That summer, I played in the Olympics. London, 2012.
People often ask me: Are you Russian or American? I could be American and speak English like an American and get all the references and all the jokes because I really grew up in Florida and was raised by my parents and my coaches but also by movies and television, by the scrappy counterpuncher and the evil bullies in The Karate Kid and by the all-knowing wisdom of Mike and Carol in The Brady Bunch. My humor is less Gogol than Seinfeld, and my smarts are less Dostoyevsky than Full House. But I never stopped and never will stop feeling Russian. When I’m down a break point deep in the third set of a match, I am Russian. But more—it’s deep in my soul, in the history and the heritage of my family. I feel it every time I go back to Gomel in Belarus to see my grandparents, or to Sochi to see old friends, or to Moscow to play in tournaments. It’s the language, the sound of the people on the street, not just the voices and the words but the mannerisms, the mentality, and the assumptions. It can be hard to define home, especially when you have led a life as crazy and all over the place as mine, but you know it when you’re there. It’s where you feel most grounded, most understood, where you don’t have to explain. It’s where they get you. I am a Russian. I have always known that, every minute of every day. Which is why the request, or the offer, or whatever you want to call it, meant so much to me.
It came by text—not exactly a handsome rider on a handsome steed carrying a golden scroll, just a few words that popped onto the screen of my phone. It was from someone at the Russian Tennis Federation. It mentioned the upcoming Summer Olympics in London, then asked if I’d be interested in carrying the flag for my country in the opening ceremony, leading the Russian athletes into the arena as the whole world watched, standing for and representing my country.
At first, I thought it was a joke. At first, I think everything is a joke, especially if it comes from the Russian Tennis Federation. There’s no way! No fucking way! Someone is teasing me, making sport of me. I showed it to my mother. She read it over carefully, then read it again through narrowed eyes. Handing back the phone, she said, “Well, Masha, this seems to be pretty real.”
As soon as she said that, I got the chills. Goose bumps.
It turned out to be one of the greatest honors of my career. I was the first woman to ever be given that honor by Russia, so it was a bit of a controversy. When they came to fit me for the outfit—a burgundy coat, wide-legged trousers—I could not stop smiling. You can go back and look at footage of the event itself. I am walking in front of four Russian men who wear blue coats and Panama hats. Behind them, the rest of our team, in burgundy coats, smiles and waves. I wear a straw hat of my own, and I cannot stop grinning. As we walked, all I could think about was watching the Olympic opening ceremony as a little girl. I wore a white beret, and walked circles around my bed, as if I were one of the athletes in the parade on TV. And now I was really here.
The Olympic matches were played in Wimbledon, which—well, you know how much I love that place. I made it all the way to the final, which was played on Centre Court on a windy day. I was beaten—I won only a single game!—in the final by Serena Williams. Of course, I’d like to have performed better. For myself, and for my country. But the story seemed to be less about Russia and America than about me and Serena Williams. What’s going on? A player can beat Serena, and I can beat that player, but I don’t beat Serena herself. My career record against Serena? It’s not pretty. I’ve beaten her only twice, both times before my shoulder surgery. Of course, a lot of that lopsided record is explained simply by her excellence as a player. Her game—her serve and power, her ability to move her opponent from side to side—matches up well against mine. Serena’s strengths are like puzzle pieces that snap into my weaknesses. And then there’s my serve—when I lost that first serve, I lost a serious weapon. Maybe it gave her the edge. Yet that cannot be the whole story. There must be something else at work, there just has to be. I think Serena has an extra motivation when she plays me. She wants to beat everyone, but she wants to beat me more. Why? Because I beat her at Wimbledon when I was a kid. Because I took something from her, that first flush, which you can never really get back. Because I happened to walk into the clubhouse at exactly the wrong moment and so heard her crying and witnessed her low and vulnerable moment. And I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for it.
I stood on the platform after the final, staring straight ahead, as Serena was covered in gold. A moment earlier, I had been given the silver medal. Silver is beautiful, but silver is not gold. I had only a single thought in mind: I will get her back at the Rio Olympics in 2016. Of course, that wouldn’t happen.
That’s the last part of my story.