Ash Barty - My Dream Time - A Memoir Of Tennis & Teamwork

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Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are respectfully advised this book contains names and descriptions of people who have died.

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First published in Australia in 2022

by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

Gadigal Country

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street, Sydney NSW 2000

ABN 36 009 913 517

harpercollins.co.au

Copyright Bartig Pty Ltd 2022

The right of Ashleigh Barty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia

ISBN 978 1 4607 6282 0 (hardback)

ISBN 978 1 4607 1539 0 (ebook)

ISBN 978 1 4607 4551 9 (audiobook)

Cover and internal design by Mark Campbell, HarperCollins Design Studio

Front cover image by Nic Morley

Back cover image by Clive Brunskill / Getty Images

For Mum, Dad, Sara and Ali.

Without their love and sacrifice,

the best journey of my life never begins.

For you,

Be brave

Be courageous

Be authentic

and most importantly,

Enjoy your unique journey.

Contents

I hear two voices when Im playing tennis. I always have. One whispers, Ash, youre not good enough, and the other replies, Yes, you are come on, Ash!

Those sentiments both sound true because both belong to me. Theyre distinctly my own. One voice cuts deep into my confidence, undermining whatever goal I want to achieve. The other lifts me up, underpinning everything Ive achieved so far. Theyre so familiar, so convincing, so confusing. Both can have an impact in those fleeting, dramatic moments between big points.

So which version of myself do I listen to? That depends on timing, and circumstance, and mood. It depends on which voice calls to me more loudly. On which one wants to be heard. Or demands to be heard. Maybe what matters most is which version of me is listening on any given day. Today, Saturday, 7 July 2018, on the No. 3 Court at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, all Im listening to at least, all I can hear is: Ash, youre not good enough. I want to cry.

Why does it have to be this way? Why do I have to be this way? I love this court. The stands surrounding it hold a couple of thousand spectators at most. You look up from the manicured grass here and see green bleacher seating and blue sky. Its the very definition of British pleasantry. Its not as if the setting is daunting its no cavernous modern cauldron of flashing lights, incessant advertisements and unruly crowds.

This is Wimbledon, that tournament where etiquette and decorum still reign, and civility and gentility count for everything. It should be one of the joys of professional tennis to play here. It should be a pleasure and an honour something not taken for granted.

Its not for me today, though, in this third-round match against Russian tyro Daria Kasatkina, not with that hateful, doubting voice droning away in my ear, getting louder and louder, drowning out any hope or belief.

Have you heard the Native American tale of the two wolves? Its a Cherokee proverb a story about a young man who asks his grandfather about the painful struggle and fight between the two growling animals inside of him. One wolf is evil it is anger and greed, arrogance and self-pity, ego and sorrow. The other wolf is good it is faith and compassion, joy and love, humility and hope. They are both biting at one another, trying to control the young man.

The young man asks: Which wolf will win?

The grandfather answers: The one you feed.

Theres always a choice to be made between fear and faith, between inferiority and belief, between Ash, youre not good enough and Yes, you are come on, Ash.

Today, I feed the wrong wolf.

In truth, Ive been doing this for a while. This crisis has been brewing for months, remaining largely invisible to everyone but those in my inner sanctum, but now it spills over in the very public spotlight of the British grass-court season. Whats happening? In tennis terms, Im redlining. In laymans terms, Im pressing, pushing panicking.

Its a moment you might recognise in any sporting contest: a competitor is blinded by the scoreline or the flow of the contest, and they abandon their process and start taking short cuts. Not content to go step by step, they attempt giant leaps speculative strategies and Hail Mary plays. And, almost inevitably, they fail.

I notice this in myself nine days prior to Wimbledon, at the Eastbourne International, held at the quaint Devonshire Park Lawn Tennis Club. I usually love this time of the year, when I finally step off that clay-court season of the European summer and onto English grass, heading first to the Nottingham Open and then to the Birmingham Classic. I love the way the spongy soil cushions every step I take, the way the courts reveal their wear and tear, showing you little goat tracks and pivot points where the greenest blades of grass have been worn down to dirt through the effort and application of the best tennis players on the planet. But I cant seem to enjoy any of that on this day at Eastbourne, against Danish star Caroline Wozniacki.

Caro is the number 2 player in the world, yet its not her power or shot-making ability that worries me so much as her biggest weapon: she just doesnt miss. She hits the ball where she intends. And she intends to put me in positions on the court that I dont like. There are other players who do this too. Simona Halep and Agnieszka Radwaska come to mind. Theyre happy to stay out there all day, play a thousand balls back at me thump, thump, thump, thump, like a bloody metronome boring me to death and wearing me down.