Roger Federer...I mean, Venus Williams

I am transported to a time in my mind to Saturdays in my childhood spent lying on the tan carpet in our living room with my hands under my chin. The carpet is digging into my elbows and my fingers are sticky from an orange popsicle (the kind with two sticks). Despite the heat of the summer, my eyes are glued to the TV. My dad is watching tennis again. We don’t have cable, so tennis only comes around a couple times a year, and mostly on a Saturday. 

My sisters are likely swooning over Pete Sampras: something about his chest hair makes them giddy. I find him a bore, emotionless and a bit cocky. Serve and volley, serve and volley…blech. I like Andre Agassi. His long hair (apparently, it was a toupee!), short shorts, and earring dangling are shocking, but his tennis is beautiful. I carefully watch the way he moves, the way he returns Pete's serve. No one else can return Pete’s serve. I am fascinated by the movement of it, the emotionally grueling nature of it. I am clearly falling in love. 

Inevitably upon completion of the men’s battle, there commences a women’s match. In those days, it was Steffi Graff vs Monica Seles. Monica is screeching and crying out every time she hits the ball, as if every swing is meant to bludgeon Steffi to death. Steffi calmly slices the ball back, dancing across the grass of Wimbledon. I am drawn in by Monica. I am moved by her determination and precision. She moves back and forth, taking the ball early with her two-handed groundstrokes, the very strokes I would come to emulate in my adult years. I find myself holding my breath as the rallies lengthen and the tension builds.

"BORING!" one of my brothers moans, getting up from the couch and walking into the kitchen. My siblings would slowly file out of the room. Even my sisters readily abandoned their own sex at the loss of Pete Sampras’ air time. I am alone. I smile. I can finally concentrate. 

The crash of the Williams sisters on the tennis scene created a seismic shift on the WTA (Women’s Tennis Association). Their power game and overall fitness changed women’s tennis in dramatic ways. Many, like myself, fell in love quickly, while others begrudged these two women who were changing the game they loved.

In my senior year of high school, we were asked to make a vision board out of magazine clippings in my English class. Once the assignment was complete, our vision boards would be randomly selected by other members of the class and each of us would write a short paper about our assumptions of the creator based on the content presented. I rifled through National Geographic and Sports Illustrated magazines trying to piece together things I felt describe who I am. I have no recollection of the board I critiqued, but I do remember receiving Danny Lange's analysis of my vision board. It read, "I can safely assume this vision board was created by a woman because she likes Venus Williams." I was horrified and embarrassed that my good friend assumed the things I valued were feminine. 

The year is 2016. I am 32. I am in a conversation with someone about tennis, which is my favorite subject (the quickest way to my heart is to ask me about my views on tennis). He asks me who my favorite current tennis player is. “Venus Williams” comes to my brain, but I hesitate. My vision board experience is lurking back in the recesses of my mind.

“Male or female?” I ask. 

“Male,” he responds without a second thought. 

“Oh…uh…probably…uh…Roger Federer.” The conversation continues, but I am no longer interested. I had abandoned Queen V. I half-heartedly watch Federer. I have been moved to tears by Venus’s come-from-behind victory over Lindsay Davenport at Wimbledon. I am a fraud.

Women’s tennis is more compelling than men’s tennis in every way. I would rather watch women’s tennis over men’s tennis anytime, anywhere. It isn’t even a competition. I find women’s matches to be more dramatic, more emotional, and more human. I have woken up at 3am simply to watch Lindsay Davenport in the Australian Open try to make a comeback as a mother. I have witnessed Elena Dementieva take it to Serena William at Wimbledon only to falter in self-belief just long enough for Serena to mount a comeback. Elena didn’t believe she could beat Serena even though she was better. I have watched Su-Wei Hseih confound and confuse players ranked hundreds of points above her that are stronger and faster simply because she is smarter and delights in the game. Time and time again, these women amaze and surprise me. They let me down and they make my dreams come true (they let me down way more than they make my dreams come true). It is brutal. The relationship feels abusive, controlling at at times, but I’m in too deep. 

Please just leave me alone with my popsicle on the carpet with my chin in my hands. I want to be left alone. I just want to watch beautiful tennis.