Simply Super

For Venus Williams, 2000 was when she took command on the tennis court and, more important, of her life off it -- with smashing results in both places

Marc Baptiste

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By S.L. Price

She knows what the world thinks. That what happened this year grew out of jealousy. That the fruits of her magnificent summer all grew from a bitter branch, from a public humiliation, from her bruised ego. The public remembers her sitting in the stands during the 1999 U.S. Open final, garbed in black, watching stone-faced as her little sister won the family's first Grand Slam singles tennis title. Wasn't she supposed to be first? It seemed obvious then that something terrible was happening to Venus Williams. When she drifted out of the game last winter and retirement rumors flew, no one was too stunned. Watching Serena that day, Venus had looked like someone attending a wake.

Then, after nearly six months away from the game, Venus returned to action in May and played a few tournaments. Her game ignited. She beat Serena in a semifinal, then won Wimbledon. And kept winning. She won the 2000 U.S. Open. And kept winning. Finally, she won an Olympic gold medal in singles -- giving her 32 straight singles wins, the most impressive run in women's tennis in a decade -- and another gold, with her sister, in doubles. She took apart archrivals Martina Hingis and Lindsay Davenport in London and New York, making them look alternately bewildered and cowed by her sudden mastery. We all thought we knew the reason: Venus wanted to restore her place atop the family order. Seeing Serena win the Open "was a wake-up call for Venus," says their mother, Oracene. "I know she wanted to win a Grand Slam before Serena won another one."

That story line made sense, but for one problem. "That's not what it's all about," Venus says. "I just wanted this for me. Not so I could say: 'I have it now.' Not so I could say: 'Now I have a title; be quiet.' I wanted these titles for me, so in the end I can clap my hands and dust the trophies off because I got the job done. That's all that matters."

It would be easy to scoff at that, to see it as so much spin, except that Venus Williams spent the summer and fall of 2000 proving her words. And even though Venus's spectacular results were reason enough to name her Sports Illustrated for women's Sportswoman of the Year for 2000, there was more. There was the gracious way she acted during her run, the way she carried herself not only as a winner but a champion as well. Where once she'd come off as defensive and cocky, she now revealed herself as thoughtful and at ease. Where once she relished belittling her competition, she now seemed to hold malice toward none. Where once she would blame anything but an opponent when she lost, she now spoke easily about past defeats and credited her rivals. Generosity, calm and maturity are hardly the traits of someone curdled by sibling rivalry, and at 20, Venus appeared more at peace than ever. Nothing anyone could say or do seemed to provoke her.

Many tried. At the U.S. Open, Pete Sampras, whom Venus once admired with Tiger Beat gooeyness, snarkily dismissed her serve, which at 127 mph remains the fastest in the women's game. "I don't think she knows where it's going, to be honest with you," Sampras sniffed. TV commentator John McEnroe spent the Open denigrating Venus and Serena and tried to drum up interest in a Battle of the Sexes showdown; when that didn't work, he popped off in a London newspaper during the Olympics, writing that the two sisters "have no respect for anyone in the game." And, just in time for the Open's final weekend, Davenport revealed that she had formed an ad hoc alliance with Hingis to knock the Williamses out of the tournament.

Such gibes are usually all it takes to start thermonuclear retaliation in the high school world of pro tennis, and in the past Venus rarely hesitated to be drawn in. This time she dismissed it all as nonsense. Eyes fixed firmly on the prize, Venus sailed through the two most prestigious tournaments and the Olympics, making all opposition, on and off the court, seem small. During the Sydney Games, Davenport was forced to withdraw with a foot injury after her first-round match, preempting speculation about how she and Venus would get along as teammates. But after winning the singles crown, Venus declared she had done so "for me, for my country, for my family, for the team." She cried on the medal platform and said, "One of my only regrets is that Lindsay wasn't here."

A year ago such generosity of spirit would have been unthinkable. By the time everyone gathered for the 1999 U.S. Open, Venus's moment seemed to be slipping away. She had yet to duplicate her '97 run to the final at Flushing Meadow, and though a top five player, she still hadn't taken out a top competitor at a Grand Slam tournament. Serena was now the Williams marked for greatness. Tennis experts agreed on the younger sister's superior serve, movement and consistency, and while father Richard kept telling everyone how Serena was going to be better than Venus, mother Oracene kept saying Serena loved the game more. When Venus lost to Hingis in an exhausting three-set thriller in a semifinal, it capped another year when Venus didn't win big.

"I had reached an alltime low," Venus says. "It was a match I just gave away. I said to myself, 'Venus, what more could you do wrong?' I had no other options: It was either stay a mediocre player or move forward."

