Page 5 of Match Point

I was prepared for the question. It was the only question anyone had asked me since announcing my retirement two weeks ago. I smiled, glanced at the video camera aimed directly at my face, then turned back to the interviewer.

“Ever since I was a little girl, it was my dream to win one of the four major championships,” I explained. “It took me over a decade to finally realize that dream, winning Wimbledon at age eighteen. After that, the next logical goal was to win them all. Completing a career Grand Slam became my passion for thenextten years of my career. And it wasn’t an easy road. I won Wimbledon again, and the US Open twice. After two years spent focusing entirely on playing on clay, I finally won at Roland Garros. But the Australian Open eluded me. Every year I felt like I was good enough to win, but I always came across an opponent who was better than me that day. Years went by, and I left Melbourne as a failure.

“Until last year, when the stars finally aligned and I defeated Victoria Azarenka in the final.”

The crowd of tennis fans gathered around the outdoor pavilion cheered at that. I paused for it to die down before continuing.

“I reveled in that win for a while. It meant a lot to me. Even more than winning the US Open, which takes place practically in my backyard in Flushing. But I’m the kind of woman who needs a big goal to push her. All my life, I’ve had a big, juicy carrot dangling in front of me. After winning here in Melbourne, I didn’t have that anymore. I had won a career Grand Slam. What more could I have done?

“Why not acalendarGrand Slam?” the interviewer prodded. “Winning all four major championships in a row?”

“Oh, I tried that!” I said with a chuckle. “But after losing in the final at Wimbledon last year, the dream was dead. I’m happy to end my career on top, rather than slowly falling out of relevancy over time. I only just turned thirty; I still feel like I have my whole life ahead of me.”

“Whatisnext for Miranda Jacobs?”

The question froze me. It was another question everyone had been asking me since I made the announcement two weeks ago. It was the same question I had been asking myself.

And I didn’t have a real answer.

“Hopefully I’ll find out soon,” I said. “I’m looking forward to taking some time off, watching the sport for pleasure rather than as a job.”

“What about your personal life?” he asked. “You’ve said in past interviews that your training schedule didn’t leave room for a love life.”

I chuckled. “Sure. Maybe I’ll fall in love, now that tennis is no longer my husband. Or maybe I’ll do some television commentary.”

The interviewer jabbed a finger in my direction. “Just don’t steal my job!”

The two of us laughed, then shook hands and ended the interview. The fans were shouting now, so I walked over and spent some time signing autographs. It was one of the favorite parts of my job, and it was even more enjoyable now that my schedule wasn’t strictly controlled.

My agent, a former Australian pro named Hamilton Burger, stepped up next to me and said, “It must be easier doing these interviews now that you’re retired and the pressure is off.”

I responded while signing a headshot for another fan. “It’s the opposite, Hammy! It was easier when I was a player, because I could answer the questions with empty statements.” I took on a mocking tone. “I’m just trying to work hard and keep my head down. I’m focused on the next opponent. I’m just happy to be here.” I chuckled. “But now, I don’t knowwhatto tell them.”

“You’ll figure it out,” he replied, scratching at his left eye. He had lost the eye while celebrating a cricket match, and now wore a prosthetic. “And when youdofigure it out, I’m sure I’ll be the first to find out. Right?”

“I promise I’m not keeping anything from you,” I said. “I legitimately don’t know what I’m going to do next.”

“Because you have offers,” he said. “NBC is putting feelers out about you commentating the US Open in August. I’ve been contacted bysixdifferent tennis academies—including Lafayette.”

“All I want is to relax andnotthink about tennis for a while,” I replied. “The last thing I want to do is coach teenagers.”

The fan in front of me suddenly asked, “What about coaching an adult?”

I gave a start. The other fans were gone, and the only person remaining was a tall man wearing tennis shorts and a compression tank-top. He was maybe forty years old, and seemed vaguely familiar.

“Talk to Hammy,” I told him. “He handles all of my public appearances.”

“Yes, talk to Hammy,” Hamilton said gruffly. “Here’s my card. But I should warn you: the price for a private lesson from Ms. Jacobs is quite high. And there’s an extra fee if you want to be photographed with her.”

The man—who sounded American—smiled at that. “I’m not asking about a lesson, and it’s not for me. I coach one of the pros—someone ranked in the Top 20. And I think you can help with some issues we’ve been having lately.”

That piqued my interest. “One of the pros? Is it Coco Gauff? Or Jessica Pegula? I heard she was having issues with her serve…”

The man’s smile deepened. “It’s neither of them.”

“Then who is she? Is she American?”

“It’s not ashe,” he replied. “And he’s Australian, actually.”

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