But on Friday, the greatness had to practice.
In the quiet of the morning, the stadium comes to life. A young staff member scrambles to place banners around the lower bowl, while two men walk through the flower arrangements, placing one behind each player’s bench. A forklift carries boxes and boxes from Jose Cuervo. Workers apply a fresh coat of blue and red paint to the stairs leading to the courts.
And there’s Venus, tall and slender and dressed in an emerald gown, hitting balls shortly after 10 in the morning.
This is a private session, two hours allotted on the main court for her and a small entourage of her trainer, masseur, and a burly man who is apparently there for security. This is Venus in her most intimate moment on the court, the icon in the quiet hours paying tribute to her greatness. She still needs to take care of herself and adjust, and treat herself with respect. Those with great ability don’t take it lightly, so here she is—at 42 years old and with nothing to prove—she’s still working. And she is attracting an audience.
Three photographers fan out to different areas of the grandstand. A scattering of employees remains, holding up their cell phones because even while they’re on the clock they want proof of what’s happening in front of them. A man in a red scarf sits near a woman holding a sleeping baby. On them sits a mocha-skinned girl with long legs and her hair in braids. She too is here to witness greatness.
Venus is returning balls from both her coach and her batting partner for the day, a local player named Leon Vessels. It must have been like waking up and getting the call that Ginger Rogers needs a tap partner. Vessels has admired Venus for a long time, so at first he is nervous on the court, although he hides it well. He greets Venus before they start beating, but when Vessels realizes that she’s only here to work, he warns himself that he shouldn’t smile unless she smiles first.
However, during a short break, even Vessels can’t help it. He keeps one of the tennis balls that touched Venus’s racket and gives it to the girl with the pigtails. He knows that greatness must be shared.
“It was a bit stressful because [Venus] I change my life. A lot of black kids, and I’m sure a lot of Americans, period, a lot of us look up to Venus and her sister Serena,” Vessels would say later. “So it was really a dream, to be on my home court and hit with a legend. I can’t even explain it.
Ships stop in search of the right words. But I understand it. Being close to greatness can make you lose your composure.
When her coach throws a ball into the stands, Venus turns around. Squinting, he searches for the lost ball, but all he finds is the closest available person: me. And I freeze.
The fate of Venus’ practice before her first singles match in nearly a year hinges on the decisive actions of the slow-moving columnist who tells no one, “Should I get that? Should I take that ball? But I finally sprung into action and, for reasons I still can’t explain, exaggeratedly hoisted the missing prize over my head like a Wimbledon ball boy. Feeling like I’m passing Monet a dropped brush, I toss the ball to Venus. She corners him, then replies, “Where’s the second one?”
His intensity increases and now he is hitting the ball. Her trainer serves and she returns fiercely. Return serve after serve with a basic groundstroke. A tedious replay that she has done for more than two decades, beginning in the public courts of Compton, California, with her father and her younger sister.
Even after rising to No. 1 in the world 20 years ago and winning 49 singles titles overall, he still practices his fundamentals. Sweat begins to darken his green outfit because 79 degrees in Washington is not a normal 79 degrees. Instead, 79 degrees in Washington is hot and sticky and feels like standing at the top of a long spiral staircase to hell. So she needs a break.
Nearly 30 minutes later, she sits down, towels herself dry, and reaches into her red Wilson bag for her phone. But she doesn’t look at it much and sets it down to grab a handful of grapes, then a peach. Her trainer sits next to her, but Venus continues to face forward, holding her sandwich in her right hand and chewing. Her stance doesn’t change even when her trainer appears and she starts hitting with Vessels. she does not follow baaanggg Y baaahhhh of the serve and the return. It should feel like white noise at this point to her. She is locked up and keeps looking straight ahead.
She’s back on the court, and Michael Hansley, a barback hired for the day, he finds his way to the stadium. He heard that she was practicing and brought her cell phone. Hansley, 35, says she grew up admiring the Williams sisters and after seeing the biopic based on her father, “King Richard,” four times and counting, he’s even more inspired. This explains why he is the only one brave enough to shout, “Venus, I love you!”
She smiles weakly and waves her address.
“It was beautiful. It’s inexplicable,” Hansley says of watching her practice even for a few minutes. “It’s so beautiful. Just to watch her play, warm up or whatever. He wanted to shoot her. However, I didn’t want to get in trouble.”
Mark Ein, the founder and owner of the Washington Kastles tennis club, wouldn’t be afraid to get in trouble for stepping onto the playing surface with his young son Charlie.
“I brought my Mini-me,” says Ein as he greets Venus, who previously played for the Kastles.
She offers an air hug, due to all the sweat, and asks Charlie if he likes tennis. She then points to the blue awning where all the names of the Citi Open winners are displayed. She shows Charlie where her name would go.
When the visit with the Eins concludes, Venus returns to work. Now, it’s her service. Her process: shift her weight to her back foot, straighten her front leg, and lengthen her body for the throw. Grace and elegance in motion. She cleans up her trainer and smiles at Vessels, who can now smile back.
At 11:36 am, it’s time to put everything together and play Vessels. That beautiful service now becomes a powerful weapon, and Hansley is back, walking the esplanade with a co-worker.
“The greatest that has ever done it. The oldest!” Hansley tells her, not taking his eyes off Venus.
By noon, she is done. She has outlived most of the curious eavesdroppers. The silence to her work ethic and the intimacy of her giving, witnessed by the contract employee and the millionaire’s son. To the unranked batting partner and the girl in the stands who dreams of being on that field one day.
Before leaving, Vessels heads to the stands to grab the baby, her son Legend. He asks for a photo with Venus, and she is all smiles.
“A legend with a legend,” he says.
When the little Legend is old enough, her father will show her that photo. And he will know what greatness looks like.