PHOTOGRAPHS
The genuine smile of my father. And the genuine resting bitch face I developed at a young age.
Five years old, on a hot summer day in Sochi, practicing on a public park tennis court. What happened to my shorts?
Our first few days in Bradenton, Florida. Already out on some public courts behind a college. My dad looks like a stud!
Someone handmade this skirt for me, and I must have worn it five days a week until it ripped. My dad didn’t know how to sew it back together.
May 1994. My first visit to the white sands of Bradenton Beach, wearing a bathing suit my mom packed for me in Russia.
My first ID at the Bollettieri Tennis Academy. My dad had to sign for me, as I didn’t have a signature of my own yet.
This was Herald, my boxing coach. I was eight years old, but he didn’t treat me like an eight-year-old. I did boxing rounds with him and he would throw a ten-pound medicine ball at my stomach to tighten my core.
With Robert Lansdorp. He’s smiling, but he’s probably about to make me run side to side until that basket is empty.
First time meeting Mark McCormack with my parents.
Estelle and me, on our favorite trampoline. Partners in crime, forever and ever.
I was taking my time to get off the court. I’m guessing they kind of liked it.
(Photograph by Alastair Grant, AFP Collection; courtesy of Getty Images)
Disbelief. That first Grand Slam champion moment. At Wimbledon. Seventeen years old.
(Photograph by Professional Sport, Popperfoto Collection; courtesy of Getty Images)
Arriving at the Wimbledon Ball. Hair straight, no makeup. I look so confused, because I am.
(Photograph by Ferdaus Shamim, WireImage Collection; courtesy of Getty Images)
The morning after winning the Wimbledon championship, with the kids of the family who hosted us and my replica trophy.
The first time I beat Justine Henin, and my only U.S. Open championship—so far. In my favorite Nike Audrey Hepburn–inspired dress.
(Photograph by Caryn Levy, Sports Illustrated Collection; courtesy of Getty Images)
Calling my father when I woke up from shoulder surgery. I look miserable. And felt even worse because the journey back had no guarantees.
Carrying the flag at the London Olympics, 2012. I was the first Russian female to ever do so. I will forever be grateful for this honor.
(Photograph by Christopher Morris, CORBIS Sports Collection; courtesy of Getty Images)
Behind the smile of holding the silver medal in London was the wish to go for gold in Rio. It never happened.
(Photograph by Clive Brunskill, Getty Images Sport Classic Collection; courtesy of Getty Images)
When Grigor and I spoke about which picture of us to use for the book, it was inevitable that this would be our choice. Our first-ever picture together, on our first-ever date.
This smile is why I practice every single day. The trophies are beautiful and rare but the smile is internal.
(Photograph by Matthew Stockman, Getty Images Sport Collection; courtesy of Getty Images)
Leaping into the air after my first French Open victory.
(Photograph by Art Seitz)