cabeza, corazón, campeón

[for context: we're at the beginning of 2004]

I left for Europe a few days later. I wanted to train and acclimate myself to clay before the European season began. IMG arranged for me to take up a kind of short-term residence at the Juan Carlos Ferrero Academy in Villena, Spain. There were a couple of other pro players, staying in the cabanas and playing on the courts, including the namesake of the academy, a local hero named Juan Carlos Ferrero. In those few weeks, watching Ferrero train, watching him come and go, seeing how he talked and handled himself, how he brushed his hair away from his eyes, I developed a serious crush.

Ferrero—retired now, in his late thirties—was lanky, not too tall, with tousled hair, dark but dyed blond, and warm, mischievous eyes. He’d been playing tennis since he was too young to know if he wanted to play, like the rest of us, but something about him seemed removed, above, calm and cool. He’d won the French Open the previous season, 2003. The picture taken of him after the last point stuck in my head. It was an image of accomplishment, joy, and release. When you win, you finally get to let go of all that tension and stress—that’s what it looked like. You finally get to live in the moment instead of in the moment after this moment, when the next shot still has to be returned. I must have seen the picture in the newspaper—on some front page, or tossed behind a seat on some airplane. Ferrero has just won the match. The ball is probably still moving just beyond the frame, rolling lazily toward the vanquished player, Martin Verkerk. Juan Carlos had fallen to his knees and is looking toward the sky, as if to thank whoever up there is in charge of tennis Grand Slams. It stayed with me, that celebration. I always mimic the gestures of the people I admire. I don’t mean to. It just happens. Maybe it’s a way of saying thanks.

I searched online to find the photo she's referring to here. And I think it's this moment.

Ferrero, 2003 French Open

Sharapova, 2012 French Open

In 2004, Ferrero was twenty-three and I was sixteen. I mean, in most countries, that’s not even legal. What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants. I used to monitor him, watch him come and go. I used to plot and plan. I’d stand at the window of my cabana, behind a closed curtain, peeking out, keeping track of his every move. Here was the big problem. Juan Carlos had a girlfriend! She was probably the nicest girl in the world, but how could I see her as anything other than the reality that undermined my dreams? When they stood together, all cute, I was reminded that I was the silliest thing in the world—a kid with a crush.

Yuri [Sharapova's dad] knew none of this. Of course, when I actually got a chance to talk to Ferrero, I was polite and goofy and shy. But he must have known. I later found out that everyone in that Spanish academy in fact did know. I guess I’d been following him around like a lost puppy. I appreciate how he handled himself, the gentle and serious way he treated me, never making me feel anything less than grown-up and important, while also letting me know in his easy way that it could never happen.

[... Fast forward — we're at Wimbledon 2004 now]

I was still smiling from this discovery when I finally got onto the court for my first match, which I blew through, defeating the Ukrainian Yuliya Beygelzimer in straight sets. But for me, the real highlight came after the match, after I left the locker room. I was going down a back hall or up a staircase. I don’t remember exactly, but the sense I had was of going up—which is why, in my mind, it’s a staircase—running into someone coming down, someone who, as we talked, was standing a few feet above me. It was Juan Carlos Ferrero. He’d won his early match and had that cool, pleasant, end-of-the-day-and-nothing-to-do glow about him. He’d just come from his press conference, which, as I’ve explained, is shit no matter if you win or lose. I was now seventeen and he was now twenty-four and all the other feelings were still there. My tremendous crush on him—in a way, it was not even about Juan Carlos Ferrero but about being in love with love—made everything he said seem funny or important. He smiled at me. “Maria, Maria,” he said, “it’s so funny to see you here, to see you now. I was just inside with the reporters and they asked me who I thought would win on the women’s side and I told them no doubt it would be Maria Sharapova. I put my reputation on the line for you, Maria,” he added, laughing, “so don’t let me down, or make me look like an idiot.”

It was magic to hear Juan Carlos say my name, especially in that Spanish accent of his. It’s silly, but I kind of hung on to that memory for the rest of the tournament. It gave me a little extra confidence and motivation. I was not just winning. I was proving that Juan Carlos Ferrero had been right to believe in me.

[... Fast forward, winning that Wimbledon]

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.

[Talking about her speech when accepting the trophy] 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.

Okay I've spent like an hour trying to find the moment she's referring to here — but I simply can't find any complete video of her winning speech. After looking at many articles posted at the time, I finally found one that quoted it:

And intriguingly, her roll-call of post-match thanks included "one person I'd like to thank - but I'm not going to give the name of - for inspiring me to win this tournament".

The tabloids will have a field day, naturally, as they try and guess the identity of the mystery "inspiration".

The next day, she got asked about it at her press conference. This was her answer.