I did not win a game in the first set. As I walked back to the baseline after the water break, I heard my father yell to me in Russian: Do you know what you’re losing? You’re losing a fifty-thousand-dollar Nike bonus! It was the first time I had ever heard my father speak about earnings. I managed to fight back and take five games in the second set, but it didn’t matter. Or, if it did matter, it was only for my self-respect. But even with this disappointing finish, I knew it had been a great tournament for me. The youngest player to ever reach the final! There was a feeling that I was already so much further along than I was expected to be, that I was years ahead of schedule.
But the highlight of the year—and it’s not even close—was Wimbledon. That tournament had always felt special to me, though I’d never actually been there. It stood above and beyond all the others—probably because my father never stopped talking about it. It was the ultimate prize and the ultimate place. It glowed in his imagination. The Australian Open, the U.S. Open, the French Open? Yes, they were all Grand Slams and all mattered, but Wimbledon mattered more. The others were sporting events, money and crowds. Wimbledon was something grander. It was the Queen and her retinue. It was aristocrats. It was the red coats of the royal guard, the lush grounds and epic battles on the green grass. It was history and empire. It was England. If you grew up in a poor Belorussian town, like my father did, if you watched that tournament (if you could watch it at all) on a flickering black-and-white TV set, if your eyes chased Borg and McEnroe all over the screen, then Wimbledon stood out. Yuri had conveyed this specialness to me from the time I was small. Every match mattered, every tournament deserved my full attention and best effort, but Wimbledon was—still is—of another order. It’s the soul of the game. It’s everything.
This year, 2002, was my first experience of that special place. Was I excited? Of course. It was a story I’d been listening to my entire life; now I got to walk into its pages. My mother came along, which was unusual. Wimbledon itself is a suburb in southwest London. There’s a main street and outskirts, ancient trees and shady places, bed-and-breakfasts and a few hotels, but most players rent a house for the two weeks that they will—hopefully!—be playing.
We rented a tiny cottage that first year, right in the village. I loved it from the first day. It was all that I had imagined. I’d wake up with the sun streaming into my tiny room, or cover myself with the heavy quilt against the chill of another gray morning. Then I’d head down the stairs, open the door, and there, on the cute little front porch, just waiting for me, was a chilled bottle of fresh milk! What a great break from the usual round of hotels and locker rooms. The village was jammed with boutiques and cafés and bakeries. It was a fantasy of another life, how I might have lived had I been born in a different place, at a different time. One of the restaurants—this little Thai place—kept catching my eye. It was always packed, always had a wait. We never went, but I kept it in mind: if—when—I was back in Wimbledon, I was going to try it.
The clubhouse was filled with gossipy players. Reporters waited outside the door. This was a new experience for me. Who cared what I had to say? The lockers were small and the bathrooms were… yuck. When I joked about this, one of the other girls told me that the top sixteen seeded players are put in another locker room, a dream place of plush velvet where the porcelain shines. Capitalism! The West! They always give you something practical to play for beyond just the prestige and money. You are not playing only for cash. You are playing for a locker room with private bathtubs! And fresh plump strawberries! And a decent place to hang your jacket!
It was a great tournament for me. I did not lose until I reached the junior final, where I was beaten, in three sets, by another Russian, Vera Dushevina. But that’s not what sticks in my mind. What sticks in my mind is what happened after, as I was changing in front of my dank little locker. I’d tossed my stuff in a bag and was about to head back to the cottage, but just as I was leaving, a tournament official handed me an invitation. It turned out that all those players—men and women, juniors and pros—who make it to the final are invited to the Wimbledon Ball, a big gala right out of a storybook (or so I thought), where the Duke of This and the Lady of That are trailed by retinues and dance with the winners and losers as an orchestra plays a mazurka and the moon swells over England.
The woman who gave me the invitation was just standing there, hovering, watching as I read, and, here’s the key thing, not leaving.
I looked up at her, smiled, and said, “It sounds nice.”
“Will you be attending, madam?”
“I’d like to go,” I told her, “but I don’t have a dress.”
She said, “That will be taken care of,” and snapped her fingers, or gave a signal of some sort, and out of nowhere a man appeared with a huge selection of gowns, which he spread out on a table. I chose a long one, covered in beads, and left.
The grounds of Wimbledon were deserted as I headed back to the cottage. Fog crept along the pathways. The tournament was over. Just about all the other players had packed up and left. It’s a strange thing that happens when you start to get deep into tournaments. You suddenly find yourself in a lot of empty spaces, empty halls and empty locker rooms. The crowds of players and families and coaches begin to disappear. By the quarterfinals of a tournament, only a handful of survivors remain. The better you do, the smaller the world becomes. I remember having this strange feeling that night as I left. It was déjà vu in reverse. I remember turning around and looking at the buildings in the fog and having a feeling that I’d be there again. And not just as a junior.
Yuri was reading the newspaper when I got in. He did not notice the gown, which I hung up in a hall closet. Without looking up at me, he said, “What do you want to do for dinner? I’m thinking we should try that Indian place.”
“Sorry,” I told him. “But I’ve got plans.”
“What plans?”
My mother helped me get dressed. We had a special moment looking at each other in a big mirror in that little cottage, laughing and telling jokes. That was easily the best moment of the night. The ball itself was highly disappointing.
There is one thing I do remember, though. Everyone came into the big room together—everyone except the men’s and women’s singles champions, who made their appearance only after all the others had been seated. They came in one at a time, each making a grand entrance through huge, ornate doors and between the tables as those in the room gasped, then cheered. I was at the juniors’ table, which was like the kids’ table at a wedding. We were set up right beside the entrance. Just as I started to relax, I heard the clapping, that thunderous applause. Serena Williams had won the championship that year. She did it by beating her sister Venus in the final. She’d already started to separate herself from all the other players, and had begun that crazy run of dominance. She squeezed every bit of glory out of her grand entrance, head held high, shoulders back, beaming. Cheers and cheers and cheers. People started getting to their feet. It was a standing ovation. The girl next to me, whoever that was—I can’t remember—banged me on the shoulder and said, “Get up! Get up! It’s Serena Williams!” I wanted to get up, but my body just would not let me. It was as if I were stuck in that chair, staring at Serena through the crowd of people, with a single thought in my head: “I am going to get you.”