There's still a long way to go, of course, but I couldn't help thinking - as I watched Andy Murray battling in the flashbulb light of Centre Court on Monday night; as I watched him plumbing unfathomable depths of character en route to that epic victory; as I heard the squeals of delight, anguish and delight again from the enraptured audience - that if Murray triumphs at Wimbledon this year, it will represent the greatest British sporting victory since 1966.

Bigger than England winning the rugby union World Cup in 2003. Bigger than our assorted Olympic triumphs down the decades. Bigger than the European Cup victories of Manchester United, Liverpool, Aston Villa, Nottingham Forest and Celtic. Bigger than the Ashes victory of 2005, when England was united in an unforgettable summer of rejoicing.

I know what you are going to say. You are going to say that Britain is not a tennis-playing nation. You are going to say that we are a football, rugby and cricket-playing nation. You are going to say that a Murray victory might usher in a night or two of celebration, but it is hardly going to transform the sporting landscape. After all, even if hordes of Murray wannabes came out of the woodwork, it is not as if there are enough courts to accommodate them all.

But while these arguments have merit, they miss the essential point. They fail to grasp just how uniquely tennis and, in particular, Wimbledon is intertwined with our sense of national identity; they miss just how much the serial failure at Wimbledon has come to produce a lingering sense of national angst; they fail to grasp, ultimately, that it is tennis - not football, rugby or cricket - that is responsible for the enduring archetype of the plucky British loser.

It is obligatory, at this point, to mention Tim Henman, but the reality is that Tim was merely the latest “loser” in a story stretching for more than seven decades, the chap who brought the tale of national humiliation up to date and popularised it for a new generation. In truth, this is a story that has run and run since big Fred Perry hung up his racket, a story that has delivered a painful punchline every year for 72 years, a story where, if we are being brutally honest about it, the joke is on us.

You must have heard it? It has them guffawing in the aisles every time. The one about how the hosts of one of the oldest and most prestigious competitions get humiliated every year? Where they keep getting duffed up by faster, fitter, more exquisitely honed players from just about every other nation on the planet?

Think about it like this. Would Henman have been considered a failure if he had played any sport but tennis? Would he have been ridiculed if he had reached No 4 in the world at golf or snooker? Would he have become the latest incarnation of the plucky loser had he played darts or badminton? Of course not. Henman is regarded as a failure only because he played tennis, because his achievements were viewed through a prism of national paranoia.

It is for these reasons that a Murray victory would transcend the tramlines of Centre Court and sear deep into our national consciousness, eclipsing anything to have happened in British sport since Bobby raised the Jules Rimet trophy and Nobby danced a jig. It would redefine the way we think about our summers, the way we think about ourselves. It would change the national conversation, its tone and its tenor.

We would be able to eat strawberries again without any of the painful associations, drink Pimm's without ruminating upon how our hopes and dreams are swallowed by a black hole every summer. We would be able to listen to John McEnroe without getting the feeling that he is talking down to us. In short, our lingering sense of national inferiority would explode in an instant of euphoria.

It is only a men's singles victory at Wimbledon that can do this, for it is the men's singles at Wimbledon that has created the sense of national emasculation.

Do I exaggerate just a little? Am I getting carried away on a tidal wave of cultural speculation? I don't think so. Symbolism matters. Shared national moments matter. These powerful detonations of patriotism leave a residue that can subtly and cumulatively alter the way we think and feel. Even those of us not particularly interested in sport define our modern history in iconographic terms. What do you think of when you hear the word “sixty-six”?

If 2009 turns out to be Murray's year, his triumph will register more profoundly than anything Gordon Brown or David Cameron manage to achieve this year. It is a year that will be remembered, for all time, not as the year that Manchester United won the league or an outsider won the National, but as the year that a 22-year-old obliterated 73 years of hurt. I know the boy is Scottish, but a few more evenings such as Monday and even Middle England will embrace him as one of its own.

It is a big responsibility for the youngster, but if Monday evening told us anything, it is that he has the shoulders to carry the weight of expectation. With each victory he inches a little closer to a piece of history. Just three more matches to go, three battles of the mind, three deep efforts of will. You can almost feel the possibilities, the looming sense of national redemption.

Then again, he might just go and blow it.