Lost in translation

At the risk of shattering many an illusion, I have to reveal the life of a tennis writer is not all champagne and roses.

The jet set lifestyle is seldom that (it is more a you've-missed-your-flight-and-that's-a-non-negotiable-ticket-so-you'll-have-to-buy-another-if-you-want-to-get-home sort of lifestyle); the first three days of every trip is usually spent tracking down lost luggage (mine appears to be applying for permanent residency in Guadeloupe) while the rich and the famous are too busy being rich and famous to mix with the likes of us.

We do, however, get the chance to talk to the players but even that is not all it seems. The language barriers are large and imposing – even between the Aussies and the Americans – and then there are many cultural differences to overcome.

I am a person of British persuasion and my people are pale, pasty and pathologically polite. As such, we are not predisposed to asking the killer question. Well, not before we have discussed the weather at some length and touched on the quality of the sandwiches in the tea room.

Not all nations think or act like us, however, and this can lead to some tricky moments, especially in press conferences. The "presser", as it is known, is, at best, an unnatural environment but when you have huge spread of nationalities asking random questions about potentially sensitive subjects, it can be a minefield. Add in a celebrity of the scale of Serena Williams and you are destined for trouble.

The Australians tend to be a little more forward than the race they call the Poms but, even so, they have manners and decorum. Fronting up a stranger and asking them if they used to be a fat lass is really not the done thing.

"With your present silhouette," one brave soul ventured, "do you suppose you're able to bear the heat better than one day you might have?"

Mission accomplished – the awkward question had been posed but in the most delicate of ways. The trouble was that Serena hadn't got a clue what he was on about.

"With my present….?" she said, looking puzzled.

Oh, no. Here we go again. Gulp. Try again.

"What I'm trying to say is you seem much more slender than we've seen you at other times," the hack ventured again, heart beating rapidly and a cold sweat pricking his brow. "Did that help you to bear up with all that heat?"

As the penny dropped and Serena realised where this line of inquiry was going, she happily confessed all: "No, I mean, maybe with the fat I would be able to, like, absorb more of the heat."

Really, it makes you wonder why we bother.

Pressers with Serena are seldom dull. She leads an active and colourful life and she is not afraid to share. Her interrogators, Brits aside, are not afraid to probe either. This has led to some fascinating and, sometimes, bizarre exchanges.

"Back to being a Jehovah's Witness, do you do any door-knocking and preaching?" one hack asked, apropos of not much at all.

"Yeah," came the reply, "that's part of being a Witness, going door-to-door. I do a lot of what they call informal witnessing. I'm actually trying to do a lot of door-to-door witnessing."

So, should one of the good citizens of Melbourne hear a rap on the door of an evening, they will know who it is. They could, of course, always consult the journalist who is clearly concerned for Serena's well-being even if his inter-personal skills need a little work.

"What's happening with your foot?" our part-time podiatrist asked with the subtlety of an in-growing toenail.

"I just taped my ankles, preventive," Serena replied, cheerfully. "It was really humid out there, so they got super loose. I was just sliding around, like I was on a clay court. I had to take them off."

This was not enough for the foot man. He needed details. He needed Facts. His readers needed to know the truth.

"Was that because of sweating excessively in the feet?" he went on while several Brits fainted in the corner. Such a line of questioning would have brought titters of embarrassment from many another national – or possibly even a fat lip – but Serena is proudly American and she fears no one.

"Yes," she said with out missing a beat, "because it's really humid out there. My feet got really wet."

The tennis fans of the world could sleep easy. They had the inside track on Serena's soggy socks.

But no amount of training, no amount of experience, can prepare even the biggest star for the question that comes flying in from left field. There is a gentleman of European extraction – he shall remain anonymous – who obviously prefers his reports to have a musical theme. Just as the Americans have whipped up the discussion of string tensions and grips to a white heat of intensity (they like their technicalities, do the Americans), in dives our musician.

"Can you imagine Jim Morrison from the Doors is still alive, would you like to sing a song with him?" he asks. "I can play a guitar," Serena replies, doing her best to help. "Are you mentally strong because you're fascinated by punk rock music?" he asks on another occasion. "No," Serena says, unintentionally killing off another potential headline.

So, what have we gleaned from two weeks of talking to Serena? She is a slimmer, sleeker version of her former self; she has inordinately sweaty feet and she spends her evenings off spreading the word.

She is also a nine-times Grand Slam champion, a three-time Australian Open champion and she is on the verge of regaining the No.1 spot in the rankings – but there is no need to mention that in the pressers. I tell you, this tennis writing lark is not as easy as it looks.