Getting a Grip Read online

  When I made my first appearance there at sixteen, I was at the start of a massive winning tear. It turned out to be the longest winning streak of my career: thirty-six matches in a row. Six straight tournament titles. I’d made somewhat of a splash the year before when I reached the semis of the French Open, but veteran players could easily dismiss that as a one-off, just another teen phenom flash in the pan. You don’t gain respect by having a single extraordinary tournament run, especially at such a young age. The road to the coveted top five is littered with early peakers and those who burned out from the grind. What would you call that? A ground out? So, to prevent being an early peaker or a ground out, and to gain the respect of other players, you’ve got to do two things on your way to the top: win consistently and win a Grand Slam.

  I’ve always had a problem with the way the points system works in tennis. It’s possible to be ranked number one without ever winning a Grand Slam. That’s never made much sense to me. Regardless, I’d been winning for most of 1990 when I arrived in Rome for “Spring Break: Extreme Tennis Version.” My dad told me to focus on this tournament, to put the French Open out of my mind. He counseled me not to think about tomorrow, let alone a few weeks ahead. Stay in the moment, Monica, he said. Easier said than done, obviously. But he made a good point: if I played Rome while my mind was already going north up to Paris, there was no way I’d make it past the quarterfinals—or even past the second round. I had to play Rome for Rome, not in anticipation of hoisting my first Grand Slam trophy into the air.

  Rome is considered the most prestigious clay tournament after the French Open, so it wasn’t like I’d been planning on breezing through it with my head in the clouds. The trick was to focus on playing my best game possible, one match at a time. If I went far, great. If not, I’d have another chance to prove myself in Paris. But here’s the kicker: Tennis is more a game of the mind than a game of the body. You can have the best serve, the strongest fundamentals, a lethal drop shot; but if your head doesn’t believe it, your body will follow suit and obey the command to lose. Momentum is everything in a game, in a set, and in a match. It is also everything on the travel schedule. If I did well in Rome, I’d feel like the wind was at my back on the way to Paris.

  So I got to work. With complete focus, I churned through my matches one at a time, and the moment they were over, I’d head to the practice courts to hit or I’d practice my sprints and quick starts and stops in the Stadio dei Marmi. We’d stop by one of the pizza joints on the way back to the hotel for a quick slice. Every day we’d try a different topping: potatoes, sausage, olives, red peppers, even figs and smoked salmon. Later that night, a big plate of pasta at the hotel restaurant fueled me up and got me ready to do it all over the next day.

  My one-track mind had worked, and before I knew it I was in the semifinal against Helen Kelesi, the fierce baseliner whom I’d played my first professional match against two years earlier. As I had through the whole tournament, point by point, game by game, I took the match in two smooth sets, 6-1, 6-2. For the final I had to face the one, the only Martina Navratilova, truly a legend. She’d beaten me twice the year before, so I was more than a little nervous walking down the long, long hallway. Rome has the longest walk from the players’ locker room to the court of any tournament. The first time I did it I thought I was lost! I had to look at a tournament official for reassurance that we were, indeed, still heading for the court. It actually takes about five minutes to walk to Court Centrale. When you are fighting off the butterflies in your stomach, that five minutes seems like an eternity. Stay focused, Monica. Stay in the moment. My father’s words from that morning’s hitting session were ping-ponging back and forth in my head. After setting up my gear on the player’s chair, I stole a quick glance at Martina. She looked loose but focused, an air of calm that surrounds a player who has proven herself over and over again.

  The match went by in a flash as I played my heart out amid cheerings of “Andiamo!” and “Forte!” I was on my game, in my zone, and I beat one of the best players in the history of the game 6-1, 6-1. What? How’d that happen? For a split second I was whisked back in time; I was eight years old and, not knowing how to keep score, had to look at my dad to find out whether I’d won the match or not. At sixteen I knew I’d won but I still searched him out in the crowd to get some reassurance that, yes, I’d just beaten one of my idols. There he was in the player’s box, clapping and bursting with pride. At the postmatch press conference, Martina said she felt like she’d “been run over by a semitruck.” That wouldn’t be the last time I’d be compared to a hulking truck, but it was definitely the only time it was meant as a compliment. So, with my first major clay court victory in Europe stuffed into my professional pocket, the momentum was on my side. Rome gave me the mental surge I needed. I could do it. I could win at Roland Garros. Two weeks later I did it.

