The little kid blasts yet another clean forehand winner to break her mighty foe to go up 4-3 in the decisive third set. Twenty-thousand-plus New Yorkers rise, daring to imagine that, at last, a great new face is emerging. And this wannabe is no eponymous 6-foot-1 “ova.” You know the type. The pleasant-enough super-girl from some distant Eastern European outback with all those syllables in her semi-unpronounceable name who is just a tad too tough to embrace.
Rather, Melanie Oudin is one tough little sweetie pie who still loves her less-than-fancy Toyota 4Runner, has an adoring boyfriend, loves to cruise the mall and, yeah, still does grunt chores at her home club — the Racquet Club of the South. (“Sweep those lines!” “Do that landscaping.”)
Her initials are MO, so let’s call her Little Mo (as in the much earlier little darling of American tennis, Maureen Connolly). A fierce mini-dynamo, such a relentless spitfire, she could already be the best inch-for-inch player on the WTA Tour. No wonder the crowd is elated: flashback to Jimmy Connors in ’91, Roddick winning in ’03 or the ’05 Blake vs. Agassi classic. The roar circles the rafters. But Oudin’s jaw is square. Her obligatory ponytail dances, this mall-rat sparkles. Now deep into the third set, Oudin is trying to stun the tennis universe with the greatest “A Star is Born” breakout win since, let’s see: since another 17-year-old, a gal named Maria Sharapova, won Wimbledon in ’04.
Trading breaks of serve with the imposing Sharapova, Oudin again blasts a cross-court forehand winner. New York ignites. This little package of teen goodness — such a mix of fresh-faced youth and no-nonsense, don’t-tread-on-me fire — is now up 5-4, just a game from bringing down a girl named Maria: tennis’ uptown girl, the occasionally haughty glamour girl and No. 1 with three Slams on her mantle and some $23 million a year flowing into her bank account.
But now on the brink, Little Mo seems to blink. Errors creep into her game. She wants it too much. Incredibly, she nets forehands and double faults. Twice she can’t hold serve to claim victory. But Sharapova is stumbling, too. It’s as if all the serving woes in Russian tennis have been transferred from Elena Dementieva to Sharapova. Again and again, Masha’s serve abandons her. Staccato double faults undermine any ideas of an easy victory. Now up 6-5 (thanks to Sharapova’s latest double fault), our American Idol is again serving for the match.
But now the crowd, burnt once, is cautionary. There response is more collective murmur than mass hysteria. Let’s see if this wannabe can deliver. Yes, she is suggestive of her idol, Justine Henin. And sure her sparkling shoes bring to mind Judy Garland on the Yellow Brick Road.
Sharapova may be the best battler in women’s tennis this side of Serena Williams. Okay, Oudin is from Marietta, Georgia — the home of the much celebrated, iconic big chicken fast-foot joint. But Melanie is no chicken. Her guts in big-time matches against Euro wonders (she brought down Jelena Jankovic at Wimbledon and Dementieva in the second round at the Open) is already a mini-legend. How come this kid so adores pressure? Her mental toughness (like Tracy Austin of old) is her greatest strength.
Coming out, up 6-5 and again serving for the match, the crowd is smitten and greets the Georgian with rhythmic applause. Then, as if on cue, a Sharapova forehand greets the net while another one flies wide. Then, at her ultimate moment of truth, our little girl wonder delivers on just her first match point, crushing her favorite shot, a killer forehand — flat and fierce — to score a 3-6, 6-4, 7-5 feel-good triumph.
Overwhelmed by disbelief, elated with glee, she drops her racket, grasps her head in disbelief — sheer joy. The tears well. The mighty Sharapova quickly packs her gear and departs: the pain of big-stage defeat, while the kid thrusts her modest fists to the sky. Her face, flush red with emotion, she tells the ecstatic throng, “If I keep playing like this, I can get as high as anything.” Maybe as high as somewhere over the rainbow.
