“I told her, ‘I’m not going to tell you anything (about how you should play Serena) unless you want me to,’” David Witt, the coach of Venus Williams, told a television interviewer shortly before the sisters met in the semifinals of the Montreal WTA tournament.
“She didn’t want me to say anything, so I just finally told her, ‘go out there and have some fun.’”
Venus went out there and (presumably) had some “fun,” if defeating your kid sister can be described as such. Let’s remember, that never was delineated as an agreeable experience for either woman in this odd rivalry. Think about it: Cain and Abel notwithstanding, sibling-hood injects something repugnant and not-quite-authentic into our ideas of what makes for a good rivalry. At least that’s how it is in an enterprise as harshly confrontational as tennis, where there’s just one winner and nowhere to hide for the loser.
This awkward condition has been a problem in most of the 24 previous meetings between 34-year old Venus and 32-year old Serena. And if Williams Bowl XXV could give us anything new, anything different in the twilight of these two careers, it would be a match that was just plain good, free from spooky mental resonances, resistant to the ruminations of armchair psychologists tossing around the concept of sibling rivalry like a kid playing with a tennis ball.
And this, the 25th meeting of these extraordinary sisters, provided that. And in so doing it furnished a bit of well-earned payback for the elder Williams. Venus trailed in the rivalry 10-14, and always seemed the one more disturbed by the prospect of fighting a family member for a trophy. In fact, she often alluded to her role as the benevolent, nurturing older sister—the caretaker who felt obliged to allow her sibling to have her way because it would be better for everyone that way.
In truth, there seemed something slightly disingenuous in that analysis, whatever version was put forth by any number of authors. But the flat nature of so many of those 24 previous matches suggested that something truly was not quite right.
Today, something was very right. There were no psycho-dramatic overtones, perhaps because both of these women are fully mature. There were no braids flying around, occasionally shedding red, white, and blue beads that ricocheted around the court like BBs. There were no “biker boots” or black-leather bustiers, nor any red-and-black frilly couture like you might have found on a tart in a saloon in the wild west. There were just two aging champions, dressed in plain work clothes. Sisters, going at it hammer and tong.