Strength Of Will E-Book

Angelique Kerber

• Herausgeber: Edel Sports - ein Verlag der Edel Verlagsgruppe
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 316

Beschreibung

Angelique Kerber is the most successful and most popular German tennis player of the last decade, she has won Wimbledon, the US Open and Australian Open, amongst others. In her autobiography, for the first time, she recounts her journey to the top of the tennis world and the highs and lows of her career. She depicts in a very personal and approachable way how not only her great successes, but also her painful defeats came about. In doing so, she does not omit the doubts and fears brought about by the life as a tennis professional and openly and honestly tells how she repeatedly worked herself out of crises.

Leseprobe

Angelique Kerber, born in 1988 in Bremen and raised in Kiel, has been active in professional tennis since 2003. The former Number One of the Tennis World Ranking is a three-time Grand Slam winner and, apart from the Australian and the US Open, also won the silver medal at the Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro in 2016. In 2018, she celebrated the greatest success of her career on the ‘holy lawn’ in Wimbledon, after struggling with sports setbacks in 2017. Kerber is a UNICEF ambassador and has received multiple awards, including Sportswoman of the Year and the Silver Laurel Leaf, the highest state award in sports. At the end of 2022, she announced that she was taking a break from her sport due to her family.

Contents

Wimbledon 2018, in the Catacombs – A Prologue

1In the Jungle of Cities – Turning Pro

2Turbulent Times – Tennis or Nothing

3Hanging up the Racket?

4A Decision between Heart And Heart

Wimbledon 2018, The Final, First Set – An Interlude

5Prelude To A New Era – Jumping Into The Yarra River

6Down The Rabbit Hole

7Coming Full Circle

8A Spinning Class To Tackle The Crisis

9Burnout

Wimbledon 2018, The Final, Game, Set And Match – And Not Yet The End

10Yet Another New Beginning

11Tennis, Covid-19 And Love

Never Say Never – An Epilogue

Acknowledgements

WIMBLEDON 2018, IN THE CATACOMBS – A PROLOGUE

I look at my ankles as if hypnotised. They are accurately taped, which is reassuring. Actually, I’m looking through them. Like almost through everything during these minutes. Or has it been hours? Nowhere is reality more blurred than at Wimbledon. It must be a fundamental part of this fascinating myth which, once again, has completely captured me while waiting in the wood-panelled locker room. I should have been on the court by now. However, the men’s semi-final between Rafael Nadal and Novak Djoković is yet to be over because it was suspended the night before. It seems everything will be delayed by two hours – at least this is what I was told. I have long since lost track of time in my little eternity.

Maybe it’s due to the fact that this magic place makes the calm before the storm so special. It is both the most divine and the most intense silence I have ever known. Filled with etiquette, history – and the hope of winning here, at this Grand Slam tournament. And I want to win; that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Therefore, I have been training hard the past few weeks and months, actually the past years, my entire life. Winning on this ‘sacred grass’ is the absolute pinnacle for many. I rank myself among them. Since I was a child, it has been my personal dream to make it to the finals here, on this tennis stage – and now the time has come. In fact, it is the second time around. In order to be able to stand here, I put up with every hardship in the early years, found the strength to fight back again and again and never lost faith.

However, now is not the time to think about that. Centre Court is packed with fifteen thousand spectators, and although I can’t yet see it, I can feel the euphoria. Like in July 2016, the American Serena Williams is my opponent; at that time, I missed out on becoming the first in twenty years to clinch a German women’s title after Steffi Graf. I lost the final because Serena, the world’s number-one player at the time, was just too strong. Her dominance was insurmountable, utterly intimidating. I had even won the Australian Open in January. However, especially in her service games, Serena played out her strengths and made her points with great force. She counterattacked mercilessly; she is a master at that.

But this time I feel ready. Something has changed; I am a different player. I am more experienced and better equipped to successfully end my long-awaited mission than back in 2016. However, as always, Serena will also have expertly prepared for this match. Even at thirty-six, she continues to be one of the best players on the tour. She is my ultimate challenge. Serena and the sacred grass equal a symbiosis. One is hardly imaginable without the other.

