Life on the tour is strange. It’s a hermetically sealed bubble, beyond normal history and current events. First of all, you are in all these different towns and cities, the most beautiful places in the world, but, unless you now and then force yourself out of the bubble, you see none of it. You are in cities but not in cities. You are in the world of tennis, where the rooms are filled with the same people and the same energy, no matter where you happen to be. Second, it’s very difficult to have any sort of personal life on the tour. You are under a microscope, being watched by other players and coaches and reporters all the time. You can’t have much of a social life, and forget about a boyfriend. I mean, you’re never home, so the only way you can have a relationship is either with another tennis player, a player also on the tour, or with a person who gives up his life to travel with you, becoming part of your entourage. And who does that? Someone without a life of his own? That is, someone you’d probably not want to date in the first place. These sorts of characters do exist. You see them in the players’ lounges or carrying bags. Not the coach, not the parent, but the boyfriend. By definition, any relationship you have is going to be long distance, which amounts to a kind of telephone buddy or pen pal. Not terribly exciting.
Of course, after you win, life on the tour does change. Because you have won, you are treated better. You’re given all kinds of extras, like your own driver at tournaments and better practice courts. The atmosphere in the tournament venues and at the press conferences changes, too. It turns chilly, intense. Suddenly, the world, the only world you have ever known, is filled with girls who dislike you. They’re jealous of the money and fame. They want what you have and the only way to get it is to take you out. Every match becomes a big deal—if not for you, then for her. There is no more sneaking up and taking a player by surprise. Everyone has scouted and studied you, probed your weaknesses and come up with a plan. Everyone is waiting.
It’s the first big test of a long career—yes, you can win, but can you win again? That’s an even tougher task. The history books are littered with the names of athletes who got that single big win but never got a second Grand Slam. One-hit wonders. Not because they were not great, or won by luck. But because they never figured out how to adjust after everyone else has made their adjustments. They never figured out how to play as the favorite, which is another thing altogether. As the weeks go by, the pressure mounts—you’ve got to win that second Grand Slam. Only once you’ve done it will you have proved you are something more than an asterisk. What’s on the line? Not just that second Grand Slam but, in a weird way, the first one, too. Only by winning again can you prove that the first Grand Slam was something more than a fluke. This feeling was new and never went away. It was pressure. There was much more on the line after I’d won Wimbledon. But I welcomed the challenge. I wanted to prove myself again and again and again. I wanted to beat them all. I was eighteen years old, the reigning Wimbledon champ, with nothing but time in front of me.
THIRTEEN
I started the 2005 season by playing an exhibition tournament in Hong Kong, a tune-up for the first Grand Slam of the year, the Australian Open, in Melbourne. It was winter in most of the world, even California. In West Hollywood and Manhattan Beach, the shops were filled with Christmas trees and mistletoe. In the windows of the toy stores, the model trains went around and around. The lights in the houses on the hills above the sea glowed at sundown; the sounds of families on the boardwalk, voices unclear because of the breakers, kids on school break living the childhood you never had a chance to live. That’s the moment, when the whole world seems happy and all you want to do is sit in your house in sweats and watch movies, that the coach calls to remind you it’s time to pack up and get going, back on the road, back to the tour, the match that’s always waiting, the young player who is determined to shut you down and take it all away. It’s always hard, starting up again.
The heat was an issue from the moment I arrived in Australia. I was not adjusting well to the conditions, and the sun just sat up there, pounding me. I won the first round in straight sets, but struggled at times as the tournament went on. I beat Lindsay Lee-Waters in three sets, then beat Li Na of China in straight sets. In the quarterfinals, I faced my nemesis Svetlana Kuznetsova, who I finally overcame, 4–6, 6–2, 6–2. It was a victory but it was grueling. Which was important because, by the time I’d reached the semifinals, and it was a big deal to get that far, I’d already played a whole lot of tennis. I felt fatigued, which is not really how you want to go into a match with Serena Williams.
I got off to a quick start in that semifinal. Serena was a little off her game at the beginning. Maybe she cared too much. Maybe she was playing tight. Her forehand deserted her at a few key moments. I took the first set 6–2. I kept pushing. I quickly found myself 5–4 in the second set, serving for the match. Then something happened. I can blame it on the heat—that match against Svetlana Kuznetsova had taken a lot out of me—but of course Serena was playing under the same sun. Or I could blame bad breaks or fluky plays, but in fact all that really evens out in the end. It was just Serena. She cranked it up, lived up to her vow—she said she’d never lose to me again—and just like that she battled back. I dropped three straight points, then went into the third set dejected. The worst part: I had my chances. What were they? Three match points! When you have your chances, you’ve got to convert them. That’s the story. Make the shot when the shot is there. Because how many times in your life will you have a chance to win a Grand Slam? You make that shot, or you don’t. That’s your career. Serena won the match point she had and I did not win any of the three I had. I battled to the very end, though. That’s how I salvaged a losing effort; that’s how I could walk away disappointed but not unsatisfied. I lost 8–6 in the third set. The match lasted close to three hours. This was tennis at its most grueling: just the two of us out there, on our feet the entire time, and the ball never stopped coming. We shook hands at the net but really said nothing. Serena Williams beat Lindsay Davenport in the final. You can tell a lot by reading the score, 6–2, 3–6, meaning both of them had a chance to win right up until the third set, which Williams took 6–0.
After the match, I told the reporters that I was not discouraged, which could not have been true. Not after a match like that. The first part of the next day I spent in my hotel room, with the curtains down, flat on my back, watching movies. At some point, I realized I had to get out. I remember walking to Bulgari and looking in the displays and seeing this beautiful ring and calling my mom and asking permission to buy it because it was pricey. And a Chloé bag with a chain handle that I still have and will probably never use again. Then I had a nice lunch in the sun by myself. And as I sat there, I began to let go of those three blown match points. Because what else can you do?
That’s how I began one of the great consistent stretches of my career. Two years—2005, 2006—when, as far as I’m concerned, I played some of my best tennis. That’s when I became number one.
Why did my game get so good?
I’d like to say it’s because I’d added a new skill, or improved my serve, or got stronger or faster, but I really don’t believe any of that was the case. In fact, I think the reason I got better had mostly to do with my growing knowledge and acceptance of my own game. For the first time, at age eighteen, I finally began to really understand how I played: what I could do and, just as important, what I could not do.