Last Thursday, Victoria Mboko, an 18-year-old Canadian (her family emigrated from Congo), won the Canadian Open Tennis Championship in front of her home crowd in Montréal.
At the start of the year, “Vicky” was ranked 351. She scraped into the tournament as a wild card. There, she defeated three former world champions, holders of eight Grand Slam titles between them. In each round Vicky lost her first set 1–6, regrouped, then won the next two sets by the same margin. In the semi-final she fell on her wrist and was heavily bandaged, reducing her serving power by a third. In the final, playing a winner of four Grand Slams, she followed her trademark pattern: losing the first set 2–6, then mounting a comeback by the same score.
Her secret to success? An unshakeable belief in herself, not the assessments of pundits and the public; and an absolute abhorrence of losing.
Her skin marked her out instantly as an immigrant. Her performance shattered any grotesque stereotypes of “immigrants eating cats and dogs” and demolished further derogatory opinions. Support for her was particularly striking in a town and province staunchly Francophile and often xenophobic.
Minorities were not the only ones to gain from her victory.
Buffeted by Trump’s demeaning behaviour towards us, exhorting Canada to become the 51st state of the USA; hit by unprecedented tariffs on exports to our largest customer; our future so insecure—we marvelled at Vicky’s accomplishment. If an eighteen-year-old could shatter the odds against her, why couldn’t we?
Who said sport couldn’t inspire a nation?
