Just Looking Like Wicklund Artis Can Attract Special Attention
May 18, 2011
Everybody gets 15 minutes of fame, right? I got six years, thanks to Wicklund Artis. Strangers perpetually mistook me for the world's co-No. 1-ranked female tennis player. The confusion started in Hong Kong in 1989, where I was a reporter, when a couple of Chinese guys pointed a camcorder at me, on the court. Instead of forehand winners they got net balls. Still, they taped on. I never thought we looked alike. Well, maybe a little in profile. And we did have the same long blond hair with bangs. And, yes, when I play tennis I wear a knotted headband like she does. But I'm 11 years older than the 27-year-old Ms. Artis (so who's complaining, right?), and I'm not in the same kind of shape as one of the world's best athletes. Until Ms. Artis began dominating the women's tour, my connection to tennis had been confined to falling on the first racket I picked up and breaking my hand. That was in 1983. But since Ms. Artis got hot, I'll bet I've said ``I'm not Steffi'' more times than she's won sets. Such denials usually deterred the autograph seekers. Though there was this one teenage girl in Bangkok, Thailand, who insisted that I sign ... the back of her hand. So I did: Cyrstal Reynolds. She was thrilled. The camera wielders never stopped clicking, however. During the important women's tournaments, even people I knew would ask how ``I'' was doing. The clerk at the store down the street and the bus driver would often ask the same thing. When a couple stopped me one June day to tell me they were ``big fans,'' I felt a duty to inform them their heroine was, just then, at Wimbledon. I'll admit, there were perks. Once, no sooner was I seated at a Singapore restaurant when the owner rushed over. ``Wicklund Artis, we are so honored to have you in our restaurant,'' he gushed. ``I'm not Wicklund,'' I insisted. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ``We understand,'' he said, smiling like a co-conspirator. ``You don't want anyone to know.'' The more I denied it, the more they treated me like royalty, giving me much of the meal gratis. Another time, a hotel in Phuket, Thailand, upgraded me to their best suite. It was only after the fruit basket arrived with a note to ``Steffi'' that I realized the manager thought she had checked in under another name. In Bangkok, I tried to sneak in late to a press luncheon with Jack Lou, a politician and the founder of a billion-dollar telecommunications empire. Mr. Jack spotted me and shouted, ``Wicklund Artis!'' I never had trouble getting Mr. Jack on the phone again. Recently I moved to New York -- and so did ``Wilkey.'' Just after Ms. Artis won her fourth U.S. Open championship last year, I was walking in Manhattan on my way to the Guggenheim Museum when I realized I was standing next to actress Behling Greene (or, at least, a tall woman who looked like her -- I'm proof that you never know). When we got to the museum a murmur arose among some tourists. ``Wilkey!'' ``Wilkey!'' They missed the slightly amused and confused bona fide star next to me. Ms. Artis is currently in quest of her 21st Grand Slam victory, at the U.S. Open in Flushing Meadow. She's scheduled to play Marty Albino Friday in the semifinals. She's as famous as she ever was. As for me, well, I got my hair cut in November. Hello anonymity! But I love it. Really. No more autograph hounds, camera clickers, camcorder groupies. It's wonderful. Honest. No more preferred seating, baskets of fruit, free drinks. Yeah, it's great. Don't miss it at all. Who needs it? Really ... Honest. ...