Serena is known for being a problem-solver, someone who can adapt to any situation during a match. A playing legend, already celebrated as the GOAT (Greatest of all Time). However, my Belgian coach, Wim Fissette, trained me on that – and on fitness. At the moment, I feel unbelievably fit. We focussed on my footwork which is one of my strengths. Long rallies will probably affect me less than they will Serena. Wim has always told me to consistently use my chances at the baseline. And I know that my serve has improved over the past two years, I am technically more experienced, have more power, and can change the direction of the ball and give it a different rotation.

This is what I tell myself on this 14 July 2018 while in the ladies’ dressing room, a kind of inner sanctum of the facility. There are wicker chairs, wide armchairs and chaises longues for relaxing, upholstered with floral fabrics. Muntin windows are adorned with matching floral curtains. Very British! Marvellous! Only the pros themselves and their coaches have access to this area, other team or family members have to stay outside in order not to disrupt concentration.

I haven’t seen Serena here. So far, she has won seven titles at Wimbledon and lost the final twice. What is it going to be like today, on this Saturday, with the sun warming the ‘women’s wing’? As far as I know, the Duchesses of Cambridge and Sussex, Kate and Meghan, are among the spectators, golfer Tiger Woods and Formula 1 star Lewis Hamilton, not to forget the elite London crowd – as well as the fans from all over the world. Serena, the new mother, proclaimed that she was going to play for all mothers of the world. All newspapers wrote about the ‘Comeback of the mum’, or ‘Mumback’, and expectations were high. It has been thirty-eight years since a mother last won Wimbledon, and now people are wishing for it to happen again. And the last remaining killjoy on the way to her triumphant comeback is me. But this shall not daunt me, and it does not intimidate me. These scripts, perfectly written by the newspapers, have nothing to do with what actually happens in a final. It comes down to completely different things, Serena’s party or not. Should the focus be on her, I can play freely, without being overwhelmed by any expectations. Everybody sees me as the one who has lost to Serena before, not as the one who has worked on her strengths. And who has learned to take advantage of her opponent’s mistakes. Equally to make use of her own courage. Challenge accepted; I am ready.

Of course, being humiliated is also possible, a second defeat against Serena. I do not ignore that. But if I am just scared, I am not doing myself any favours. Mentally, it would just bring me to my knees, so I will not allow it. Despite all the tension, I’m determined to do my best, to perform, maybe even achieve something historic. Who knows.

At that moment, Serena enters the room. We greet each other, a friendly nod, a ‘Hello, how are you?’ But that’s it, no other small talk.

She is warming up a good five metres away from me, stretches her playing arm, patters on the spot and talks with her French coach Patrick Mouratoglou. Her self-confidence permeates the room, I’m already familiar with that. They exchange short sentences and speak quietly. Certainly also about me, my game, my strengths, my weaknesses – her sophisticated tactics which I respect but don’t fear. Serena and I, we immensely respect each other.

I sneak a glance at her just as she looks at me out of the corner of her eye. She seems a little tired, less agile than she did two years ago. The birth of her child has noticeably changed her. What might she be thinking about me? That it might be more difficult to beat me this time? I am no longer the obvious underdog I was considered back in 2016.

Suddenly, I feel that I can defeat Serena today. The source of my belief sits very deep inside of me. Were I to locate this feeling anatomically, I would say: somewhere between the heart, gut and mind. This invisible power has an enormous presence, it feels pleasantly warm, extending into my limbs. I have never felt like this before such an important final, that’s for sure.

This pleasant feeling could, like GPS, guide me to the still long way to the Venus Rosewater Dish, namely the prize trophy. Nothing would mean more to me than winning here. I always liked trophies, even as a young girl. Everything I could win, I gratefully accepted. It gave me confidence. Trophies seemed to validate what I was doing – which was playing tennis since I was three years old. The silver bowl had yet to be added to my precious collection, it would have been a very special exhibit.

Suddenly, I am confident that I will take it home with me. It fills me with a lot of awe; I feel a little as though I’m about to face the gallows, but with the knowledge that I will be able to navigate my fate. Yes, here it is, my aggressiveness. Even if I have to fear Serena’s serve, she will have to be wary of my fast legs.

I take another look in her direction. Nothing that could throw me off. As I said, respect and admiration are fine, but I know what I am capable of. Should I lose, it would no longer be the downfall for me as it once was. But, I won’t lose, today I will make it. With accuracy and agility, I will run, and nobody will be able to stop me.

