It’s a schvitz-hot Miami afternoon, and Andy Murray is taking no prisoners on the tennis court. But there isn’t a racket in sight. The hottest player in the game is warming up before the finals of March’s Sony Ericsson Open by playing a strange hybrid of soccer and tennis with the other members of Team Murray: coach Miles Maclagan, trainer Jez Green, and doubles partner Ross Hutchins. “Tennis football” is Murray’s recent invention—four players gather near the service line and try to put the tennis ball away soccer style. It’s a silly game, but Murray—a fiery, surly competitor in the mold of John McEnroe—treats it like the Wimbledon finals.

When Green dumps the ball in the middle of the court, Murray dribbles it toward the net with his feet, flips it in the air, and then heads it cross-court for a clean winner.

“You’re wearing a dress to dinner tonight,” Murray taunts as he pumps his fist and mock-flexes the modest muscles clinging to his wiry 6'3", 185-pound frame. Murray is serious about the cross-dressing—later tonight Green will don a skirt and Hutchins will wear makeup and a wig, while Maclagan gets off easy with only an earring and bandanna. A few weeks earlier, tennis’ latest savior-in-waiting lost a bet and had to dress in pink for four days straight.

State of Play
Andy Murray is simply the fastest rising star in tennis. Upon winning the Ericsson later that week, the 22-year-old Scotsman—currently ranked third in the world—laid claim to the best record on tour over the previous nine months. And he did it the hard way: by beating then-number three Novak Djokovic three times in a row, taking a 6-2 career advantage over number two Roger Federer, and schooling top-ranked Rafael Nadal in the semifinals of last year’s U.S. Open. Heading into Wimbledon this month, he has yet to win one of 
tennis’ four grand slams, but most observers agree it’s just a matter of time.

At any other moment in the game’s history, Murray’s ascendance to the top spot would seem inevitable. But if he’s to become number one now he needs to prevail over a freakish 
collection of talent: Federer is just two major victories away from breaking Pete Sampras’ record of 14; Nadal is emerging as possibly the best pure athlete ever to play the game; and players like Djokovic, Juan Martin Del Potro, and Andy Roddick are each capable of winning any given tournament. “The men’s game is en fuego,” says Murray’s former coach Brad Gilbert, who led Roddick and Andre Agassi to slam titles. “I’ve never seen a better group of players.” On top of that, Murray carries the hopes and dreams of Great Britain, which hasn’t seen one of its own win a grand slam since Fred Perry in 1936.

On court Murray hardly cuts an intimidating figure. Pale and lanky, he recently sported 
a mop of curly hair and a patchy three-day beard that made him look like a prep school water boy. But his serve is sneaky fast, hitting 139 mph on the radar gun, and his aggressive 
re-turn of serve may just be the best in the world. Still, the thing that most distinguishes Murray from his competition may be his com-bust--
ible on-court intensity, which produces nearly as many outbursts as match points.

Will all of it be enough? “That’s the $64,000 question,” says Patrick McEnroe, tennis commentator and U.S. Davis Cup captain. “Does his game have the beef to beat the best guys in a five-set grand slam final?” It’s a question Murray is no doubt itching to answer.

Anger Management
Whatever questions remain Murray hopes to answer with sheer force of will. In the 2005 U.S. Open, he battled Andrei Pavel in a sweltering five-setter. Dehydrated and disheartened, an 18-year-old Murray lost his lunch on the court, hurling vomit onto Pavel’s shoes. Then he calmly took a swig of Gatorade and went out and won the match. “You can’t teach that ability to compete,” says Gilbert.

But it’s not just gut-wrenching wins that have made Murray a breakout star. “He gets pissed off, and people like to see that,” says McEnroe. When Murray hits a winner, he’ll pump his fist and stare down his opponent. When he misses, he’s all angst, face contorted, veins in his neck popping out as he unleashes a primal scream. “Tennis players are a bit robotic today,” Murray says. “Not like when McEnroe and Connors were smashing rackets and going nuts and getting the crowd into it.”

During last year’s Italian Open, Del Potro nearly beaned him with a forehand, then started talking trash about Murray’s mother. Murray challenged the bigger, bulkier Del Potro, and the two nearly came to blows.

“If it’s an important point and you win it, it’s good to fire yourself up,” Murray says. “If you’re frustrated and you want to get your emotions out, you should be able to do that too.” While most of his tirades are directed at himself, Murray isn’t beyond mouthing off to an official. “I told an umpire once in the Davis Cup as I shook his hand that he had a fucking terrible match,” he admits. “But it was honest. He had a bad match.”

The Good Fight
Murray took an unconventional route to tennis stardom. He started the game at age three, taught by his mother, Judy, a coach and former Scottish champion. Then, at eight, he survived the 1996 school massacre in his hometown of Dunblane by hiding under a desk while 43-year-old former Scoutmaster Thomas Hamilton shot and killed 16 of Murray’s schoolmates and a teacher. While he prefers not to discuss the 
incident, Murray reflected on it in a 2005 interview with U.K. newspaper The Mirror: “Sometimes I wonder if it made me more determined to do something with my life. Certainly I hope I can make Dunblane famous for something other than tragedy.”

In 2002, at 15, Murray left Scotland for a tennis academy in Spain. After he won the U.S. Open boys’ title two years later, British tennis officials, salivating over a possible future cham-pion, paid the esteemed Gilbert $1.5 million a year to coach him. But, ever stubborn, Murray had his own ideas, dropping the hard-driving Gilbert after 16 months in favor of the largely untested members of Team Murray.

The gamble paid off. Today, at Wimbledon, the public viewing area once called Henman Hill (after six-time grand slam semifinalist Tim Henman) has been renamed Murray Mount, and a local dry cleaner has even started a kilt cleaning service for Murray’s tartan-clad fans. But Murray hasn’t been as warmly embraced by tennis’ old-school elite, especially in England, who prefer their players more genteel. For example, when asked for his predictions for the 2006 soccer World Cup—from which Scotland had already been eliminated—Murray jokingly 
replied, “Anyone but England.” The quip caused a furor that still hasn’t died down.

Murray’s response to his growing celebrity has been to keep a low profile. “I don’t go out. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke,” he says. “I don’t do anything that would make the paparazzi want to follow me.” Indeed, despite having earned $7.2 million to date, Murray doesn’t even own a car—he still takes the underground around London, which has led to more than one strange encounter. “I was on the tube, and a girl tapped me and gave me a piece of paper,” he recalls. “I looked up and smiled. I thought she was giving me her number. When I got out I opened it. It said, ‘Well done for everything, I’m a big fan.’ I was a bit disappointed.”

“I don’t think I’ve changed as a person,” 
Murray continues. “I still have exactly the same friends as I did before, and I’ve had the same girlfriend for three and a half years.”

That consistency seems to be Murray’s calling card these days. His strategy as he preps for the biggest tournament of his career? The same one he applies in tennis football: Work hard and play harder. “I invested money to make sure my fitness got better,” he says. “I’ve gotten bigger and stronger and quicker. And mentally, it’s made playing a lot easier. In tennis it’s about who wants it a little more, and you can have a lot more fun if you’re number one.”