Getting a Grip Page 20

  “Into the mouth of the wolf?” It sounded ominous, but I guess “break a leg” isn’t much better. “Oh, well, thank you.”

  “No, no.” He shook his head emphatically. “When someone says this, you must answer, ‘Crepi al lupo.’ ”

  “ ‘Crepi al lupo’?”

  “Yes. It means ‘May the wolf die.’ Or you can just say ‘Crepi.’ That will work too.” He poured some more wine for himself and gestured to my glass. I shook my head. I’d already cheated by having an extra half glass. I’d never sipped anything as slowly as I nursed that Chianti. I raised my glass and finished the last few drops of wine I’d have that week. Into the mouth of the wolf I went.

  Seven days later, to my complete disbelief, I was standing on the brink of my all-you-can-eat Roman buffet. In true gladiatorial spirit, the tournament had turned into a war of attrition and upsets. Lindsay Davenport pulled out before the third round with a lower-back strain; Venus, who was battling the lingering effects of a six-month layoff thanks to wrist tendinitis, lost the chance to claim back-to-back titles after a third-round loss to seventeen-year-old Jelena Dokié; Capriati surprisingly fell in the first round to thirty-first-ranked Anne-Gaëlle Sidot; Mary Pierce and Arantxa both fell victim to a battle-ready Amélie Mauresmo, who was playing like she was unstoppable.

  I’d been on my best behavior all week. The constant presence of Chris and Bobby was doing wonders for my playing and my weight. I’d even managed to lose another pound or two; it was probably just water weight from sweating so much, but who cared? A pound was a pound was a pound. I hadn’t gone off my diet once all week; the unlikely bet I’d made with Enzo was lurking in the back of my mind. With every round’s victory, it was becoming more real until, on the morning of my final match, I could practically taste the eggplant lasagna. I’d had a brief scare during my quarterfinal match against Dokié, who had beaten Venus in straight sets the day before. I took the first set easily, 6-1, but for some reason completely lost my concentration in the second. It was surreal.

  I was watching myself play, but I didn’t feel like I was there. I was thinking about everything but tennis. Is my shoelace loose? It feels loose. No, it’s fine. Wait, no, it’s too floppy. Yeah, I should retie it. Oh, my serve already? Hmmm, do I need to get more dog food for Ariel? The bag looked a little low this morning. She really likes the new brand I bought before we left Florida. Seems like a good product. Is it organic? I think that’s what it said on the label. What does “organic” even mean? Is it vegetarian? No, I think it has to do with pesticides. And maybe preservatives? Does that mean no preservatives? Or they’re organic preservatives? Do those exist? I’m not even sure. Well, it must be better for her anyway. Oh, damn, did I just lose my serve? Oops. I wonder what movies are playing on TV at the hotel. Do they have the original American versions or are they all dubbed in Italian? I really hope they have some in English. That would be so great to unwind with room service and a movie tonight. Uh-oh, did I just hit that into the net? Weird. This new sports bra is really comfortable. I should tell Nike I want some more. Wait, the set’s over? Are you serious?

  I don’t remember playing any points, just losing them over and over until the set slipped right out from under me, 3-6. Panic that I might not make it past that day set in. What was going on? Get your head into the game! You took the first set, now do it again! How hard can it be? Angry at myself, I went into the last set with new aggression. It wasn’t aimed at Dokié, it was aimed at myself: I was frustrated that I couldn’t hold my game together long enough for consistent results. That second set was a microcosm of what had been plaguing me on and off for the past several years. As soon as I was in the flow, feeling good, I couldn’t trust it. I couldn’t let myself go; I couldn’t leap forward to that sublime place of living moment to moment with the faith that my strength and skill would win out in the end. I was either analyzing, dissecting, and stressing over each mistake ad nauseam, or just not thinking about the game at all. Deep disappointment in myself and the fear of future regret helped me to buckle down and take the last set. It was much harder than it should have been.

