Why Me?

Howdy, folks. I got waylaid last night by this bug that seems to be going around in my family (why should it go anywhere else, when it can just travel between the three of us?), but sleeping until around noon has helped. I posted over at ESPN a sort while ago, on Amelie Mauresmo. The gist of the story is that I'm baffled by the degree to which Mauersmo, after her remarkable 2006 (she won the Australian Open and Wimbledon, dispeling demons that had hovered around her for a solid seven years), has vanished from the radar.

Oh, I know about the emergency appendectomy, and the adductor strain (the two injuries kept her out for a total of about four months last year), but the reality is that she got off to relatively poor start in 2007 and had us wondering what the future would bring well before illness or injury sidelined her. And we all saw how abysmally she played in Melbourne this year, looking at times like a fearful, nervous wreck, at others like a wild woman lashing out to give someone a mightly slap across the face with the back of her hand (you have to admit, that's the Mauresmo backhand, in a nutshell). She's a complex woman, that Mauresmo, half brute and half shrinking violet - and you never know which one you're getting. She has an edge, for sure; I've seen it at close quarters.

Earlier this week, before Mauresmo lost to Svetlana Kuznetsova in Dubai, she told her native sports daily, L'Equipe:  "I sometimes ask myself what the hell I am doing, in front of half-empty stands. In the back of your mind, there's always a little something wondering if it wouldn't be better to stop."

This isn't really a surprising rumination; other players have said similar things when in the grip of some dark mood. Yet if you're anything like me, you can't help but wonder: How can someone so basically fortunate say something like that, or at least feel no shame expressing herself that way? I'm reminded of that famous Arthur Ashe observation, coming to us through James Blake, suggesting that we ask ourselves "Why me?" at times when everything is going great, not just when times are tough.

This would be one thing if Mauresmo expressed those feelings when all else was going reasonably well, but it's pretty clear the the French former No. 1 is struggling. It's hard to put those sentiments down to mood of the day. Actually, Mauresmo appears to have been struggling ever since she was supposed to have made her own life much easier by winning those two majors - and shedding her reputation as a moody, emotionally weak choker - in 2006.

Clearly, Amelie was in need of something more than a few confidence building, big wins, and just as clearly she hasn't gotten it.

I plan to return to this subject soon with a more thorough post on women's tennis (it's something I've been thinking about for a few days), but for now I have to echo what I wrote over at ESPN: it seems that the days when WTA pros enjoyed (or at least endured) long careers is over. It seems like the window of career is getting smaller and smaller, and not because the competition is that much tougher, or the game that much more demanding. The women seem to be enjoying the game less in direct proportion to how much more they're taking away from it. But this is a subject to which I'll have to devote a little more thought.

In fairness, though, Mauresmo also may be re-enacting a scenario strikingly similar to the one played out by a male player, Mats Wilander. In 1988, Mats won three majors (he stumbled only at Wimbledon) and finished No. 1. Almost immediately, he went into an extended tailspin and reached only one Grand Slam semi for the rest of his career. In some ways, Mats was the direct opposite of Mauresmo: he was mentally tough and, unable to out hit or overpower his opponents, he was forced to outwit them and outlast them.  Still, Mats' great drive in 1988 left him drained and unable, in ensuing years, to find the enthusiasm and appetite needed to contend at majors.

At ESPN, I suggest players today get zoned out rather than burned out, by which I mean that they get distracted and bored, rather than worn down and beat up. That certainly seems to be the case with Mauresmo.