Li, with her tattoos and dyed hair, is regularly referred to in China as a rebel. Yet she's hardly a Jennifer Capriati or other tennis wild child with a drug problem or nightclub habit. One of her biggest revolts was to have, gasp, married while still playing professional sports. (Most Chinese athletes aren't allowed to date at all, much less marry, lest a personal entanglement distract them from the goal of bringing glory to the motherland.) But even when I first met Li in late 2005, she was already a breed apart. For one thing, the now 29-year-old was older than the other rising Chinese tennis stars, and she carried herself with the confidence of a woman not a girl. She didn't automatically defer to what the coaches said. I remember an eye-roll or two at the dutiful patriotic mantras spouted by a younger teammate. Even her tennis, with her commanding groundstrokes, contrasted with the terrier-style of play that tends to be championed by the Chinese national team coaches.

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