By Bill Simons

It was sullen, depressing and outright grim.

After Venus Williams was blown away in the third round of the French Open by 15-year-old Sesil Karatantcheva, she descended upon the interview room like a lost soul: eyes distant, in deep despair, her voice barely audible.

Post-match interviews can be curious theater. One thinks of Connors in attack mode, McEnroe’s rambling therapy sessions, Capriati plaintively pleading with reporters to leave her past alone or the been-through-it-all Graf weeping, a champion’s grief.

But this was different. Paralyzed by sorrow, Williams had withdrawn into a troubling nether world of dazed confusion. It got so bad that even the press — usually so grizzled and unsparing — took sympathy as a reporter suggested “Next time, Venus, why don’t you take your time. Take a shower, collect your thoughts, gain some perspective.” Little did we know that just over four weeks later, we would see arguably the greatest celebration of pure glee and spontaneous delight in tennis history. A 25-year-old woman, who’s often quite proper and dignified, returned to her unspoiled youth as she unleashed the “Venus Verticle”: that singular pogo-stick ritual that combines a smile of transcendent joy and impressive (how-high-can-you-go) Jordanesque leaps.

But then again, this is Venus, the pioneer sister within the most curious and compelling clan in sports, led by the same duo who introduced her as tennis’ first black teen phenom when she was just a skinny little pre-Reebok kid: her quiet, seen-it-all mother Oracene — calm and wise — and her crazy-like-a-fox papa Richard, that rascal of a ghetto guy who drew the international press to Oakland for Venus’ “world premiere” in ‘94, where he proclaimed that unproven Venus, who had played virtually no junior tournaments and no pro matches and her complteley unknown kid sister — named Zerena or was it Sirena or Serena — would become No. 1 and 2 in the world. Dream on, buster!

But sure enough the Williams saga was just beginning. There was Venus’ ‘97 U.S. Open bump heard ‘round the world with Irina Spirlea, who Richard subsequently called “a big, white, ugly turkey.” Then, surprisingly, it was Serena who became the first Williams to capture a Slam, the ‘99 U.S. Open, as all the while Richard unleashed a torrent of curious ideas (“Let’s move the U.S. Open to Compton”) and mind-bending claims (“I’m going to buy Rockefeller Center”).

Meanwhile, those two little thick-as-thieves sisters were as giggly as could be off-court and more than ferocious on-court as they took the rather stunned tennis universe by storm. Soon Graf and then Hingis were retreating. Davenport and Capriati couldn’t keep up and the Belgians and Russians were just appearing on the horizon. Thus “the dawning of the Age of the Williamses.” Eight times the sisters would meet in often boring (are they rigged?) finals, as the architect of “the Serena Slam,” with her better forehand, greater athleticism and mental toughness prevailed, and she won five straight Slam finals over the increasingly deflated “V.”

Of course, all the while there was theater: the meltdown at Indian Wells, where, after Venus was a no-show for her semi, Serena was hooted so intensely that the sisters decided not to return; there were Richard’s repeated claims that Venus should quit tennis; assorted and sometimes mysterious boyfriends — Italians, linebackers and Tinsel Town directors — and the decision to study fashion, (which Simon Barnes suggested is “a concept that always amused me: no doubt it involves a Ph.D. in hemlines and a master’s in knicker elastics”).

Eventually, deep trauma (Venus and Serena’s half-sister was murdered and their parents divorced), injuries, tough, new fearless foes and all the glitzy high life took their toll: (Golly, what’s a girl gonna do: study my six lines of the pilot for the new sit-com, prep for the photo shoot with Vanity Fair or rehearse my canned jokes for tonight’s not-quite-ready-for-primetime awards show?) Sure Serena, now ensconced on Wilshire Boulevard, got her bit parts, was a People mag regular and was all about town, but (back to tennis) eventually she was knocked off her perch atop the rankings. It was worse for Venus as she turned markedly inward, her forehand faltered, her serve no longer intimidated and her ranking tumbled. Soon there were urgent calls for her to get new coaching outside her family and a growing chorus of critics asked, Is there any hunger left? Yes, they’re bubbly and relish the limos unlimited lifestyle, but do these sisters really care? Are they professional?

Thus, Venus’ improbable (12-1) triumph at the altar of the Wimbledon Cathederal was all the more sweet. To put things in perspective, just after the awards ceremony (no, not the one on MTV) IT spoke to Richard Williams, the man who, in the late ‘70s, saw Virginia Ruzici win $40,000 on TV and then turned to his wife and suggested, “Let’s have a couple more kids to get some of that.”

“It was so hard,” Richard confided, “to keep back the tears. As you know, Venus hasn’t won for a little while now. She’s had a problem beating almost anyone. So to see her come out there and do the things she was doing and beat Lindsay, who’s no slouch, that’s why this was the sweetest one. I’m more proud of this one than all the other ones she and Serena won put together. Venus realized that the only one who could put her off the court was herself. But for her to be really appreciated, she needs to win at least two more. And she can do it for one reason — speed. Venus has incredible speed. She can hurt you from both sides. I’ve never seen her so happy.”

So what, we asked, about that army of critics who claimed tennis no longer mattered to Venus and Serena? Richard paused. He chuckled and said with a smile that has softened over the years, “Today was a great answer.”