So, Tim Henman's star is at last truly on the wane.

At least, so the experts would have us believe, with most of them writing him off as a Ken Rosewall for the new millennium after his early bath at the All-England championships last week.

I couldn't help thinking we would all have been a sight less anxious to write Timbo off if there hadn't been a certain strapping Scotsman waiting in the wings.

Still, never mind; King Tim is dead, long live King Andy.

Every cloud has a silver lining, and for Tim's mother Jane, the heartache of seeing her son's championship hopes fade this year must have been tempered at least a little by the thought that the day was at last approaching when she would no longer have to sweat it out in the public gaze as her son slugged it out on court.

Watching the agonies undergone by players' families on these occasions has always reminded me somehow of the kind of feeling you get when riding pillion on a motorbike.

No matter how safe the rider, you still have no control over how close the Tarmac comes up to you each time you lean into a bend.

It would have taken the moral fibre of a saint for Jane not to have felt a certain pleasure at handing her seat on this particular rollercoaster to Andy Murray's mum, Judy.

Mind you, neither Jane nor Judy look like the sort of woman to lack moral fibre.

On the face of it I'd say both have plenty of what they used to call 'backbone'.

I'm sure the pair are perfectly lovely women, so it's hugely unfair of me to say this, but I'm afraid they both remind me of the sort of girl who used to scare me witless at school. Taller, more athletic girls. Demons on the hockey field, whose somewhat literal approach to the bully-off could condemn lesser mortals to a lifetime of shin scars.

Enthusiastic debaters whose way with the last word could make an adversary feel even more dwarf-like than when they rashly took on the challenge of an argument.

Popular and attractive girls who had to fend off the lads and the form captain's badges because they were too busy planning the orienteering that would complete the work for their Duke of Edinburgh Award.

In short, the sort of girls that made you want to drop your work on the Girl Guide seamstress badge, and go and snog an unsuitable boy on the back seat of the school bus.

I'm sure neither Jane nor Judy would have any truck with their sons lying about in bed of a morning, and missing the best part of the day.

And I bet there was no slacking at their house when it came to homework, piano practice, or, indeed, tennis lessons.

In Judy's case, I imagine she was, on balance, more pleased than thwarted when her son first beat her at tennis at the age of ten.

And I bet he had to win the match fair and square.

Upbringings such as that produce real competitors such as Murray and Henman, who, in spite of all the sniping, is one of the finest British sportsmen of recent times.

And that's why, these days, I thank God for the Janes and Judys of this world.

They may have frightened the living daylights out of me when I was at school, but they've given me something to cheer about when Wimbledon comes around.

Updated: 11:15 Wednesday, June 29, 2005