I believed I could beat her, but I knew it was going to be tough. Before every match against her, I knew she’d be ready to play for three hours, and I would end up in an ice bath. And that day she just hung in and hung in and hung in. On point after point, I’d hit what I believed to be a winner and she’d somehow hit it back even better. In fact, it was one of the cleanest tennis matches I felt I have ever played—so few errors. It was also one of the toughest physically. Henin is a nightmare to play. She is small and tough and will not relent and will not quit. And she looks like a robot when she plays, no expression on her face at all. And that ponytail! It swings back and forth like a metronome. If you are not careful, you’ll be hypnotized. She was just so hard to finish off—that’s what really annoyed me. I edged out the first set 6–4, but her tiny legs just kept going and going, along with that expressionless face and crazy determination.
I lost 6–1 in the second set, then lost 6–4 in the third. But maybe I had done more damage than I’d realized. She had to pull out of the final after winning only a single game, complaining of stomach pain. Sometimes, the real final is not what’s played at the end of the tournament.
Losing hurts. It is so painful. It can also be the best thing. It prepares you for winning. In this case, it taught me how to play Justine Henin, which would prove vitally important just a few months later.
The U.S. Open is the last Grand Slam of the season, and it comes as a kind of relief, a cool evening after a hot day. My recollections of it tend to be intimidating nighttime memories, of traffic and billboards, Arthur Ashe Stadium under the lights, the sound of the crowd, the highway to the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, the people and energy and excitement of the city. I have said Wimbledon is the ultimate prize, but a case can be made for the U.S. Open. There’s nothing like winning in New York City.
I came into the 2006 U.S. Open ranked third in the world. Justine Henin was number two. Amélie Mauresmo, an outstanding French player, was number one. A few weeks before, I’d filmed an ad campaign for Nike. The commercial was released at the end of August, a few weeks before the start of the tournament. It was shot like a documentary, a film crew following me through a typical competition day: me waking up, getting ready, leaving my hotel—the Waldorf-Astoria in midtown Manhattan—and heading to Arthur Ashe Stadium. Along the way, I run into people, each of whom sings a line from the West Side Story song “I Feel Pretty.” “Oh so pretty and witty and bright.” The ad ends with me on court, hitting a backhand winner in the final. A jinx? Well, the idea was to turn that commercial into reality. It was shown during every commercial break of the tournament.
One of my first serious challenges in the U.S. Open that year came from the top seed, Amélie Mauresmo, in the semifinals. She had a tricky one-handed backhand and was great at the net, which was far from my strength. Her game was smooth and resilient. I’d never beaten her in a tournament. She’d already won two Grand Slams that year: the Australian Open, where she prevailed because Henin had to withdraw, and Wimbledon, where she beat me in the semifinals and Henin in the final. Here, we played on center court at sunset. You had to drift between the shadows, eagle-eyed, the ball moving in and out of the light. And there was wind—a lot of it. I was wearing a lilac dress that night, and silver shoes. I was nineteen years old, working toward the peak of my career.
I took the first set without losing a game, 6–0. She beat me in the second, 6–4. Was there a moment of doubt? Maybe. The conditions we were playing in took away all the confidence a player might normally have had. During the changeover, I first looked up at the score on the jumbotron, then I looked up into the box. There was my coach Michael Joyce. There was my father. He held up a banana, then a bottle of water. I took a moment during the changeover to visualize it: winning. I was consistent, solid. Did the right things, played the right way. I did not lose a single game in the third set. Finally! I was back in a Grand Slam final for the first time since I’d won Wimbledon.
They interviewed me on the court after the match. They wanted to know what I thought of Justine Henin. We’d be playing in the final on Saturday. I had faced her four times in the past two years, and lost all four times. But that didn’t faze me. “I’m not done yet,” I told the crowd. “I haven’t beaten Amélie in a competition match before; I beat her today. I don’t have a great record with Justine, so, you know, I mean, it doesn’t really matter. It’s a new match, new opportunity.” Looking back and writing these words, I can’t believe how confident I was.
I wore that black Audrey Hepburn dress to the final, determined to turn that Nike commercial from fiction into fact. The crowd seemed especially close to the court that night—the stadium was just electric. Camera flashes and movie stars. Now and then, you feel less like you are living your life than like you are watching it being lived. Like you are someone else, somewhere else. You need to snap out of that before the start of the first game. You have to be present to win. In other words, I came at it slightly removed, which is nerves. Henin broke me right away—took the first two games before I even woke up. The crowd was muttering, mumbling. I could feel that they were for me—they wanted to lift me up.
The key was my serve. That was one of the best years for my serve. I began to hit it again and again. It was precise, consistently placed where I wanted it to be. In the corners, on the lines, delivered with force. When you do that, you control the point even when it’s not an ace. By knowing my weaknesses, I was able to direct the action toward my strengths. I began to impose my will. On some points, I moved Henin like she was a puppet on a string. I moved her the way she had moved me in our four previous meetings. It got in her head, which meant that even when she stepped on the line to serve, she knew she was in for a long rally. After a bad start, I went on to break her twice in that first set. I took it 6–4. It was more of the same in the second. My serve set up my backhand, which determined the course of the night. I broke her in the eighth game of the second set—and sometimes you only need that one break.
As we neared the end, I could feel the energy build. The crowd, the shouts and the screams of New York. At this point, it was all about my focus. I had it in this match as I’d never had it before. The tournament rested on my serve. It was a good one. Henin played it to my backhand. Big mistake. I hit the ball with pace, power—she couldn’t handle it. It ended up in the net. And that was it. At that moment, I dropped to my knees and put my face in my hands, then ran into the stands to hug my father. Then I ran back onto the court for the trophy, a silver cup, which I raised up so fast, the lid fell off. Typical of me. I couldn’t stop laughing. I knew I’d win but still couldn’t believe it. That impossible second Grand Slam, won right there, in New York City, with everyone who cheered for me and everyone who cheered against me watching. Life can be sweet. At that moment, it seemed like it would always be sweet. Of course, whenever you think that, whenever you are so sure of anything, you are probably wrong.