What a day for Women’s tennis...

First, Justine Henin-Hardenne and now Amelie Mauresmo are double-handedly responsible for my decision to start focusing a little more on the women, at least since the Seles-Graf crowd left the stage.

Can’t blame me for giving the women little clout. You only get so much time in a day and you have to get your facts right for the next day’s match – styles, match-ups, surfaces, odds, head-to-heads, quotes, records, numbers and what have you. They’d still be on in the background though, cos the sound of a racket hitting a ball is always pleasing to the ear - especially when it’s not accompanied by Enberg’s “Oh My” or Sharapova’s blood-curdling scream. After all, I could always lift my head to look up when the commentator ooh-ed and aah-ed about something and believe me, for a long time, there wasn’t much lifting to do.

And then came Justine, armed with her -- well – arm, that refuses to let anything go by – angles, balls, nerves. It was time to set the computer down and give the lone woman a 100% -- especially when the diminutive fighter was outwitting her giants of opponents. I hate to make this a size issue, but hell, sport is a size issue. We saw it today, when li’l Justine would go after every shot, trying to be even more aggressive than the natural serve-volleyer at the net and miss a perfectly caressed volley cos she couldn’t reach it at the right moment. And we know that the nerves factor is almost non-existent for her. The woman’s made of steel. She sometimes seems like Sampras’ mettle and Federer’s game rolled into one tiny person – and believe me, coming from me, that is golden.

As for Amelie Mauresmo – she may be a late bloomer, but boy, have I waited for her to bloom. I remember loving her serve-volley style, and wondering why she couldn’t do more with it. Having schooled my tennis-watching prowess under the greatest serve-volleyer that ever lived (boy, must Pete be glad that Roger doesn’t volley enough!), and continuing to judge the sport by grass-court acumen, I could want nothing more than to have a bonafide woman serve-volleyer win at the big W.

If the tennis gods had watched her play (and for once, I don’t mean Fed here), they would have bestowed upon her a talisman to win on the fast-eroding grass. Unfortunately, she spent a decade waiting for nerves. And today, finally she found them.

It's pleasurable enough for tennis fans to watch a well-fought championship match, where each contender is equally capable of walking away with the trophy, but with so much history between both players and the promise of it being followed by a delightful men's final (one that has been denied us the past three years), makes it even more rewarding.

Mauresmo unequivocally proved that there is nothing to beat serve-volleying on grass, to the eyes, the ears, the Venus Rosewater Dish and the sport of tennis.

Yo men, are you listening?