Getting a Grip Page 21
31
Gold Isn’t Everything
Enzo and I didn’t make it to our one-year anniversary. The day after our dinner I told him I needed to focus all my energy on tennis and that we shouldn’t see each other anymore. He didn’t object. I think my food freakouts were too much for him to handle. There wasn’t a happy medium. He was either taking the brunt of my coaches’ wrath after enjoying a good dinner with me or reducing me to tears when he thought he was helping. I’m the first to admit I was not an easy case; it wasn’t Enzo’s responsibility to fix me and it was unfair to put that on him. The long-distance issue didn’t help. It was too stressful when we were apart and the pressure to have a perfect time during the rare days we were together was too intense. It’s probably why his careless comment hit me so hard. That night should have been perfect, but I’d gone back to my hotel in tears. There was no time for sad good-byes or feelings of regret the next day: I had to pack up and head to Paris.
I was still riding the media wave of the Rome win. The usual questions about retirement were replaced with questions about a “renaissance” of my career. But the momentum came to a screeching halt in the quarterfinals of the French Open. If you’re going to lose early, at least fall to the eventual champion, right? It’s a silly justification, but it does make losing a little easier. A little, teeny, tiny bit easier.
Mary Pierce was on fire in Paris. Even though I was playing a strong and consistent game, she was playing a stronger and more consistent one. The ten-thousand-strong crowd in the Suzanne Lenglen Court was firmly in their countrywoman’s corner. (Although raised in Florida, Mary held a French passport, thanks to her mom.) After two days of drizzle and gloom, the sun was shining gloriously onto the court. With every well-played point by Mary or error by me, the spectators went nuts. It sounded more like a raucous soccer game than a genteel tennis match. I loved it. Tennis can be so boring when there isn’t a peep from the stands, so any energy is good energy when you’re on the court. Being the underdog can even make me play harder. You don’t want me to win? Well, watch this crosscourt winner! There has to be an underdog and a favorite in every match, so you just have to roll with the fans’ whims. Two years earlier, when I was playing in Paris a few weeks after my dad died, I couldn’t have asked for a better crowd. I could feel their enthusiasm and support throughout every match I played. It was exactly what I needed during the most painful time of my life. So I had no hard feelings when they cheered after I launched a forehand right into the net. They pick their favorites every year and Mary happened to be it in 2000. C’est la vie.
At one point right before I was serving, I heard someone yell, “Come on, Monica!” After his enthusiastic outburst, he was immediately hushed up with a chorus of boos. Poor guy. I wanted to turn around and yell a hearty “Thanks, anyway!” but I had to focus on getting my still new and still out-of-control-at-times serve in. I beat Mary 6-4 in the first set, then had another case of flyaway focus, a persistent loss of confidence that kept striking at the most inconvenient times. Why couldn’t it hit me when I was reading a book in bed or trying to follow an intricately plotted spy movie? I would have gladly dealt with a loss of focus then. But no, it had to hit me when it counted the most and I lost the next two sets 3-6, 4-6. I gave up match point with a double fault. Never a good way to go out. I’d gotten close, but I was playing tennis, not horseshoes. The fans were beside themselves with une joie énorme. Mary was one step closer to being the first Frenchwoman to win at Roland Garros since 1967 and they gave her a standing ovation to show their approval.
Three weeks later I made another quarterfinal exit, this time at Wimbledon at the hands of defending champ Lindsay Davenport. We both came out raring to go; neither one of us lost our serve in the first set, forcing a tiebreaker. We were neck and neck in racking up points until I hit a crosscourt winner and Lindsay double-faulted. The first set was mine. Struggling with my serve, I lost the second set 4-6 and the third set was like a bad flashback of the Pierce match. I totally blanked. My focus left—yet again—and this time it took along my energy. I didn’t win a single game in the third. After the match, journalists asked me what happened. I didn’t know. I was outplayed at the end? My serve wasn’t reliable yet? My endurance wasn’t good enough to pull off a third-set pounding? Take your pick.
