About ten years ago, I was in a tennis league in Highbury. A friend and I signed up for the mixed doubles – he was a keen player, and I competed for North-East Derbyshire as a teenager. I know, not quite Jennifer Capriati, but I had a decent forehand and enough childhood drilling to produce a reliable serve. In practise sessions, we killed it, whipping to each other across the net, lovely touch of top spin, solid two-handed backhands. We fancied ourselves a bit, sauntering onto court. We’d got this. He was even called Tim. C’mon Tim!

We came bottom of the league. In match situations, it all fell apart. He became bellicose, muscling in on my shots and mostly botching them. I became overly timid, lobbing delicate, friendly balls that hung around obligingly, waiting to be smashed. It was embarrassing, but neither of us were suited to formal competition, certainly not as a pairing, and our lowly placing was entirely deserved. I’m a pretty good tennis player, but a terrible match player – I just don’t have it in me. In this respect, I’m very British. We’re rubbish, aren’t we? No killer instinct. We just slog away, raising and then inevitably dashing hopes, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. That’s the British way. Until Emma Raducanu came along.

There were indications at Wimbledon that she was something special, as she stormed past three much higher-ranking players before dramatically pulling out with breathing difficulties during her fourth-round match. Subsequently, there was much huffing and puffing from paunchy middle-aged men who suggested she needed to toughen up to be a champion, but I felt that even her retirement had a defiant air about it. It had to be right, or she wouldn’t do it. It was an uncompromising, gloriously unapologetic admission of the pressures she was under. Like an inversion of the ‘Just Do It’ slogan – just don’t do it. Wait until it feels right.

And it turned out the US Open felt right. I just can’t get my head round it. None of it should have happened. It was her second grand slam, her fourth tour level tournament, the first of which was in… Nottingham. She was ranked 150th in the world when she arrived as a qualifier in New York. She made her Wimbledon debut a month after her A Levels. A month after my A Levels I was chucking up cider outside Monty’s nightclub in Chesterfield and coping with a particularly pus-filled new ear piercing. The mind boggles.

In her blithe, relentless march to the final, Raducanu didn’t drop a set. She didn’t even face a tie-break. She simply obliterated her opponents cheerfully, ponytail swinging, not a trace of nerves. As one Twitter wag put it, ‘some Brits aren’t afraid of a US court.’ No sweat. And let’s not forget, due to Covid travel regulations, Raducanu couldn’t have any of her family there supporting her. When I went to London for my first job interview after university, my mum had to come down and help me negotiate the tube, otherwise I’d never have made it to West Kensington – it’s a tricky bit of the District Line, after all. Meanwhile Emma’s straight out of school, finding her way round Flushing Meadows, giving press conferences with the poise of a seasoned Hollywood star.

The final was dazzling, and not just due to Raducanu’s jaw-dropping display of talent. Her opponent Leylah Annie Fernandez was also tremendous, only two months older, full of vim and bravery. Despite the relative brevity of the match, and a score that implied a dull despatch, the game was intensely entertaining, exciting, and exhilarating. Initially, I was struck, perhaps negatively, by the differences between the US Open and Wimbledon. Used to British restraint, plain tennis whites and sober thuds on grass, I found the vibrant colour schemes, squeaky surfaces and thumping music during changeovers garish and overwhelming. It was all a bit much. But in the end, it added to the high drama and tension of this momentous occasion. I was left breathless by the sheer liberation of Raducanu’s play – so marvellously aggressive and fearless, punctuated by the pugnacious fist-pump that followed each winning point. She was greedy for the conquest, but also supremely cool, blowing on her fingers as she waited to return serve, eyes firmly on the prize.

My own contribution to her achievement shouldn’t go unacknowledged. I quickly realised that our plucky Brit was more likely to win if I side-eyed the action whilst exchanging jubilant high-fives with other fans on social media. If I watched too closely, she would lose, so I maintained a fine balance of concentration and distraction which surely nudged her to victory. It’s also likely that my murmuring ‘steady!’ when she served for the match may have helped considerably. I’m not saying I deserve a share of the £1.8 million winnings, but I should probably get some sort of Nike tick on twitter. I willed her there. It’s all in the mind, you see, and like Nadal said, ‘tennis is, more than most sports, a sport of the mind.’

When it came to playing myself, I was technically OK, but lacked the focus and mentality to make it (I was also stuck at a lowly 5ft 2, which was probably an issue). To be a winner, you need long legs, and balls. And Emma Raducanu has a fresh batch of them, held aloft in her hand. In the Queen’s congratulatory letter, she said: ‘It is a remarkable achievement at such a young age, and is testament to your hard work and dedication.’

Or to put it another way, you fucking aced it, love.

• US Open Final - Channel 4/Amazon Prime