‘Ladies!’ a smart gentleman dressed in the neat club’s suit suddenly calls, asking us to leave with a polite but determined gesture. The unmistakable sign the countdown has started. From now on, it’s only forward, no going back. You have to show yourself; you are in the focus of the public, the cameras on the court, capturing our every emotion one-to-one and sending it to all continents. Our emotions are followed without filter, always exposing our joy, our anger, the gnawing grim determination inside of us, the hope, the relief when something risky turns out well. The entire spectrum. Including outbursts, tantrums, loud disputes with umpires. A perfect, precise game is only moderately interesting. This visual ‘helplessness’, as if you were presenting yourself naked, used to make me uncomfortable. I didn’t like it when people looked at me as though they wanted to read my mind. However, that is long in the past. Which also has to do with self-confidence. And with experience – gained in good times, but, above all, in bad times. And I’ve had quite a few of those.

Just a few minutes to go and then the match begins. I am on the way to Centre Court. Finally. It is definitely the most important match of my career so far. I hear the spectators, an announcer over the loudspeaker, and I see how the sun bathes the court in warm summer light. But in the next moment, everything fades out. Tunnel vision sets in, mentally trained at the flick of a switch. The racket in my hand, the anticipation of a ball in the other. Nothing else matters. Nothing can compete for my attention. Not a duchess, not even Lewis Hamilton. It’s amazing to have this ability of the brain to suddenly perceive selectively, to push aside disruptive factors and to focus solely on the goal. And the goal is called: victory. At this moment, that is all I want.

Serena is no different from me. She is walking in front of me, her gaze fixated forward, now wearing headphones. I am familiar with this, this is how she blocks out disturbing noise, using her playlist to trigger her tunnel vision. She seems highly focussed, albeit tense. We professionals have a sense for the mood of our colleagues that usually gets more sophisticated over the years. Tennis is a combat sport in noble guise, which is not only about your own good performance but also about defeating your opponent. Self-awareness plays a deciding role in this. Because the more I got to know myself, the more I developed the ability to recognise, understand and control my own emotions, the better I have succeeded in ‘reading’ my opponents – which does not work without a certain amount of empathy. Whether Serena can also ‘read’ me as I can her, I’m not able to say. However, I also assume she has a great insight into human nature, which she uses to defeat her opponents. She is slowly becoming less and less present, my tunnel vision is working perfectly. Serena will only sink back into my consciousness once we are facing each other, separated by a net, and she hits her first serve.

Now, we pass the gate of Centre Court, are escorted through the clubhouse, through the long corridors, past countless photos in colour and in black-and-white that have a lot to tell. Every single picture has a special story which I consequently ignore now.

Uniformed stewards are positioned by the VIP and member entrances in order to prevent anyone from crossing our path without permission. This applies even to the most exclusive of boxes which can be accessed only by royals and their guests. Oil paintings of Queen Elizabeth II. and Prince Philip guide the way. However, no matter how royal things might appear here, I force myself to stay focussed. Only a few more steps to the entrance of Centre Court, nothing else matters at the moment.

In my mind, I go through different defence tactics, I master all the shots, no reason for me to hide. And I certainly don’t have to be afraid. I am playing on grass, it’s different than playing a match on hard court. I feel good on hard court, but on grass, I feel at home; the game is fast, almost intuitive. There is no time to think, you just have to react fast and face the grass game’s unpredictabilities with ease. And right now, I react fast. I can deliver a strong match. I want to deliver a strong match. And rely on my instincts.

We go down a flight of stairs on the side of which an impressive glass cabinet extends across two floors. It displays the trophies of former champions from different decades. I can see myself reflected in its almost surreal shining surface. At the sight of my silhouette, I suddenly feel nervous. Tension which I need in order to mobilise all my strengths. And there is an immense yearning for this trophy which I still lack. We have reached the courtyard, it looks like the foyer of a five-star hotel. Soon, we will step foot on the court. I know: I can’t enter the court with a rigid plan, I know that I will have to change my tactics, the match will never go as I imagined it so many times beforehand. If I realise that I am losing, I can’t keep playing the way I have been and I need to change something. Stay unpredictable: an important rule. Not so easy for me to stick to as I am a creature of habit.

