Venus vs. Kvitova . . . nothing but winners
This is a nation of knives as well as guns.
A total of 1,490 murders committed by knives or cutting instruments in 2013 — FBI stats and the last year I could find.
Of 124,149 aggravated assaults, 19.1 per cent involved blades.
Violence cuts close to the heart in America.
They may not live in perpetual fear — isn’t their nature — but everybody feels the presence of a potential threat, the loner gone berserk, the aggrieved party, the drug-zonked thug. Even a privileged tennis crowd. So there would be, I think, a particular empathy for Petra Kvitova, a gutsy dame who fought back against a home intruder, repelled him, but suffered severe wounds in the encounter: deep lacerations to five fingers, tendons mangled in three of them, followed by nearly five hours of surgery. That knife was held to her throat. Her left hand shredded — tennis business hand for a southpaw player.
Her fingers held in protective splints for eight weeks afterwards.
The attack, at her apartment in Protstejov, Czech Republic, was only this past December. Didn’t touch a racquet until March.
So Kvitova was probably wrong when she predicted, the other night, that she’d be up against two opponents in her quarter-final match at the U.S. Open: Venus Williams, the sentimental favourite, and the Arthur Ashe Stadium audience. It wasn’t that way at all. This was a commendably neutral soldout house, equally enthralled, savant in their appreciation of the superb tennis on display, buck-shot spray of double faults and all. At least until the third-set crunch when they remembered where they were.
Two magnificent women, two stupendous athletes, both strapping and strong, tall and long-limbed; each having come through life-altering misfortunes. For Williams, of course, it was the autoimmune disease causing extreme fatigue and lethargy, diagnosed in 2011, which she’s countered with a careful diet regimen.
A half-sister murdered in Compton too. She’s known grief and rage.
In something approaching awe, when discussing what Kvitova has overcome in such a short while. “What she’s gone through is unimaginable, unreasonable. The world we live in is just shocking. To her, I think to be playing well is such a blessing. To be able to come out here and do what she has to do, to clear her head, it’s such a beautiful thing to see.”
One might say the tennis court has been a sanctuary for the shy, reserved Czech. But, of course, that’s not true. Monica Seles, then world No. 1, was stabbed in the back during a match in Germany, by a man who later admitted he was obsessed with Seles’ rival Steffi Graf. Crazy days in sports. Nothing deranged about this piece of tennis on Tuesday evening, thankfully, merely splendiferous, feeling very much like a final in its edginess instead of a quarter-final, between a pair of powerful strikers and explosive servers.
Thirty-seven years old now is Williams, enjoying a second spring in her career, laying down her best season since at least 2008: final at the Australian Open (lost to sister Serena), final at Wimbledon. Thirty- three match victories this year, 19 of them in the four Slams entering play Tuesday evening, marquee event of the day.
Seven Slam titles for the Californian (twice in New York) compared to two — a pair of Wimbledons — for 27-year-old Kvitova.
But head-to-head — though they hadn’t confronted one another across a net since 2014 — Kvitova had the advantage, 4-1.
Didn’t mean squat, she’d said. A stat of interest only to commentators and the like.
Neither started out so hot, actually, all tangled up on double faults, which have plagued Williams in particular all season. Each striking the ball beautifully though, when their feet didn’t get in the way.
The American was broken early in the opening set but broke back in the sixth and eighth games, serving out at 6-3 as Kvitova shanked a forehand wide. Williams tugged like a card shark at her visor.
Strategy was obvious, simple and mutual: The one-two punch of big serve and return and a hammering groundstroke back. There were few rallies for long points.
In the second set, Kvitova found her groove, winning 85 per cent of her first-serve points, clawing back from five break-point situations on her service games. In game four of the middle frame, a nervy hold, recovering from 15-40 down; in game five holding with a pair of aces; in game seven holding, again rallying from 15-40. And on each break point saved a screech and a fist pump.
Meanwhile, getting run around the court, Williams lost one of her big gold hoop earrings.
That never happens to Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal, right?
Of course it went to a third set. Always does with these two, with Kvitova laser-focused while Williams continued to squander break opportunities. But goodness it was entertaining — leaping forehands and guillotine backhands, neither player much drawn to the net for volleys.
Kvitova once more broke Williams early but handed back that crucial edge with a double fault — her eighth of the match — that leveled affairs at 3-3. Her body language slump spoke volumes — all that work and for what?
A time for settling down and Kvitova did, holding to love in the eighth game, banging in a trio of aces.
From 40-0 for Williams in the ninth game, Kvitova chipped back to deuce. Williams, WHAM, uncorked a120-m.p.h. serve for the ad, but netted a soft volley back to deuce; ditto on her next advantage. They were both panting, sweating, gulping air as Williams finally held.
I’d say you could cut the tension with a knife but that would be vulgar. And it was tension to savour anyway, a lulu of a match.
In a Slam so devoid of heartthumping drama, one wished only that it could have gone on and on and on and . . . How did it end? Let’s pretend, just this once, that it doesn’t matter.
(Tiebreak 7-2 to Miss Venus Williams.)