  Some people have a lucky penny, a silver locket, or a pair of worn-out socks that they keep around for good luck. Other than the bizarre line phobia that used to make me hop, skip, and jump all over the court, I’ve never let superstition color my game. At least I never thought so, but that was what Rome ended up being for me. A good-luck stop, a geographic talisman that made me feel both at home and psyched to hit the road with my A-game intact. After that first win, I went back for the next two years in a row and, had it not been for the stabbing, would have kept going back every year.

  Have you ever been to a city where you feel instantly at home? A place where everything is foreign—the language, the food, the customs, the taxis—but nothing seems strange? Where you don’t feel out of place? That was Rome for me. It has some sort of energy that pulled me back again and again. When I’m hopping around from city to city, it always takes some time to settle in to each new place. But in Rome, the second my plane touched down, I was raring to go. Arriving was like finding an old pair of softly worn-through jeans: Ah, there you are, old friend, you think as you button them up and admire the rear view. I knew what I’d be eating, where I’d be staying, where I’d be working out, and I had a pretty good idea that I’d play well on those red courts and be adequately psyched for Paris. After that first victory, I made sure it was on my schedule every year. Gaby Sabatini beat me in ’91 and ’92, and I’d lost in the third round in ’97 and ’98. But it was still one of my favorite places to play. Was it superstition? Maybe. I wasn’t going to label it or question it. Maybe it was just that I loved working out with my dad in an empty Roman stadium and heading to the nearest trattoria to discuss the next day’s match strategy over a long dinner.

  Players usually jet out of town the second they lose their match, but I was never in a hurry to leave Rome. The pace of life, the beauty of the buildings, the warmth of the people, and the food, oh, the food! All of it made me want to stick around. Every spring, after I played my last match, I had three choices:

  1. Hit the road and hustle to fit in another tournament before the French.

  2. Pack my bags and, along with the advance press corps team, get to Paris early.

  3. Stay put and continue my Italian rhythm, free from the obligations of tennis as a business.

  In a world where staying in one place for two straight weeks is a treat, staying for three weeks is an unheard-of luxury. It wasn’t a difficult decision. I always decided to stay. Once the traveling circus of the tour left town, it was just my dad and me. We got to take a breath and we got to eat a lot of pizza.

  But even in Italy, reality finally intruded. The phone call I received from Zoltan telling me to get on the next flight home to say good-bye to my dad still haunted me. And now here I was again, two years later, heading back to Rome.

  “Pasta or chicken?”

  “Hm?” I was shaken out of my state of semi-sleep and looked up from my pillow to see a flight attendant bending toward me.

  “Would you like pasta or chicken for dinner?”

  “Oh, um, neither. Thank you anyway.” I stole a glance at my team. My mom was reading next to me. C
hris and Bobby were sitting in the same row, casually looking in my direction to make sure I didn’t order any of the sodium-laced caloric monstrosities lurking in the attendant’s cart. I reached down to my tote bag and pulled out a small bag of trail mix and a bottle of water that was almost as big as I was. Dinner was served. I ate my itty-bitty portion of nuts and dried fruit and stared out the window at the endless black sky until sleep came. I kept thinking of long walks down gladiator hallways, the marble statues at the stadium, and the sound of my dad’s laughter ringing across the field.