Beautiful flowers in all conceivable hues of blue and violet gracefully glow at the end of the stairs. Everything is perfectly organised, nothing is left to chance. As if they were looking into the souls of the professionals here. The grass is not treated any differently, a myriad of employees and green keepers work on the courts and daily check the density, hardness and moisture for ideal playing conditions. Not for nothing is the perfect English lawn glorified across the world (I was to learn later about the difficulties of caring for such a lawn at my own grass-court tournament in Bad Homburg prior to Wimbledon). They have high aspirations, but so do we, the professionals. We also want to give the maximum. Here and now. I want revenge, I won’t make any mistakes, I won’t let anything get me worked up. I keep on telling myself silently, like a mantra. Relax, this is how you can win. Last time, you wanted to win at Wimbledon so badly. However, you must not get tense, you need to focus on every single point that comes your way. I know that I tend to be very hard on myself and pull myself down. This must not happen on the court. Stay positive. And what did Wim say: ‘A Grand Slam title is not a sprint but a marathon.’ All the painful experiences which I had to go through and which made me take actions – the right ones. I firmly believe that. I am no longer as naïve as I was two years ago.

I realise that I am shifting my body weight from one leg to the other, causing the soles of my grass-court tennis shoes to squeak on the hardwood floor – the noise doesn’t suit the scenery at all. Therefore, I walk a bit more carefully in order to prevent friction. But why actually? We aren’t in a church, we are at Wimbledon, headed to the court. I didn’t miss that Novak Đjoković prevailed against Rafael Nadal in five sets – the Serbian will contend in the final tomorrow. I wish him strong nerves. But now it is: ladies first. Or: women in the men’s shadow because the men’s day is the last day at Wimbledon? You can look at it either way.

An almost eerie silence surrounds us, nobody is talking. It is the calm before the storm. After waiting for two hours, I can feel every fibre of my being, the strain and tension. I want to step onto the rich green grass, my competitive spirit fully awakened. I want to rise above myself, beat Serena, bring her to her knees. Only those who fight will win. Do it! Nothing is free, but you can push the limits, you can be stronger, better and faster than your opponent. You just have to want it. And I want it. I want to get back to the top.

‘Okay!’ The redeeming word is said. Here we go. Fifteen thousand lucky ticket owners exude a sizzling atmosphere. Many of them waited in tents in the famous queue for days. Serena and I exit, showing ourselves as we did two years ago. I walk to the left around the corner, Serena to the right. A narrow, asphalted walkway takes us each to our respective seats, merely a green, opaque and high board separates us from the sacred grass. I am quite nervous. I feel like I have lost a little weight because, throughout the whole Grand Slam tournament, I could hardly finish my meals. Oh no, do I have a fever? I feel hot inside, my pulse is pounding, my heart beating. After a few metres, we turn right. The time has come…

I will come back to this match later. To the most important victory of my career. To my Wimbledon triumph, which fulfilled my biggest dream. But what comes after such successes? After winning a Grand Slam tournament? What comes after being the world’s number-one player? You can never conquer the tennis world in the blink of an eye. Let alone stay at the top forever. Reality catches up with everyone.

I have been at the bottom, not only once but several times. It seems to be part of my life. However, over and over I managed to rise from the depths. I never stayed in the dark, I just had to motivate myself. Giving up is not an option, at least not for me. Hold on to your dreams! This is what it is about, this is what I want these pages to reflect. And this is what I want to give to others as well. To not lose heart. Dare to fight – on the court as well as off the court.

Because life is not only about winning and losing, about successes and hard times in sports, self-confidence and self-doubt. There are moments when other things become more important than professional sports. The longing for a ‘normal’ life, stability. This is also worth fighting for.

However, my tennis life begins with the fight for mere world ranking points. With travelling to tournaments in South America or Thailand, far from any public perception. With hotels, which are not among the nicest and are often located on the outskirts of the metropoles. However, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss any of it because these beginnings taught me about life. Humility. Certainly to deal with crises, because nothing was easy, not even later.