There were a few highlights though. Pete Sampras added another Wimbledon title to his mantelpiece, giving him a record-setting thirteen Grand Slams and tying Willie Renshaw’s century-old record of seven Wimbledon victories. Pete was the grass-court king. How wrong I’d been when, back in 1989, I’d seen him warming up on a nearby court at the French Open. My dad watched him for five minutes before proclaiming he’d soon be number one in the world. “Him?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, without a doubt,” my dad said. “No way,” I laughed, and thought my dad had a lot to learn about spotting player potential.
Venus beat Lindsay for the title, making it an all-American sweep, perhaps to make up for the dismal showing in Paris. Even though I packed my bag much earlier than I’d hoped for, there was a tiny victory. The players’ facilities had undergone an enormous face-lift and the locker rooms for the top sixteen players were even more beautiful than before. For the first time since 1997, I didn’t circle the multitiered silver platters of sandwiches and cookies like a starving shark. I made it through the entire tournament without even one shortbread cookie passing my lips.
I didn’t have long to sulk over my earlier-than-hoped-for exits in Paris and London. Something amazing was waiting for me on another continent: the Olympics. You can’t tear me away from the television when the Olympics are on. Is there anything better than Bob Costas narrating an against-all-odds sports story? Some players don’t think the Olympics are a big deal; they’d much rather pocket a Grand Slam than a medal with five rings on it. I wasn’t one of those players. Since becoming a citizen in 1994, I jumped at the chance to represent the U.S. whenever an opportunity came my way. Fed Cup, Hopman Cup, Olympics—I’m your girl.
It wasn’t easy to make the team bound for Sydney. Olympic tennis is played as an individual sport instead of a team sport (which the Fed Cup is), so I had to beat out Serena to nab one of the three spots. No simple feat, but I pulled it off and our team was set: Venus, Lindsay, and me. Billie Jean King, one of my heroes and a steadfast supporter of my comeback, was our coach, and Zina Garrison, the player I’d faced during the infamous flower-throwing episode in Paris (thankfully my faux pas was ancient history and had been long forgotten by then), was the assistant coach. We had a dream team and we were headed to one of my favorite cities in the world; I was determined to make this Olympics vastly different from Atlanta. I promised myself I’d spend more time soaking up the Olympic spirit and less time sitting in the cafeteria. Serena made the trip as well, since she and Venus would be playing doubles together. I was happy for them: they have a truly remarkable bond. I don’t know how they’ve managed to have the careers they’ve had without sacrificing their relationship. Most players can’t even talk to their opponents, let alone be best friends with them. Over the years we played together I never once saw a display of bitterness or jealousy between them. Pretty impressive.
Once we arrived in Sydney I couldn’t wait to get to the Olympic Village. It was like a Disneyland version of college with a bunch of incredibly coordinated people walking around in cool tracksuits. Some athletes (the basketball players) opted to stay in hotels, but what was the point of that? That would have been just like any old tournament on the tour for me. No way. I was staying in the Village.
The opening ceremony was one of the most beautiful events of my entire career. The athletes had to arrive at the stadium by two in the afternoon and we didn’t get back until two in the morning. The U.S. team looked elegant and ready for the country club in our outfits. The guys were wearing dapper navy sports jackets and white hats, while the girls were decked out in red blazers, khaki skirts, and hats that matched the guys’. Wedged between the United Arab Emirates and Uru
guay, we had a long time to wait before it was our turn to enter the parade of nations. Everyone was so wired. When we finally got the cue to go, nearly every athlete whipped out a camera to record at least some moments of this unforgettable night.
There was a constant roar from the crowd in the stands and the crowd in the field. Massive amounts of human energy everywhere. Lindsay and I couldn’t stop smiling as we waved our little American flags high in the air. Television cameras swept back and forth as we walked around the track, and all the athletes turned into ten-year-olds after a sugar rush. Waving like crazy, making funny faces, hooting and hollering, jumping onto one another’s back—it was great. I finally understood the meaning of being “high on life.” I wish there was a way to bottle that magic.