  29

  The Wolf’s Mouth

  There’s a saying in Italy that I have a love/hate relationship with. “Fare una bella figura”—literally, to make a beautiful figure. There is no exact translation in English but “to make a good impression” comes close. The phrase compresses all that is good in someone’s appearance, style, charm, ability, and poise—things that can be gleaned at first sight. A perfect manicure, gorgeous clothes, salon-fresh hair, and an attitude that says you know how good you look without being arrogant about it. It can also mean putting on a great show, excelling in whatever you are doing beyond everyone’s expectations. When you fare la bella figura you can leave opponents shaking in their shoes on the court and men salivating as you walk by. You look put together and exude confidence with every gesture, every movement. When I’m at the top of my game, I can fare una bella figura with the best of them on the court. But with an extra 19.5 pounds still hanging on, I knew my figura wasn’t so bella off the court. I’d lost my Miami midsection but I knew I still had work to do. The match was going to be televised, but that wasn’t what had me worried. I knew that Enzo would be there.

  Ah, Enzo. How do I explain the allure of dating an Italian man? It’s like skydiving: no words can adequately describe the firsthand experience. But I’ll do my best. Enzo and I had been casually dating for about a year. You can approach dating on the tour in one of two ways. First, you can date someone on your team—a coach, a therapist, a trainer, a hitting partner, etc.—but mixing business and pleasure can be hazardous to your playing health. From a logistical standpoint, it is the easiest choice, since you are with each other all the time. But from an emotional standpoint it has the potential to get dicey. Lines get blurred, feelings get hurt, and painful departures are forced. It’s a scenario I’ve always avoided. Choice number two: date a guy who doesn’t care if you call every day, who is comfortable with your success, who understands that he comes second, third, or sometimes fourth on your list of priorities, and who thinks that seeing you once every couple of months is plenty of quality time. On the men’s tour it is common for girlfriends to give up their jobs to travel with the guys. This almost never happens on the women’s tour. It’s too hard on the male ego. On tour, it is about me: getting my practice time in, meeting with sponsors, eating the right food before a match, doing interviews, and signing autographs. It can be difficult for a boyfriend to take a backseat to that. And traveling eleven months of the year is expensive: most men aren’t comfortable having a girlfriend pay their way. So my relationships usually ended up being long-distance, which had its own complications.

  Enzo fell under the second option. A friend who worked for the tour introduced us in Paris the previous year and we hit if off instantly. Tall, dark, and handsome, with an air of mystery, he was like a character out of a romance novel. We kept in touch by e-mail and whenever I was in Europe he tried to meet up with me to watch my matches and take me out to dinner. My schedule, my bedtime, my matches—how many guys are ready for that? But Enzo was confident and laid-back and could handle it. He was a lovely and much-needed diversion—I couldn’t wait to see him in Rome.

  As with most Italian men, he was blessed with genes that enabled him to keep a lean, wiry frame even though he never went to the gym and had a habit of indulging in gnocchi by the pound. I loved the long conversations we had over our dinners together: our latest music obsessions, the best beaches for scuba diving, the intricacies of Italian culture (like why it’s perfectly normal for a thirty-five-year-old man to still be living at home with his mom cooking and cleaning for him; not that he was one of those guys, but he knew lots of them). But there was something I loved even more. Enzo was a walking Zagat guide—a living, breathing, well-coiffed resource to the best dining in any European postal code. It was uncanny. Best risotto in Venice? He knew it. Best manicotti in Florence? No problem—the owner was a good friend! Freshest octopus in Barcelona? He didn’t know the address, but he drew a detailed map on the back of a napkin using Gaudi buildings as landmarks. Some women swoon over diamonds; I swoon over a man who knows his way around the food world. And, like me, Enzo preferred the mom-and-pop joints over the highly touted establishments written up in magazine articles. It was a match made in foodie heaven.

  I met him at a restaurant a few hours after my plane landed. Dressed in my usual flowy outfit that revealed nothing (but down to a size ten now), I was thankful I was wearing flats as I navigated my way through the uneven cobblestone streets. After a couple of wrong turns, I finally found the restaurant. Its location was stunning, set on the banks of the Tiber with Rome’s ancient buildings as the backdrop. I felt like I was on a movie set. A shiver of excitement ran up my spine and I felt good, even a little bit glamorous. Here I was, twenty-six years old, healthy, having a good-hair day, not feeling jet-lagged, and about to meet a dashing Italian for dinner in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Who cared about a few pounds? I was Audrey Hepburn in my own version of Roman Holiday, out on my own, looking for adventure in one of the world’s most breathtaking cities and forgetting about all of my responsibilities. Come on, Monica, I told myself as I entered the restaurant, you are lucky to have this life.

