Andrea Petkovic played her last match at the U.S. Open yesterday, the tournament at which I met her in 2011. I had gotten a one-time gig covering the Open for an online tennis magazine, a privilege that not only got me great seats but allowed me to request player interviews. The big names of course were unavailable, and among the lesser players there was only one I wanted to talk to, and that was the woman who, on her website, listed Goethe and Oscar Wilde as her favorite writers.
I was hoping for a one-on-one but had to share the interview room with two other reporters. For some reason, I arrived late, something I almost never do, especially when meeting a German. As I entered the room, Petkovic finished answering a question, took a few steps in my direction, stuck out her hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Andrea Petkovic.”
Obviously, I knew who she was, having requested an interview with her. But this act of courtesy and graciousness, exhibited by a well-known athlete, astonished me, and made me feel welcomed in a place I had the vague feeling I didn’t belong. Tennis has lost one of its better angels.
