Maria Sharapova is the number-two tennis player in the world. Nine years ago Matchbox Twenty and John Edwards mattered.
She runs women's tennis like Kim Jong-un runs North Korea: ruthlessly, with spare moments of comedy, indolence and the occasional appearance of a split personality. Serena is the number-one tennis player in the world.
And she would not have given a flying fuck what you thought.
This is a woman who one minute is reading inspirational notes during changeovers and then, in the 2009 U. Open semifinals, threatening to personally make a line judge eat a tennis ball.
The caravan heads to a court about a half-mile from the house and begins loading out the gear.
It's two days before the start of the Sony Open in Miami, one of the circuit's premier nonmajors and the first significant test for Serena since she was upset in the quarterfinals at the Australian Open after spraining an ankle that had ballooned to three times its normal size.
Serena reanimates and does a bunny hop around the dining room. "Patrick Mouratoglou, her newish French coach and possibly her boyfriend, emerges from a backroom.
("I don't know where all that mentor stuff came from," Serena says.