Sharapova coming through loud, clear
LONDON -- The girl in the bling-bling boots was playing tennis.
You didn't have to be among the 11,429 listeners inhabiting Wimbledon's Court 1 yesterday to notice. Hearing is enough to identify her. Seeing isn't necessary. Such luminaries as Ray Charles, George Shearing, and John Milton could have told you it was Maria Sharapova if they'd been in the neighborhood.
That grunt is as unmistakable as "For Boston" at a Boston College football game.
Seeing is better, of course. And seeing this gold mine at play, giving new zing-zing to bling-bling, is a treat. Since
But Sharapova isn't sure that golden bootery qualifies as bling-bling, saying, "I thought it had to be diamonds."
All right, so wait a while for the new Sharapova watch, sprinkled with diamonds at $2,000 per -- as if anybody paying that much has to worry about being on time.
Sharapova's sudden ascension as one of the planet's more familiar and beguiling faces occurred just one year ago. On this day in June 2004, 17-year-old Sharapova beat Japan's Ai Sugiyama with some difficulty to enter the semifinals, although seeded 13th. Two matches later she took the championship away from Serena Williams, 6-1, 6-4, and -- presto! -- the world became her tennis ball. Until that moment she was merely a pretty prospect. Then she became the global girl next door.
With considerably less difficulty this time around, she strode into the semis again yesterday. But shining with self-assurance and thumping her serve and forehand for 86 minutes on a warm, windy afternoon, Sharapova, the second seed, stopped another Russian blonde, No. 8 Nadia Petrova, 7-6 (8-6), 6-3, and is ready to take on the startlingly reconstituted Venus Williams tomorrow. Petrova, clever and competitive, sidestepped two set points to 6-6 in the breaker, but fell to a pair of huge shriek-coated forehands. Sharapova, with four aces and five service winners, allowed her foe to sniff but one break point, that in the last game.
"Last year it was so thrilling," Sharapova said. ''It still is, but now this is what I expect of myself." How could it be quite the same? Sharapova was the longest shot, least expected female champion ever at the Big W. She was young, appealing, and talked like an American teenager. Vocally at her racket-flapping work, she seemed a blend of a straining NFL lineman and an off-key operatic soprano.
Frantic to be her new best friend, would-be sponsors bearing checkbooks lined up like the famed queues stretching out from the Wimbledon gates. Around 10 made the cut, such as Canon, Pepsi,
Although the genteel say that women glow, but don't sweat, Sharapova counters, "I sweat a lot," and is happy to endorse a Palmolive deodorant. If it doesn't do the job, presumably you can soak yourself in the forthcoming Sharapova perfume.
The theme is gold, from hair to shoes, including trim on "my simple, elegant" white dress. And the bank account. Estimates range from $20 million to $50 million for her endorsements. What does it matter, she says, as long as she "has fun," playing. "I'm improving physically and mentally. I feel mentally very tough."
She is. Her green eyes narrow when she goes for the kill, but she has the multimillion dollar smile off duty. "I feel very good, having experienced the second week last year. I've been through it. The physical needs more work. I'm only 18."
Her face is everywhere -- magazine covers, TV, billboards. ''I look at them and laugh and smile."
Does this add to the pressure? She shakes her head. "I'm able to separate all this stuff from tennis. I enjoy seeing my face. It means I've achieved something."
Had she seen her larger-than-life self on the London subway walls? "I don't travel on the subway," she giggles, "but friends have told me. Tennis is my career, not my life, you know. My family is more important. I'm five credits from a high school diploma, and I'll get there. I love schoolwork, especially biology."
She seems well-adjusted, confident, but isn't pals with fellow Russians Myskina, Dementieva, Kuznetsova, Petrova et al. Sharapova may have sprung from Siberia, but she's really a citizen of a small principality on the west coast of Florida called Bollettieria. It was that way, too, with the first Russian diva, Anna Kournikova, but there's a big difference: Sharapova's got game.
Referee Alan Mills, the head of Wimbledon's judiciary, likes the girl, but can't stand the noises she makes. He and others believe it's gamesmanship (not just hers) and that it should be outlawed. But there's no rule against it, and no one can be scolded or penalized unless an opponent complains.
Objections by Nathalie Tauziat and Martina Navratilova, whom she'd defeated, probably cost pioneering grunter Monica Seles the 1992 title. Officially chastised, she was silent, timid -- and useless -- in the final against Steffi Graf.
"I think somebody complained three years ago," Sharapova says. "But I can't help it. Been doing it since I was a child." The tone and timbre change, she says, with her emotions.
Yesterday she started off with a low hum. But the concert soon went into numerous registers, octaves and keys -- bass to soprano -- building toward ''woos," "moos" and a bloodcurdling "wowoowuh!" Not to mention "muwuhs" and "baaas" and other variations on a theme by Sharapova.
The crowd was with her. "I feel in control in a match. No negative feelings," Sharapova says, appearing to be in control of everything. Even the balls roll over for her. In the concluding game she got 2 points (one canceling a break point) on net cord dribblers that left Petrova helpless.
Sorcery? "Just my Wimbledon vibes," she gleams like a stash of bling-bling.