A week into the Games, there was a knock at my dorm room door. I opened it to see a guy who was a dead ringer for the Incredible Hulk, except for the green part. At least six feet two inches and easily weighing in at over 250 pounds, he looked like he could pick me up and toss me over his shoulder with one meaty hand. He politely introduced himself and told me he was a fan of mine. His name was Rulon Gardner and he was a Greco-Roman wrestler. Cool, I thought, though I knew absolutely nothing about his sport. But that was the best thing about the Olympics: you were in the company of the greatest athletes in nearly every sport from around the world. It was like getting a crash course in physical fitness, cultural anthropology, and geography. The following day Rulon was scheduled to face a formidable foe, Russia’s Alexander Karelin. As he was describing the superhuman greatness of his opponent—gold medal winner in Seoul, Barcelona, and Atlanta; undefeated in international competition; had not surrendered a point in a decade—I couldn’t help seeing flashes of Rocky IV’s ultimate matchup between Ivan Drago and Rocky. It didn’t sound like Rulon had much of a chance, but that was what the Olympics were about: it was a sixteen-day period where miracles could happen.
“I wish I could come to your match, but I’ll be playing in my own tomorrow afternoon,” I said.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I just wanted to come by and introduce myself. And maybe get a little extra kick of inspiration. I’ve followed your comeback over the years; it isn’t an easy thing to do, what you’ve been accomplishing.”
I didn’t know what to say. Standing there in my baggy sweats and messy ponytail, I didn’t feel like a particularly forceful figure. And I didn’t think that my comeback had been all that inspirational. I knew people had categorized it like that, but come on, let’s get real. For five years I’d been trying to claw my way back to the top but had yet to regain the form and position I once held. From a purely technical, wins-based perspective, my comeback hadn’t been that strong. But that didn’t seem to faze Rulon. Whatever I’d done on the tennis court had been enough to spur him to knock on a stranger’s door, hoping to get some advice for what was going to be the most important match of his life.
“Good luck tomorrow.” I shook his hand. It’s a miracle he didn’t break mine. “Just give it everything you have. You never know what can happen out there. I’ll be pulling for you.” It wasn’t the most eloquent or unique advice, but if there’s one thing that tennis has taught me it is never to count yourself out before the umpire calls the final score. Not even when you are down 40-love at 5-0 in the third set. You never know what can happen. The next day Rulon did what everyone had said would be impossible (in fact, the gambling odds were something like two thousand to one): he beat the Russian. The media went crazy, hailing it as the “Miracle on the Mat,” the wrestling version of the U.S. men’s hockey team’s legendary 1980 victory over the seemingly invincible Soviet team. Rulon, a guy who had grown up on his family’s dairy farm in Wyoming, didn’t compete on the high school varsity team until his senior year, and had never won an NCAA championship, had taken down the world’s best on the world’s stage. Talk about performing under pressure! I wish I’d seen that match.
That night there was a knock on my door. I opened it up to find Rulon standing there again, but this time he had a gold medal around his neck. I think I shrieked from excitement.
“Just wanted to stop by and show you this.” His smile was nearly as wide as his shoulders. I must have said congratulations a thousand different ways. I couldn’t believe he’d pulled it off, but then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the Olympics were made for victories like that. Bob Costas was going to have a field day.
In between my matches, I watched Ian Thorpe take the swimming world by storm, Dara Torres make her jaw-dropping comeback at the age of thirty-three (Who knew she’d do it again at forty-one while juggling the demands of motherhood? If I ever make a comeback I will call Dara for inspiration: she is someone you want on your team.), and Marion Jones blow by the competition (it’s sad how that one turned out). I watched in amazement as Liu Xuan executed feats of glory on the balance beam, and I even fit in a tour of the Sydney Zoo. I held a baby koala in my hand; it was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. The smart little buggers sleep eighteen hours a day. If Atlanta had been my Olympics at the food court, Sydney was the Olympics of my dreams. Every time I met someone new or did something I’d never done before, I’d fill up a little inside. I kept myself so busy taking advantage of everything the city and the Games had to offer that I hardly noticed the food court.
The downside to playing Olympic tennis as an individual sport was apparent in my semifinal match against Venus. So much for patriotism: it was every player for herself. We may as well have been playing in the Australian Open. Billie Jean couldn’t take having to watch two of her players thrash it out against each other, so she watched it on the television from the tennis center’s dining room. Seeing her hurry away from the court, Serena said, “Now you know how our parents feel!” Her loyalties would have been even more divided if Lindsay had been thrown into the medal-contention mix, but after a back injury flare-up she was forced to pull out.
