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That ninth game—the sixteenth game of the afternoon—was epic, the whole match in miniature. It went on and on and on. I pushed Serena to break point four times. Each time, she hung on and pushed back. Finally, on the fourteenth point of that game, racing toward a ball that I’d put in the back corner, Serena slipped and fell, but it looked phony. Does she do this to take that point away from her opponent? “It’s nothing that you did,” she seems to say. “It’s just my bad luck.” In other words, she does not miss the shot because she’s fallen down; she falls down because she’s going to miss the shot. She scrambled to her feet and got to the ball but, once again, it ended up in the net.

I was now serving for the championship, all momentum with me. I lost the first point, which is never a good way to start a championship game. I hit an ace on the second point, then a great serve to get it to 30–15. Another return error by Serena and I was a point away from winning it all. I served to her backhand. The return came back faster than a Ping-Pong balclass="underline" 40–30. Then, getting ready for the next attempt, I remembered something my coach had said earlier that day. “Do not serve to her backhand. That’s her strength. Make her beat you with her forehand.” So that’s what I did. Serena returned it, but it was weak. I quickly set up, shuffling my feet around my forehand, and hit the ball as it was starting its rise from the grass, hit it with my own forehand right to hers, screaming as I made contact, reversing my follow-through over my right shoulder, a stroke that capped every stroke I’d ever made. I ended with my arms and eyes pointed skyward.

Serena’s return did not make it over the net. I dropped to my knees and put my hands over my face and exulted. Even as I was doing this, I was aware that this gesture—everyone has their own way of punctuating a big win; some pump a fist, some point to God—was not my own. It was exactly what I had seen Juan Carlos Ferrero do when he won the French Open. I’d like to say I did this intentionally, that I was thanking him for the confidence he’d shown when he (ridiculously) picked me to win the tournament, or that I was sending him a coded message, but in fact I did not know what I was doing. I was just living in the moment.

I jogged to the net. I’d expected Serena to reach across and shake my hand. That’s what you usually do, shake hands and exchange the bullshit pleasantries. But she came around and hugged me instead. It was a surprise. I remember thinking, “Is this the protocol? Is this what you’re supposed to do when you lose a Grand Slam final?” Then: “Well, if it’s a hug she wants, it’s a hug she’s going to get.” Serena squeezed me and I squeezed her right back, although I was really looking past her into the stands, trying to locate my father, trying to make eye contact with him for the first time as Wimbledon champion. Serena said something like “Good job.” And smiled. But she could not have been smiling on the inside.

There is a tradition at Wimbledon—a new tradition, it turned out, but it seemed old to me—of winners climbing into the stands to celebrate with their families. Being seventeen, I wanted to taste everything, have all of it. So I hopped the rail around the photographers’ pit and went up into the seats toward my father. It had been him and me then, and it should be him and me now. I love to look at the film and see Yuri at that moment. My father is not an emotional man. It’s there, under the surface, but he does not show it. In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen him cry was when my little dog had to have surgery the day after we got him—that’s another story. You can see him, on that film, trying to make his way to me as I am trying to make my way to him. It’s like a silly old movie. He finally got to me, grabbed me, and endlessly hugged me. Everything was in that hug, all the struggles and all the dreams.

A minute later, I was back on Centre Court, where everyone had assembled for the awards ceremony, which takes place immediately after the last point. They were waiting for me, but, just as I began to make my way over, I suddenly remembered my mom! I have to tell my mom! “Hey,” I screamed to my father—he was twenty or so rows up—“I want to call Mom!” Yuri, without thinking, got his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it to me. Perfect throw, perfect catch. I dialed as I walked toward the television camera to do the postmatch interview. I dialed and dialed again, but I kept getting either voice mail or a fast busy signal—oh, the dreaded fast busy signal! Here’s what I did not realize: my mom was on an airplane, flying from Florida to New York on JetBlue, where I would meet her after the tournament. But she was watching all this on TV. She was calling over the flight attendant and explaining and laughing and holding up her phone but nothing could be done. Everyone in the stadium was laughing, too. I still had the phone in my hand when someone stuck a microphone in my face and said, “Can’t get a signal?”

I stood next to Serena a few minutes later when they gave out the trophies. Losing on a big stage is tough—believe me, I have come to know. You have to appear warm and gracious while everything inside you is screaming. Wimbledon is especially torturous, as it’s the only Grand Slam where they make the loser walk around the court with the champion, as she showcases her trophy to the public. It’s one of the toughest moments any player ever faces on the tour. You’ve left every piece of yourself on that court, expecting to win. And somehow you lost! Now you have to stand out there in public and on TV celebrating the person who took all that from you. It’s torture.

The runner-up gets a commemorative plate and a thank-you. The winner gets a silver salver, also called the Rosewater Dish—it was first awarded in 1886—and close to a million dollars, plus plaudits and love. The trophies were handed out by Prince Charles and the head of the All England Tennis Club. Serena got hers first. She really did handle it beautifully—when the television reporter asked about her feelings, she spoke only of my accomplishment—but behind all the smiles and nice words, you can see that she is suffering and can’t wait to get the hell out of there, just as anyone would. On TV, I thanked everyone I could think of. I thanked Nick Bollettieri and Robert Lansdorp. I thanked my parents. I talked about my cold and I alluded to Juan Carlos Ferrero, though I did not say his name. I didn’t think I’d ever share that until writing this page. At some point, I looked up at my box and, smiling at my entourage, made cutting motions. This was me reminding my father, my coach, and my trainer about our bet. “If I win, you have to shave your heads.” In the end, I did not hold them to it. For one thing, if my father cut off all his hair, it would probably never grow back.

I went to the locker room alone. Serena had left the court as soon as she could without making a scene. I did not notice it and wouldn’t have thought about it if not for what was going on when I got to my stall. Having your own private stall means that, even though you cannot see your opponent, you can hear her. And what I heard, when I came in and started to change clothes, was Serena Williams bawling. Guttural sobs, the sort that make you heave for air, the sort that scares you. It went on and on. I got out as quickly as I could, but she knew I was there. People often wonder why I have had so much trouble beating Serena; she’s owned me in the past ten years. My record against her is 2 and 19. In analyzing this, people talk about Serena’s strength, her serve and confidence, how her particular game matches up to my particular game, and, sure, there is truth to all of that; but, to me, the real answer was there, in this locker room, where I was changing and she was bawling. I think Serena hated me for being the skinny kid who beat her, against all odds, at Wimbledon. I think she hated me for taking something that she believed belonged to her. I think she hated me for seeing her at her lowest moment. But mostly I think she hated me for hearing her cry. She’s never forgiven me for it. Not long after the tournament, I heard that Serena told a friend—who then told me—“I will never lose to that little bitch again.”