Statuesque Mary Pierce, 30, will play statuesque Maria Sharapova, 17, tomorrow in an intriguing generational battle of like players. Oh, the youngster Sharapova probably covers the court better than Pierce ever did, but the shared genes are unmistakable, even if you ignore the long legs, blonde hair, and erect carriage: Both women hit hard and relatively flat; both like to end points quickly; both have big serves; both prefer meat-and-potatoes tennis, hold the spices and condiments, thank-you.
Pierce has been off the radar screen for quite some time, mostly because of injury; she’s become something of a misfit, the tennis equivalent of a lost soul. But, much like Andre Agassi, she’s discovering the sheer joy of playing. You could say she’s trying to hang on, but the process she’s going through is much more dynamic and positive than that.
Like the kid who spent her entire adolescence in rebellion, Mary has discovered that she actually loves her mother. Such epiphanies are seldom downers—you’ve got the rest of your life to explore your newly unearthed feelings, right?
Well, not exactly. Not for a tennis player. That’s why there’s a particularly touching element in Mary’s assessment of her present situation:
At 30, just as she’s about to go out and very probably get jerked around and run into the ground and beat up by a hungry teenager, Mary finally understands that she loves the game that is just about to be taken away from her.
It can be an awfully cruel sport, no?