How salient it is that Martina Hingis won a Porsche just days after her 16th birthday. She is the material girl in a material world that does not tolerate indulgence. As long as the car is garaged, Hingis will purr to victories as smooth as her first-round defeat of Angeles Montolio yesterday. Jump in the front seat and . . . well, accidents will happen. Last year she was an accident waiting to happen and duly crashed at Wimbledon. So now we have Hingis at 19: subdued, reined in, anxious to redeem herself for her metaphorical two-fingered salute to the world. Her histrionics in Paris last year preceded a desolate, first-round exit to an opponent ranked No 129 in the world, Jelena Dokic. Hingis, who won just two games, was the history-maker making the wrong kind of history.
To witness her breeze past Montolio yesterday was to appreciate just how far she must have fallen. This was less of a contest than a common canter - or so it seemed as she lightened heavy skies with her beaming smile. But then, Hingis smiles at points won and lost, at errors made and enforced. At times it is joyful, at others a mask for her innermost thoughts. It betrays nothing but a desire to please, to be liked - and that is what so unsettled her last year.
Gone are the red-dress jaunts on an Australian beach, out are risqu� pictures of a scantily clad teenager, severed is her doubles link with Anna Kournikova, the mother of all Porsches. When her court-side prowess proved insufficient to dislodge Kournikova, Hingis tried a different tack. If you can't beat them . . .
But Hingis can beat them, and that is what she has settled for. With no frills. There she stood in her baseball cap (imagine one of those on Kournikova), no discernible neckline, hair restrained in a ponytail, not a hint of glamour to be seen. Her only concession to anonymity was that bright, dazzling smile.
It has served her well, that smile. It did so again yesterday, for Hingis has quietly embarked on a voyage of healing, a pilgrimage to rediscover some of her innocent youth. She never will, of course; she knows that for herself. As much as she recognised shortcomings in fitness and attitude, it was the wrath of a hostile crowd that sent Hingis back to her roots. So she ran straight back into her doting mother's arms. Poor Hingis, she so desperately wants to be loved. They hardly loved her in Paris last month; barely warmed to her here.
Hingis answers most questions as she strikes a forehand, but she bridled at references to the reserve of Court No 1. "I think it was a very good crowd for me. I mean, I was winning quite easily . . . I didn't think anything was bad or good. I liked it today."
Aficionados will also have liked what they saw. Hingis looked fitter than ever. Her mother, Melanie, has instilled in her the prerequisite for success: work, work and more work. There is no escaping it, despite its tiresome demands. So now we have the older, wiser Hingis, reconciled to the treadmill for her love of the game and her love of an appreciative audience.
In this Hingis is a champion hopelessly out of time. Where Kournikova would once have been quietly savoured, she is now lauded loudly from the rafters. Is there anyone left to pay Hingis her due? One or two cries of "Come on Martina"; precious little beyond that en route to a 6-1, 6-2 triumph.
The public's affection for Hingis will be more clearly defined later in the tournament, when she is properly tested. Her confidence is back, her movement is enhanced, her mind is uncluttered. There is no doubt she will be hard to beat. But whether she can persuade the gallery to love her all over again is open to question.
Pete Sampras has learnt to be unloved. It hasn't stopped him and it won't stop Hingis. But one thing is certain: Hingis will one day reflect on her months in the fast lane and will thank her doting mother for giving her just enough rope to scare but not strangle herself to death.