Chapter 1

IN THE JUNGLE OF CITIES – TURNING PRO

I was sitting in the passenger seat of a complete stranger’s car. It was just past midnight in 2010, at the beginning of March. I had just turned twenty-two almost two months ago. I didn’t really get to see much of Paris. In fact: nothing at all. How could I? It was pitch-black and the rain was pounding like mad on the windscreen of the small car. Which, however, did not prevent the driver from irregularly abusing the accelerator. If you had a weak stomach, you’d easily feel sick with this stop-and-go. Luckily, it did not affect me too much.

But even so: Somehow, I didn’t really have a good feeling. To be honest, I was actually feeling quite uneasy. Silently I asked myself: How could you do something like this? What made you sit in a complete stranger’s car? You, of all people, who is usually always overcautious. Before I could even start thinking about an answer, I was unexpectedly hurled forward. The seatbelt immediately catapulted me back into the seat; despite its ancient appearance, it seemed to work. A roadblock! Out of nowhere. The entire motorway was closed! That was all I needed. The many raindrops on the windscreen transformed the flaring brake lights of the cars in front of us into a sea of blurred and wildly dancing bright red dots.

Pierre – at least I think that was the name the driver had used to introduce himself – hit the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. Not very hard, but rather controlled. As if this gesture was a natural part of his everyday life, as was the fiddling out of a cigarette from the flattened package tucked under the sun shield. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he suddenly hissed. That was understandable; who likes being stuck in a traffic jam. Immediately afterwards, Pierre looked at me from the side, shrugged his shoulders and apologetically said: ‘Match de Football.’

‘A football match? In the middle of the night?’ I wondered.

I then learned that the game was already over, and for that reason the traffic chaos was in full swing. In order to speed up the process of cars entering the motorway from the congested access roads, the security staff stopped the flow of traffic on the dual carriageway in strictly predetermined cycles, in fact completely, Pierre explained.

I turned back and eyed my racket bag and my sports bag on the back seat. Both pieces of luggage had survived the abrupt braking without any harm. Nevertheless, it was reassuring that I had wrapped the small trophy, which I had received as a finalist at the WTA tournament in the Colombian capital Bogotá, in a towel. I hoped nothing had happened to it, because every trophy was as precious to me as diamonds or a collection of classic cars were to others.

I had received it a few days ago. I was in the final in Bogotá, had played against the Colombian and local hero Mariana Duque Marino – but unfortunately lost the match. All the same, I was the runner-up, it was my first final at a WTA tournament. No other German had participated in the South and Central American tournament series – which may have been due to the fact that the tournaments didn’t fall into the first category and were therefore not as popular. Not every tennis player enjoys the necessary chase of world ranking points, but that’s what it’s all about. Especially at the beginning, these tournaments are an important springboard. Anyhow, I was working on putting myself into a good position, I put up with a lot and was prepared to accept even the most adverse conditions.

A lot of players often avoid the far-off WTA tournaments because they don’t always meet the professional standards of the rest of the tour. The hired hotels often concede to the organiser’s cost pressure and generally have the standard of youth hostels, if at all. Sometimes the conditions one has to cope with are rather improvised, far away from the great, wide world of tennis. The buses to the event site often come erratically and are frequently in such a state that they would never pass the vehicle safety inspection. The clay courts sometimes resemble growing crops rather than tennis courts, and oftentimes, the balls for practice sessions have been used countless times. Not to mention the hygiene standards in the players’ lounge.

But none of this shocked me. I wasn’t finicky regarding accommodation – during the first years, my dad and I had really stayed in the worst rooms with questionable hygiene standards and creatures scurrying around – and, anyway, I just wanted to play, play, play. That does not mean that I didn’t keep an eye out for the fascinating moments of these places. My curiosity about the different tournament locations grew, and I increasingly understood the privilege of being able to travel and get to know the world.

Bogotá for example. Basically, back then, the metropolis was merely a voracious giant with a high crime rate. Drug bosses and guerrilla fighters ruled many quarters, an ideal world looked different. For example, the tournament shuttles arriving at the event site were inspected by paramilitary staff for bombs. Nevertheless, I knew from the first moment that I would not have wanted to miss the time there, the conversations with the Colombian players who raved about their city, their countless pre-Hispanic and colonial buildings. I loved the breathtaking view from the city, the electrifying atmosphere in the streets, the colourful, loud pubs, the people who talked with their hands and feet. Somebody like me, who had grown up in Kiel, a town in the north of Germany, could only marvel at the Colombians’ unbelievable spirit.

