Indulge me for a moment while I share some personal background. Trust me: I do, eventually, get around to tennis.

I was trained as a literary critic. During that process, I was introduced to various approaches to interpreting texts. One of the schools most influential on my 20-year-old self was feminist literary theory.

While feminism has a long history, the first “wave” of the Anglo-American women’s movement is often identified as starting at the end of the 18th century—that is, at the same time as democratic revolutions in France and what became the US. (For those in search of an intellectual project, Mary Wollstonecraft’s 1792 treatise, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, is the place to start reading.) That wave didn’t pick up in earnest until an organized women’s suffrage movement got under way (1848 in the US & 1872 in GB) and it crested in women being granted the right to vote at the end of the second decade of the 20th century. The tradition of feminist literary criticism, one the founding texts of which is Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, begins at roughly the same time. In this extended essay, first offered as a lecture, Woolf discusses women’s inadequate education & their lack of economic independence, examines representations of women in texts written by men, and explores women’s writing (as well as the conditions that have hindered & facilitated it).

Feminism’s second “wave” starts after WWII. Social changes during that period, when many women went to work outside of the home for the first time, were of course central. But, again, there was an intellectual wing to the movement as well, ensuring that women were processing new ideas at they same time they were having new experiences. Simone de Beauvoir’s Second Sex (1949; English translation 1953) is the work I would point to here, though Betty Friedan’s Feminine Mystique (1963) was more accessible and likely more widely read. In terms of feminist literary criticism, Kate Millett’s Sexual Politics was the generational ground-breaker, particularly as it made links between ideas and activism, the personal and political, explicit. That same year, 1970, saw the publication of an influential collection of essays, Sisterhood is Powerful: An Anthology of Writings From The Women's Liberation Movement. (With the exception of the last title, I’ve provided a very white, middle-class reading list and for that I apologize; it’s the middle of the night where I am and I’m writing off the top of my white, middle-class head.)

I’m going to pause here, as I’ve already gone on longer than I intended (and certainly longer than the moment of your patience I requested). But not before saying this: the WTA grew out of fertile feminist ground in the early ‘70s. Its development is very much part of the second wave of the women’s movement—one related to the other social movements of the era: civil rights, anti-war, and gay rights activism, to name the three most relevant. Like many of you, I was drawn to tennis as a child in part because women (like my mom) played it; other than every four years during the Olympics, the big tennis tournaments were the only time I saw female athletes on tv when I was growing up. It makes me proud that the WTA has continued to be a leader in women’s empowerment, not only by showcasing their physical and mental strength and skill but also by demanding that female athletes get equal pay (at least at the major events). Out of the top 10 highest-paid female athletes in the world, eight are WTA players. These women and their colleagues serve as role models for boys and girls around the world who are learning what it means to be dedicated and disciplined in pursuit of something they love—a passion that might one day become a profession. They can inspire even the middle-aged among us; I can’t be like Venus Williams in very many ways, but I can stand tall, speak my mind, demand the respect I’ve earned, and even streak my hair with pink highlights. It’s important to me that these women’s work be taken seriously and that they, as individuals and as a group, be treated like the talented, hard-working professionals they are—not dismissed as inferior athletes, ogled like objects, or diminished as human beings, even when they make mistakes.

To bring this back to where I started: I’m a critic and a feminist, as well as a tennis fan. When I read something like the scathing Oliver Brown column about Maria Sharapova in this week’s Telegraph, all three of these aspects of my identity rise up in opposition. This piece is not criticism—it is vituperation. And the hostility of its tone is not of a generic variety: it is sexist. The article is rife with the most common feminine stereotypes (the “fallen woman,” for example), recognizable to anyone who’s studied literature or film or advertising. Not only does this sexism offend my sensibilities and my intellect, it actually does damage to the author’s own argument. Whatever legitimate points Brown has to make in explaining his distaste for Sharapova’s “triumphal” PR tour (admittedly, there are a few) are drowned in his venom. Sharapova broke an anti-doping rule—as consensus has it, through seemingly uncharacteristic negligence. She used a prohibited substance, which she may have been taking for years not to treat a chronic medical condition but because it helped her during high-intensity performances. Taking the substance was deliberate, but violating the rule was not, or so the CAS has concluded. “Under no circumstances,” they write, can Sharapova “be considered to be an ‘intentional doper’” or “an athlete who cheated.” Has Brown read the CAS decision, I wonder? Or is his a knee-jerk overreaction to what he sees as her shameless celebration, her perhaps premature and certainly aggressive comeback campaign? Whatever it is, of this I am certain: he’s got a bigger problem than finding Sharapova’s return to the spotlight unseemly. And tennis journalism has a problem when this sort of work is widespread.
Thanks for reading.

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