Yes, Venus says, she was miserable watching Serena win the U.S. Open, but not because little sister had gotten the big prize first. Her misery stemmed from coming face-to-face with herself. She wasn't the player she thought she was. In the months that followed, instead of stewing over her fate or taking it out on Serena, Venus came to understand that she had no one to blame but herself. Serena had seized her moment, but for too long Venus had hung back at the baseline, "expecting people to give matches to me," refusing to use her overwhelming height, power and speed. Never again, she decided. "I always had unbelievable things in my game, and I'm sure my competitors were hoping I never got it together," Venus says. "I just took on a new attitude: I'm going to go for it. I'm going to get the job done. I'm not going to hold back."

Before Venus could put her new mind-set to work, her wrists began to ache from tendinitis. After the Chase Championships last November, Venus stopped playing tennis -- she barely practiced for the next five months -- and spent most of her days in the family office and nights watching TV. "I couldn't type, I couldn't sew, I couldn't drive, at one point I couldn't hit a backhand," she says. "Every time I would try to hit a serve, my whole forearm would just spasm up. I was out of order."

Richard went to the Ericsson Open in Miami last March and announced he wanted Venus to retire. She read this news on the Internet. She had no intention of quitting, and shrugged off the bizarre episode as just the latest in a long line. "My life," she said early on at Wimbledon this year, "has been a saga."

No twist proved more melodramatic than what came next. Venus had played only nine matches all year, yet she blew into the All England Club certain she could become its queen. She'd been supremely confident before, but now her game contained the necessary adjustments: Her forehand was more consistent, her serve more varied. She rushed the net, took the ball in the air, terrorized opponents with a barrage of swing-volleys. She and Serena became the first sisters to play each other on Centre Court since 1884, but their semifinal was painful to see, flattened by the emotional weight of the moment and their relationship. True to her word, Venus didn't back off. Instead, Serena's game sagged, and when Serena double-faulted on match point, Venus gave no hint of satisfaction; she looked, in fact, no happier than she had when she watched Serena win the U.S. Open. Venus put her arm around her sister's shoulders and said, "Let's go, Serena. Let's get out of here."

It was a delicate moment, handled perfectly before an audience of millions, but this wasn't the only time Venus demonstrated her blooming maturity. She had insisted that her father -- not her more low-key mother -- accompany her to London, and credits his coaching for her win. But once given to parroting her dad's every bombastic utterance, at Wimbledon Venus publicly stepped outside his orbit for the first time. Instead of the usual blather about how she and Serena would happily play each other and dominate the game, Venus admitted the experience was "real bitter," and talked openly about the difficult dynamics of such a situation. She insisted that something as meaningless as tennis could never come between them. "The only problem was answering ridiculous questions about whether we'd be friends still," Venus says. "I actually think the match was a good thing, because I didn't celebrate the win at all and I was more calm coming into the final. I just felt like I had one big jump left and all I had to do was make it."

Her straight-set win over Davenport in the final touched off unprecedented jubilation; Venus whirled and screamed, and her dad danced on a broadcast booth. Richard had held up handmade signs throughout, including one that belligerently declared: IT'S VENUS'S PARTY AND NO ONE WAS INVITED! But afterward it was clear the chip had fallen off her shoulder. She claimed to not even see what her dad had written. She also said something remarkable.

"I feel really calm," Venus said. "I love winning Wimbledon, I love playing tennis, I love winning titles. And I realized I wouldn't be any happier in my life in general if I won or lost. Sure, in the tennis part of my life I'd be much happier. But winning, losing, money, riches or fame doesn't make you happy. For my tennis career, this is great. But as far as being Venus, it doesn't really make a huge difference."

Right then, what had happened to Venus this year became quite clear. What had seemed a comeback fueled by jealousy and a sense of entitlement emerged as something else, as a journey from adolescence to adulthood. She had done more than win a string of matches. She had taken losses and learned from them, endured embarrassment and used it to make her better. When, eight weeks later, Venus beat Davenport to win the U.S. Open, she did more than establish herself as the best player in the game. She showed she had no intention of turning back.

This time, in the tumult of the postmatch celebration, Venus extended her hand and walked her dad down onto the court. She hugged him, and he told her how great she was, and then he hopped up and down and did a small dance and pointed at her to do the same. But Venus didn't dance. She stared at her dad, and he stopped dancing and the message was obvious: Venus decides when Venus dances now.

Afterward, when someone asked about the U.S. Open trophy, Venus instantly said that the most wonderful thing was that her name would be engraved next to her sister's. No one dared to argue. After a long, painful, amazing year, Venus had finally arrived.

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Issue date: Sports Illustrated for Women, November/December 2000

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