  But I learned my lesson—at least for that week it stayed fresh in my mind—and I decided to take the semifinal as quickly and with as much intensity as possible. Corina Morariu and I exchanged points evenly until I broke her serve at 3-3 in the first set. Once I broke her I knew I could run away with the match. My concentration was back and my focus was complete. In less than an hour, I emerged with a 6-3, 6-1 victory. There was only one thing that stood in the way of the title and a feast fit for champions: Amélie Mauresmo.

  After steamrolling through the competition, Amélie—who could’ve easily been a model for one of those chiseled marble statues—was in iron-strong mental and physical shape. She also had the advantage of being twenty years old, with legs, muscles, and reflexes that were six years younger than mine. In tennis those age differences can feel like dog years. We’d never faced each other before, so I didn’t know what I was walking into. And the media—ah, my fair-weather friends. Just weeks before I’d been labeled a has-been and “past my expiration date,” but now they were running headlines like Monica’s Magic and referring to my wins as a “return to former glory.” A decade after my first win in Rome, which set me up for my first win in Paris, I was trying to repeat history. Was it possible at my teetering old age? Could I do it again ten long years later? So much had happened since then. Did I have enough left in me to be able to leave my heart and soul on the court yet again? All week the newspapers kept building the drama, so I stopped reading.

  A few hours before the final match, I stood in front of the mirror in my hotel room, meticulously studying my reflection. Sure, I was on the lower end of my sliding scale of extra poundage, but I wasn’t about to go parading around in a bikini anytime soon. I was tired of thinking about how the match would unfold, so I started obsessing on something new and different: my body. What a surprise. The topic of the day was the size of my hips and the best strategy to employ in covering them up. I tucked my shirt into my tennis skirt and turned around, craning my neck to see what my backside looked like without the security of my shirttail hovering over it. Not the greatest. I yanked the shirt out and once again spun around to check out the front and back. Now the front looked better, but the back looked even bigger than before. Did I have a third choice? I finally settled on leaving my shirt untucked, hoping I wouldn’t have to hit any shots that would make it fly up and expose my far-from-toned stomach. Bobby knocked on the door.

  “You almost ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll be in the lobby in ten.” I took off my outfit, threw on a baseball cap and tracksuit, and took one last look in the mirror. It would have to do for now.

  30

  Gladiator

  I could hear the crowd from fifty yards away: a low rumble at first, increasing in volume and vibration with every step I took forward. Thunderous clapping, chanting, singing. The Italians know how to be a theatrical audience, no doubt about it. The day was brilliantly sunny and clear; just ahead of me at the end of the tunnel I could see the light pouring in. I was a gladiator heading into battle against a French player with insanely good passing shots. I was on a direct route into the mouth of the wolf. Crepi, crepi, crepi, I mumbled under my breath for extra insurance.

  I didn’t mess around. Shot after shot went exactly where I wanted. The zone I couldn’t find during the quarterfinal was back and I wanted to stay in it for the duration. The first four points went unanswered in my favor: down the line or corner to corner. It had been a long time since I’d had such a loyal arsenal at my disposal. I was pulling off angles I hadn’t had the confidence to execute in ages. Using my army of ground strokes, I took the first set 6-2. Then I got scared. Nerves and anxiety disarmed my game and—poof—my focus was gone. Again. I served at match point at 5-4 and Amélie broke back. The same thing happened at 6-5. I have no idea where my focus goes when it takes off on those little solo jaunts, but it doesn’t
even leave a note. I started to panic and knew I had to calm down before it was too late. During the water break I took out the piece of paper Bobby had slipped to me before the match. On it he’d written down three things:

  1. Fast first step

  2. Sacrifice

  3. Believe

  There it was: two months of blood, sweat, and tears distilled down to three tiny items. A mini grocery list of everything my workouts had been about. Looks easy when it’s put like that, doesn’t it?

  Fast first step: All the track workouts and agility sessions were done to make me faster. And the difference between running down a ball and losing a point is a direct result of how quick your first step is. One half of a second can be the difference between winning and losing an entire match.

