Capriati’s Newfound Spirit Is an Inspiration

To see Jennifer Capriati dumbstruck with joy, to see her eyes opened wide, to see the sparkle and the tears together, to see a stadium full of people on their feet and cheering Capriati, this tells us something.

Making 13-year-olds bigger than life is a mistake. Making 24-year-olds has-beens is also a mistake.

Capriati will play Martina Hingis in the women’s final at the Australian Open. For the first time, she will experience the exhilaration and tension of a Grand Slam final. Capriati will walk onto a tennis court and know she has earned this turn in the spotlight.

She has earned it through hard physical work and harder mental work. She has earned it by spending her teenage years as the sole breadwinner of her family. And earned it by turning away from tennis in anger and turning to rebellion, turning to experimental drug use and a sad attempt at shoplifting.

She has earned it by facing the public, by answering, over and over, the questions posed by the same reporters who had encouraged her stardom when she was 13 and condemned her as an underachieving, spoiled, pampered, bratty loser by the time she was 17.

When Capriati beat Lindsay Davenport in the Australian Open semifinals, television commentators Pam Shriver and Mary Joe Fernandez said they were wiping away tears. They weren’t the only ones.

Before Capriati had played a professional tennis match, before she had turned 14, the Florida teen with the big, toothy smile and shiny ponytail had been signed up for millions of dollars in endorsements. Oil of Olay had signed up Capriati. Oil of Olay, the stuff that softens up the skin of older women, had piled money into her bank account. If Capriati ever used it, what would have been next--acne cream?

But it didn’t matter. Capriati was the next big thing. She was Chris Evert with muscles and a forehand strong enough to knock a hole in the Great Wall of China. Her father, Stefano, was her coach. Her mother, Denise, was her manager. Her brother, Steve, was a practice partner. Capriati was 13 and had a family of four to support. How many 13-year-olds can know what they want to be when they’re 24? Or 17? Or 15?

We all know what happened. She had a fast start and then she got beat. She didn’t win Grand Slam titles. She didn’t even make it to Grand Slam finals. She played perhaps the most brilliant women’s match ever against Monica Seles in the 1991 U.S. Open semifinals, and lost.

By the time Capriati was 16, she was a sullen participant in matches and interviews.

That year, after losing an early match at a tournament in Philadelphia, she sat in front of a microphone wearing black nail polish and black lipstick as she mumbled sullen, single-word answers.

Stefano stood in the back of the room. Someone asked if he was worried about his unhappy daughter turning her back on the game. No, he said, he was not worried. Jennifer would have all the money she ever needed from tennis if she quit that very day. That was his answer. If his daughter played a game she hated, lived a life she despised for a few years, no problem.

For nearly eight years, the enduring image we’ve had of Capriati was a police mug shot. Her face was pudgy. Her eyes were glazed, her hair stringy and greasy.

Now we have a new image. As Davenport hit one, last, mistimed, ill-aimed forehand into the net, Capriati jumped high in the air. No one could have ever believed she would make it back this far.

The game had changed. Now it seems that everybody hits as hard as Capriati and most everybody moves faster. And all the top players had always been compared to her.

Hingis would dismiss questions about spending her own, growing-up years on the tour by saying “I’m not Jennifer.”

Anna Kournikova would complain about age-restriction rules, rules often called the “Capriati rules,” which hindered her own progress. “I’m not Jennifer,” Kournikova said.

Two years ago, at a U.S. Open postmatch news conference, Capriati dissolved into sobs. She begged, pleaded, for reporters to quit asking about her legal and emotional struggles. For more than a year she had tried to be polite about the queries.

More polite than, say, Ray Lewis.

During the Super Bowl hype Lewis is cranky about having to answer for his proximity to two stabbing deaths? Grow up.

Capriati never was accused of anything more than hurting herself. She cost herself millions in endorsements. Then she had the courage to return to tennis and to the public. She knew what people would ask of her. She didn’t have a belligerent coach or blustery teammate to fight her battles.

The one thing Capriati has always had is her sweet, strong, effortless stroke. Even when she was most miserable in the game, she had the smooth swing of a natural. What nobody could teach Capriati was to love the game, the competition, the spotlight.

With her glowing smile and delightful squeal after that match point against Davenport, it is obvious. Capriati has learned those other things. She has learned them on her own and for herself.

She has nothing to be embarrassed about. We should all hope Capriati understands that. We should hope the questions are only about the future now. Capriati has put the past away. She has done it by herself and for herself.

*

Diane Pucin can be reached at her e-mail address: diane.pucin@latimes.com.