  Our table was outside on the terrace with a 180-degree view of the water. Spring blossoms were spilling out of the crystal bowl placed in the middle of our candlelit table. Enzo looked more debonair than ever. He smelled good, looked good, and—with that accent—everything that came out of his mouth sounded good. Just asking for a bottle of mineral water sounded exotic and captivating. When the antipasto was set down before us, I tried to focus on what he was saying (something about art), but my eyes kept darting toward the platters of vegetables and meat drenched in olive oil. His lips were moving but I wasn’t processing anything he was saying. I was fortifying myself for the battle of wills that was about to take place. He flagged down our waiter and made a request in rapid-fire Italian. Was he ordering another bottle of wine? We’d barely made a dent in the one we already had. I was allotted one glass with dinner, so I was taking the tiniest, slowest sips imaginable. Within moments a plate of lettuce, tomatoes, and shredded carrots was placed in front of me. It looked pathetic next to the brightly colored antipasto platter. Guess it wasn’t wine he’d ordered.

  “Is this for me?” I asked.

  “Si, bella. I am under strict instructions to not let you indulge your appetite tonight,” he said as he put a generous helping of melon with prosciutto on his plate. Strict instructions? The last time we’d gone out on the town I kept up with him bite for bite. He’d told me it was sexy that I loved food. But Bobby hadn’t been pleased. Apparently Enzo had been given the nutritional smack down by Chris and was now on their side. Damn. There were eyes everywhere now. I tried to make my salad interesting by dousing it with vinegar. Enzo had moved the bottle of olive oil to his side. How romantic. My date with the dreamy Italian was quickly turning into a battle with the food caribinieri.

  Warm plates of fresh pasta were followed by heaping mounds of fried prawns and calamari. It was a continuous parade of my favorite foods, all of which were strictly off-limits. I tried to focus on the romantic view in between bites of steamed zucchini.

  “Please, do not look so sad,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m not. I’m fine. Great, in fact. Just thinking about my matches.” My first match was three days away and I’d gone to the tournament site before meeting him for dinner. The draw was posted on a window
and I had scanned down the list of my potential opponents to see what I was up against. I didn’t care how good they were: I was worried that they would walk out on the court with unbelievable bodies and Enzo’s attention would go straight to them.

  He put a minuscule refill into my wineglass. “Let’s make an agreement.”

  “An agreement?” A small piece of grilled chicken was set in front of me.

  “Yes, an agreement.” Enzo pointed to my chicken. “If you need to add some flavor, use the lemon.” He looked quite pleased with himself. He honestly thought he was being a big help to me.

  “Yeah, thanks for the tip.” I took the yellow wedge and squeezed it with exaggerated force.

  “The agreement is a good one,” Enzo continued. “You will like it, I promise.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “If you win the tournament, we will come back to this place and you will eat anything and everything you want. Without feeling bad about it.”

  Hmmm, not a bad plan, I thought. Artichokes swimming in butter, hot crusty bread, a cheese platter to finish it all off. That was my kind of agreement. Too bad my chances of having this dream dinner were slim to none. Hingis was skipping the tournament after getting hurt in the German Open the week before, and Serena was out with a bad knee, but all the other top girls were entered and—oh, that’s right—I hadn’t won it in ten years. Capriati, Pierce, Mauresmo, and Venus (the defending champion) were all going to be there. I was convinced I wouldn’t be sitting in this beautiful restaurant a week from now. But I accepted the challenge anyway. I offered my hand to Enzo so we could seal the deal with a handshake. He took my hand in his, placed a gentle kiss on it, and in his incredibly alluring voice said, “In bocca al lupo.” I hadn’t the slightest idea what he said, but it sounded lovely.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means ‘Into the mouth of the wolf,’ ” he answered. “It is what we say when we are wishing someone luck when they are about to embark on something important. It is to wish you courage on your journey.”