From Colombia, I flew on to Mexico, to Acapulco, located on the Pacific Ocean with lots of sandy beaches and tourist attractions. What a contrast to the alpine landscape. I had another tournament scheduled here but was unsuccessful. I quickly lost in the first round. Cross it off and forget it. Every match, however, gave me the opportunity to gain experience, every match presented me with new challenges which made me learn more about myself. And that was worth a lot. Especially when I was in the early phase of my career. However, like everywhere, opinions differed.

There was always somebody who was critically questioning whether I was taking part in too many tournaments or wondering if I might even burn out one day. I never really understood the question because I never saw travelling as a burden but as a great adventure – even though the feeling of homesickness and a longing for security crept in from time to time.

Maybe it would have been different if I had already celebrated great successes as a teenager, like, for instance, the so-called child prodigies Martina Hingis and Jennifer Capriati. Both celebrated great victories very early on but also had to end their careers just as early – for different but similar reasons. As a young person, you are unbelievably naïve and feel certain of victory, especially when rushing from one victory to the next. However, to successively fulfil the expectations of victory, particularly when the mind is still lagging behind, is immensely stressful. This wasn’t the case with Steffi Graf, another child prodigy; she had had a strong mind and an enormous will combined with unyielding discipline from the beginning.

And myself? Somehow, it must have been luck that I was never so hyped during my teenage years, was never seen as an exceptional talent, but that my path at a young age took place in the wake of great sports biographies. Sure, I was also strong-willed and disciplined and tried to get the maximum out of every match. But I could not close my eyes to the fact that I always had phases in which I really played badly and nothing fit together. I could not put it otherwise. Possibly, I had too many doubts. This could very well have been the case. I was attested to have talent, but somehow people were surprised when I made it to the final in Bogotá. As if they hadn’t thought me capable of it. I, at least, had thought myself capable. I had used all my strength to clean up the field from the back. But then, in Mexico, it was different again, as though I were an amateur and had not been a professional tennis player for several years. I would have to think more closely about why I had these ups and downs – sometimes within quite a short period of time.

Pierre restarted the engine, traffic was moving again – but for how long was the question. Changing airports in Paris was always tricky. However, it was especially inconvenient when coming from Mexico late at night, landing at Orly and having to leave from Charles de Gaulle airport, which was more than forty kilometres away, early the following morning. Especially since – regardless of the late hour – the queue at the taxi stand at Orly was endless, and I had had to take the cheapest flight for cost reasons, of course with a lot of stopovers.

In any case, I spontaneously agreed when a driver, who looked reasonably trustworthy, had stopped next to me and, in broken English, offered to give me a lift. ‘Charles de Gaulle? Oui, no problem! But first … pick up … an old friend, d’accord?’ he had asked. So, we had to pick up a friend of his on the way. Why not? I hopped in. Because the price he asked for was significantly lower than what a normal taxi would have cost me. It was always a great enticement because I really had to watch my finances at that time. After all, the prize money was low and the expenses high. Moreover, I had survived Bogotá and Acapulco unscathed without being mugged. How absurd it would be to be ripped off in Paris. Pierre, I have to admit, was quite good-looking with his dark curls and striking nose; he was charming but a dreadful driver. While he drove me through pitch-dark Paris from A to B (to pick up the friend) to C, as in Charles de Gaulle, I silently hoped that everything would go well.

I gave him credit for not feeling obliged that he had to incessantly talk to me. He left me with my own thoughts. However, after half an hour, while we were still waiting for the road to clear, I suddenly saw a yellow light flashing on the dashboard. Not a good sign, is it? Pierre’s obvious reaction was enough of an answer. Again, he hit the steering wheel with the palms of his hands, but this time obviously more carried away than before, his curls wildly swirling around his head. Shortly afterwards, he flung the driver’s door open, jumped onto the road and yanked open the hood. It felt like ages as he buried himself into the heart of his car, and I could no longer see him. What should I do? Should I use the opportunity to just take my stuff and disappear while the car went kaput? But what did disappear mean? I would be standing lost on the motorway, at one o’clock in the morning, in the rain, in the no-man’s-land between two airports. The chances of finding a taxi here in the match-de-football chaos were surely slim to none. And it would certainly have been expensive.

