to be the best we could be. But, once you get to 15 or 16, there is no jealousy. Jamie went to train in Paris and I went to Barcelona and we were going to different tournaments, so we ended up seeing very little of each other for a while. When you get separated, you start being more supportive and that is how it has been with us. I was more emotional when Jamie when his first tournament than when I won. I won singles and he won the doubles straight after that. I am Jamie’s number one fan and I always will be.”

This symbiotic culture was encouraged by Judy from the outset. As somebody who had clambered through the rungs of the sport herself, and observed the endemic elitism which often hindered youngsters from working-class backgrounds, she also recognised that too many parents of promising British tennis stars smothered their children with a parochial mindset and an envy of their peers. Thus, first and foremost, she championed the belief that the sport was to be enjoyed.

“When you hear these stories about kids of six being moved to another country to train, and being hailed as the next big thing, you have to ask whether that is being realistic,” she says. “It is a long road and the lifestyle at the end of the journey isn’t always for everybody. So you have to be mentally tough to survive in that environment and I never put any pressure on Andy or Jamie. From a young age, they loved playing tennis and it was what they wanted to do. From that point, it was up to me as a parent to create the right opportunities for them at the right time and then it was up to them to decide if they wanted to take advantage of that. You can’t force them.”
 
What you can do is be in the background, offering tacit support and insight into the often complex combination of factors which distinguish a champion from an also-ran. Terrible as the Dunblane massacre might have been, it has instilled in the Murrays a proper perspective about their priorities and there is nary a trace of narcissism in their make-up.

Instead, Andy speaks reverentially about men in the mould of Muhammad Ali, ticks the right diplomatic boxes in addressing meetings with compatriots such as Prime Minister, Gordon Brown – “He’s very polite, very clever, and he obviously works incredibly hard” - who will doubtless leap onto the Murray bandwagon if he triumphs in Australia on Sunday and generally grows more unflappable the louder the racket around him.

Part of this sangfroid can be traced back to his decision to relocate to Spain. Shortly after the 9/11 atrocities, I met Judy and Andy at the Craiglockhart Club in Edinburgh and she was concerned, as most mothers would have been, about her son climbing back into an aeroplane. Still, regardless of any reservations, the click of both their jaws testified to their most conspicuous trait. Positivity: the conviction that the moment is there to be seized. And that unshakeable desire has been evident throughout Murray’s career.

“I knew, even as a teenager, that I had to go to Barcelona. I went to London and trained there for a week and I didn’t enjoy it. When you work with the national team, you spend your whole time playing with the best of your age in Britain and there’s a sort of jealousy and too much negativity,” says Murray, who rails at these characteristics as being symptomatic of a country which used to revile Tim Henman, even though he basically flew the flag for Blighty for a decade.

“When I travelled abroad, I never got homesick. You just have to learn to look after yourself a bit and I had to adapt to a new culture and make new friends and be on my own a bit. But that was fine, that forced me to grow up and take charge of situations which probably wouldn’t have happened if I had stayed in Britain. It was the best preparation for my career, because I became more independent and took more responsibility. One thing about me is I won’t fail for lack of trying.”

In the past few years, Judy has slipped out of the limelight – apart from when the BBC’s cameras pursue close-ups every five minutes or so at major tournaments – and is intent on establishing a new tennis academy in Stirling, with the support of her sons and a network of confidantes and business associates. It will be based around the qualities which have marked her development of Andy Murray: namely, a commitment to social inclusion and teaching children to cherish sport and worry about the money later.

But, in the end, it will deliver the message that success can’t be earned without sacrifices and honest toil. “I don’t think you are born to do anything,” said Andy last year. “There are so many good juniors who haven’t made it to seniors and it is down to motivation and work ethic. The guys at the top of the game are those who work the hardest.”

In which light, any politician with an inclination to re-launch a programme based around the virtue of family values could do a lot worse than turn to the Murray’s.