  Sacrifice: All the nutrition plans, “training” food, and general abstaining from anything remotely appetizing was my definition of sacrifice. Give me the interval sprints, the super-sets, the squats, the lunges, and the bench press, but please, I beg of you, please don’t take away my salt and vinegar chips and chocolate-covered graham crackers. Sacrifice off the court was what it took to get me here, and sacrifice on the court was what it was going to take to win. I had to go for every ball no matter how unlikely I was to reach it. I couldn’t give up on a single point. Taking the easy way out was not an option.

  Believe: There was no point in running down a ball if I didn’t believe I could hit it right back. Believe without a whisper of a doubt in my mind that I could launch it into the farthest corners and at irretrievable angles.

  I took a last sip of water. All right, three things. Just do these three things and I’ll get through this match without falling apart. I had to close it out in the tiebreaker. Going into the third set was too risky; I didn’t want to self-destruct after getting this far.

  The crowd was going crazy. Winds were swirling around the court, making my new serve even harder to pull off. The butterflies in my stomach were jumping around like they were on supercharged pogo sticks. Just keep breathing. We traded points back and forth until I burst ahead to 6-4 after Amélie hit a forehand long. One more point was all it would take to get to the magic tiebreaking number: seven. I had two chances to do it and to prove to everyone that I still belonged out there, that my best days weren’t behind me, that I didn’t have an expiration date . . .

  It was my serve. I pulled my baseball cap down as though ensuring a snug fit would fortify me to power through the next point. I bounced the ball a few times, collected myself, tossed the ball cleanly into the bright sky above my head, and bam! I hit it right into the net. Not a problem. Just do it again, but preferably over the net this time. I cleared my head of everything. I wasn’t thinking about dog food, shoelaces, or what I’d be doing later that night. I was just thinking one thing: hit the ball like you mean it. My second serve was good. Amélie returned it to my backhand, I hit it crosscourt, she returned it, I hit it again with everything I had, then she hit it down the line and had me on the run to my forehand. Fast first step. Sacrifice. I hustled as quickly as I could and lunged to get my racket on the ball. It was too far for me to use my usual two-handed grip. I had to hit it with one hand. Believe. Stretching as far as I possibly could, I felt the ball hit my racket. Whack! I got it over the net in an awkward lob and immediately prepared myself for the overhead that I’d set up for Amélie. The few seconds of waiting for your opponent to hit a smash are torture. Where is it going? How hard is it going to be? Will I be able to handle the angle? Do I have a chance in hell of returning it? Waiting, waiting, waiting . . . Amélie positioned herself, wound up to pound it right past me, and hit it with all of her force. It was long.

  It took me a moment to register what had happened. The crowd erupted into applause and everyone was on their feet. I threw my arms in the air and a laugh of joy bubbled up from deep inside me. I’d done it. It wasn’t a Grand Slam, but to me it was just as important. I’d won in the stadium that had set me up for tennis stardom ten years earlier. I’d won in the city that was my dad’s and my favorite place to be. The memories of all of our breakfasts, practices, dinners, talks, and long walks flooded through my mind. The memories of Rome were so thick, I could practically hold them in my hand.

  I met Amélie at the net and she was gracious in congratulating me. I ran over to the players’ box and was engulfed in hugs by my mom, Bobby, and Chris. It had been a team effort, no doubt about it. For a precious few minutes I let myself enjoy the victory. The crowd was still on its feet, and shouts of congratulation were falling all around me. I wasn’t thinking about Paris, I wasn’t thinking about my next workout, and I wasn’t even thinking about dinner with Enzo. I was completely filled with relief and happiness. I’d been afraid that my lasting memory of Rome would be of receiving that devastating phone call about my dad. It didn’t seem fair that a city that had been our favorite would forever be associated with sadness for me. Now I knew it wouldn’t.