‘I have to go through with it,’ I told myself, with audible emphasis as if the volume and vehemence of my words could actually convince me that everything would turn out fine. But what if this was a set-up, what if Pierre pretended to be trustworthy in order to pick up helpless women in the dark and then abduct them? What could I do if this suspicion was really true? I could call my mum and ask for help. But what if Beata didn’t hear the ringing because she was asleep? For sure, by now she was in bed. But that wouldn’t be the only obstacle: My mother was the most important person: she organised my travels, made my appointments, gave me advice, took care of me and held her protecting hand over me – as well as possible. But against a potential fiend, what could she achieve from Kiel? Nothing. Besides, I was more or less grown up and had also overcome other crises. I was responsible for myself, I would also cope with this situation. For years, I had been on the road travelling to many continents and had learned to trust my instincts with respect to people I didn’t know, who were strangers to me. So far, I had only been wrong on a few occasions, and they had never been threatening. In dangerous situations, my senses would also have been much more acute.

Maybe I had just heard too many violent stories in Colombia and my imagination was running wild. Despite all the fear, due to the exhaustion from the long journey, some indifference took hold of me. Most likely, Pierre was a nice guy who liked doing his fellow humans a favour – or who, like me, was cash-strapped and wanted to make some extra money from his journeys. Since his vehicle wasn’t exactly the latest model, it seemed logical to me.

A loud noise brought me back to reality. Pierre had closed the bonnet and, within seconds, was back in the seat next to me. His relaxed expression revealed: Everything was fine. The engine sprang to life on the first try. Meanwhile, my emotional state had reached complete serenity. Nothing more would surprise me.

‘Voilà,’ Pierre muttered, obviously content.

‘Voilà,’ I replied, which honestly exhausted my French vocabulary. But I also didn’t need to say anything else because, at that exact moment, I saw that the sea of bright red dots on the windscreen strewn with raindrops gradually faded. The brake lights of the cars in front of us had gone out and signalled: Let’s go! Slowly, the caravan started to move and, as if on command, it also stopped raining.

I was glad I had stayed in the car and continued trusting my first impression of Pierre. Apparently, he wanted to leave the motorway because he was signalling. We were approaching stop B, the friend who needed to be picked up.

And now Pierre confirmed my suspicion. ‘Un ami, you know,’ he said and tried to replace the missing words with explanatory hand gestures. Then he took his phone, and shortly afterwards, words literally spewed out of him. I merely understood bits and pieces. Apparently, the friend was supposed to be waiting for us on some street. A few minutes after Pierre had finished the conversation, he appeared in the headlights at the roadside, like Pierre in his late twenties, his auburn hair almost crew-cut short.

‘Salut,’ he greeted us when getting in and rudely threw my racket bag onto my sports bag in order to find space on the back seat. Whether I wanted it or not, the travelling group was getting bigger.

The two men immediately started cheerfully talking to each other. I sank a bit deeper into the seat and was relieved to see that Pierre was driving back onto the motorway.

While the two men were still deep in conversation, images came to my mind of how I was already passionate about tennis even as a little girl. My grandmother on my mother’s side liked telling the story of how I even used the time while brushing my teeth in the bathroom to hit a softball to the wall with a mini racket, somewhat between the sink and the bathtub. At the age of three, I got the XS racket for Christmas, when we moved from Bremen – the town I was born in – to Kiel. And afterwards, I had virtually never put down the racket. During the night, it was leaning against a wardrobe next to my bed. Guarded like the Holy Grail. Old photos show me moving through our flat which was located above the inn of an indoor tennis centre in Kiel. My parents got the flat when my dad accepted the job as a tennis coach.

Just one flight of stairs separated me from the six green-carpeted courts. When my mum was working downstairs in the office of the centre and took me along, I hardly ever missed the opportunity to convert the adjoining foyer with its numerous windowpanes into my own little Centre Court. I loved tennis. I lived tennis. From an early age. It was self-evident that in our home everything revolved around this sport. My parents themselves played tennis masterly and gave me lessons. And since they both occasionally worked as coaches, they took me to their league games at the weekend. The course was set early.