by Pete Bodo
It's funny, but the way the Venus and Serena Williams story has played out, we often lapse into thinking of them as two peas in a single Richard pod. One of the most remarkable aspects of their history is that they've flourished, prospered, and remained close in a sport so individualistic that the excellence of one sibling often sends shock waves through the entire family. In some cases, the vibrations can shake the traditional concept of sibling-hood: Chris Evert, whose siblings were fine but not-quite-terrific players, can tell you all about the agonies engendered therein.
At the other end of the spectrum, you have, say, the McEnroes. Their way of dealing with the pecking order determined by tennis talent was for each of the siblings to carve out wholly separate and sometimes dramatically different identities. Granted, some of this stuff is not a matter of choice, or behavioral conditioning; even in the closest of families, inherent traits can be wildly contrasting. I don't believe that John Patrick McEnroe ended up mercurial and Patrick even-tempered simply because John's talent for tennis was of a higher order of magnitude (and Mark is another story altogether). But Pat and Mark (now a lawyer) certainly were prevailed upon to distinguish themselves as individuals, instead of lesser satellites, by John's gifts and accomplishments. That they were driven to do so speaks highly of their urge to identity.
In this regard, the sisters are a true anomaly. Can anyone think of two high-quality (to put it mildly) tennis players (never mind siblings) whose accomplishments are so similar yet who are so fundamentally different, in so many ways? As tennis KADs, our reaction is to lump them together (and I think I've been more guilty of this impulse than some of you) because, well, because they're both named Williams, they're best of friends, and they're both. . . great. But at this phase of their careers, and in mine as an observer, I'm increasingly struck by the degree to which they are radically different personalities. Hail, if they weren't sisters, you could build a sitcom around them as high school rivals, mining the personality of each for the very real, rich contrasts.
Early on, I felt that Venus had the less "interesting" game and a less bewitching talent, but that her athletic abilities would more than compensate for her relative lack versatility, or more pedestrian "feel" for the game. I saw Venus as a female Bjorn Borg (or Rafael Nadal, although there's an extreme quality to Nadal's game that makes it hard to compare him with anyone). She was armed with great speed, formidable power, and enormous reserves of stamina (all of which are rare assets in the women's game). I saw a player who could blanket the court and, unlike any player since Borg, turn tennis into a sort of exploded version of ping-pong, ranging left and right at the baseline and firing groundstrokes that declared, non pasaran! It's a deadly formula, and even moreso in a game where players live and die within feet of either service notch.
Adopting that attitude more or less demanded that I undervalue one of the great assets of a bold, aggressive shotmaker and ham actor like Serena - the ability to rise to a challenge and, simply put, take away our breath (and the wind from the sails of an opponent). Impulsive, theatrical, clearly given to drawing inspiration from the sweat-sheened faces overflowing the arena, Serena was a performer. What Venus had in added-value as a result of her athletic abilities, Serena had in the form of inspiration - the ability to produce shots so artful or difficult that they seemed to draw on resources unavailable to most other players. During the U.S. Open final, I felt as if all the energy of the crowd and all of the fast-twitch tension of the occasion somehow ended up channeled into Serena's game. It's a hard thing to explain, this facility for drawing power from elements beyond those in your immediate control, but it's at the heart of every great performer.