  A few hours later I was sitting at the restaurant with Enzo. It was like Christmas morning and I was about to rip into all of my presents. Actually, we never celebrated Christmas in my native country, so it was far better than that. It was like my birthday, New Year’s Eve, and a much-anticipated hot date all rolled into one. I opened the menu and read through all of the options several times. It had been ages since I’d actually made a decision about dinner. Steamed asparagus or boiled spinach do not count as choices. I could order anything I wanted, so I was intent on being absolutely certain I would be satisfied. I studied the menu as if I were taking a culinary exam later. In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t technically have carte blanche to go hog wild. I’d told Chris and Bobby we were going out for a quick little celebratory dinner—not one word about the bet I’d made with Enzo. But they must have known I’d be indulging a little; after all, what person in her right mind celebrates with a platter of dark, leafy greens? I finally settled on the caprese salad and a plate of pasta carbonara. While we waited for our food, I dug into the warm breadbasket. Bread is good, but bread drizzled with olive oil is heaven on earth. I was pouring oil onto another slice before I’d finished chewing the first one. I’d played a hard match; I deserved this. I didn’t feel the slightest bit self-conscious, and Enzo, my food comrade in arms, didn’t bat an eye. With full glasses of champagne, we toasted to my success. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so happy. I could get into this lifestyle. Appreciation of beauty, food, wine. Nobody in a hurry. Learning to enjoy the moment instead of making plans for tomorrow. Maybe Rome was a turning point for me. Ten years before, my win had been a good omen for all the championships to come. Maybe this time it would be a good omen for getting my whole life back on track.

  Dinner was even better than I’d imagined. The weather was beautiful, the service was impeccable, and I savored every last bite on my plate. Six weeks of deprivation had heightened my senses; my taste buds were ready to burst from happiness. And then, to put the cherry on top of the whole deliciously perfect evening, it was dessert time. Our waiter wheeled over a tray laden with the most delectable desserts I’d ever seen. But there it was: tiramisu. My all-time favorite dessert, and one that is not well replicated outside of Italy. It was my favorite thing to order when my dad and I went out to dinner and there was no way I was leaving Rome without eating it. I ordered my beloved treat of ladyfingers and mascarpone cream and Enzo ordered fruit. Wait, what? Fruit? Was he serious? Never mind, he could have his fruit. Our desserts came and mine looked divine with a delicate sprinkling of cocoa powder on top. Perfect. Enzo’s cut-up fruit looked, well, it looked like fruit. I took my first bite. I fell in love. I took my second. Even better. I was about to dig in for a third bite to offer to Enzo when I caught him looking at me funny. His eyebrows were raised and his eyes were surveying me like I was a kid who’d just been caught doing something really, really bad.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Do you really want to have that?” He popped a chunk of plum into his mouth.


  I laughed despite myself. Was he serious? Of course I wanted it. It was what I’d been waiting for all week! Maybe there was something lost in the translation. Maybe it was his cute way of asking if he could have some too. “Why?” I asked. “Do you want some? Here, you should try it. It’s fantastic.” I offered my fork to him but he waved it away from his face.

  “No, no, I do not care for it. I mean to say that you have had a lot to eat tonight, no? I think perhaps it is enough?”

  I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. So much for being cute. Or sexy. Or attractive in the slightest. Not even the usually disarming accent could make up for the hurt those words caused. I’d just won the Italian Open, my world ranking had shot up from number seven to number three, and with those flippant remarks he’d just sucked all of the joy out of the day. I’m sure he thought he was helping me, but I didn’t take it that way. I was hurt. Who did he think he was? I’d like to see him play two minutes against Amélie without falling over from exhaustion.

  “Actually, I’m really enjoying it, but thanks for the concern.” That was the last full sentence I spoke for the rest of the night. I took one more bite of the tiramisu but I couldn’t enjoy it. Tears began to well up in my eyes and I tried to will them away. There was no way I was going to break down over a stupid dessert and a stupid comment made by an insensitive guy. I left the rest of the dessert sitting there. I couldn’t wait to get back to my hotel room, get under the covers, and forget about the entire evening. Moments ago I’d felt as invincible as the statues in the Stadio dei Marmi, and now it was like someone had taken a sledgehammer and shattered all of my pieces to the floor. Where was I going to find the energy to pick them up again?