Venus came out flying and took the first set 6-1. I battled back and squeaked out a 6-4 score in the second, but Venus closed me out 6-3 in the third. My gold-medal hopes gone, I now had to gear myself up for the bronze-medal match. It’s a bit of a downer, playing for the bronze, so I had to shift my mind-set. I was now competing for a medal, period. If I could walk away with one, it would be a vast improvement over my showing in Atlanta, and I didn’t want to blow my only shot at winning an Olympic medal. I’d never get another chance. The match was against Jelena Doki, a player who had also left her home country of Yugoslavia at a young age. She’d made Australia her new home, and understandably the crowd was behind her. I didn’t want to start out as sluggish as I had against Venus, so I nailed down the first set 6-1 and rode that momentum to 6-4 in the second. It was quick and I had my medal. I stood on the podium—something we never get to do in tennis—and watched as our American flags rose up into the air (Venus beat Elena Dementieva for the gold). As “The Star-Spangled Banner” played over the loudspeakers, I realized with a bit of a shock that I wasn’t disappointed. It had been a tremendous two-week journey. My bronze didn’t look so shabby under the bright Australian sky.
32
Injustice Served
They’re moving the championships to where?” “Munich,” my agent, Tony, said.
“As in Munich, Germany? There isn’t a Munich, Switzerland, or Munich, New Zealand, I don’t know about, right?” I was kidding—I wasn’t that bad at geography—but the thought that the WTA was moving their prestigious season-ending championships to a country I swore I’d never play in again was too much for me to wrap my mind around. It was unbelievable to me. I was hoping I’d misheard him.
“Yep,” he said, “as in Germany. I was surprised when I heard about it too.”
I was feeling more than just surprised. Shocked, annoyed, angry, and hurt were right up there too. In 1995, after two unsuccessful appeals in the Hamburg courts, I had no further recourse. The man who stabbed me would get off without spending a single night in prison. People who have stolen a pack
of gum have received harsher sentences than that. By the time the second appeal was going on, the German media had changed its tone. Newspapers were no longer calling for justice to be served; rather, they were painting Parche as a lost soul, a loner who didn’t have a life and hadn’t meant me any real harm. The scar on my back disagrees with that assessment. It was like a nightmare in which I felt like I was the only sane person who could see an injustice being perpetrated, but I was unable to get anyone to agree with me.
To add some salt to the wound, I was unsuccessful in bringing a civil suit against the tournament organizers for their failure to provide adequate security. The suit was dismissed and I was ordered to pay their legal costs, which had surpassed a million dollars. My sense of justice and my wallet both took a serious beating. Just add it to the growing list of money lost from the sponsors and endorsements when I was forced out of the game. With the exception of Yonex, I lost each and every endorsement contract I had worked so hard for. Yonex suspended my payments until I returned to the game, but at least they kept me on. The entire Yoneyama family (the owner) has been an incredible source of support to me over the years. I will be forever grateful to them for sticking by me when nobody else did. And they make the best rackets in the world. The other contracts disappeared while I was recuperating at home. Actually they didn’t disappear into thin air: they went straight to the other players who had all just been bumped up a spot in the rankings thanks to my absence. Tennis isn’t about loyalty, it’s about money. For two and a half years I didn’t receive a cent, and with my own and the tournament organizers’ legal bills my losses were huge.
But while my financial loss can be tallied (into the eight figures), I can’t put a number on the emotional and physical damages I sustained. By the time I was ordered to pay the organizers’ legal fees, I’d stopped being fazed by such atrocities. I could have cried and whined and pouted and stamped my feet about it for years. Instead, I decided to focus on tennis and not return to Germany again. I caught a lot of heat for that decision and I’ve been offered fees that were more than an entire year’s winnings just to show up to play one exhibition match within Germany’s borders. My answer has always been the same: No, thank you. I made a promise to myself that not going to Germany was my small, symbolic stand against an unjust and totally irresponsible justice system. I have nothing against the people—one of my best friends lives in Munich and one of my hitting partners was from Hamburg—and I think the country is beautiful. But as long as that verdict stands, my promise to myself remains unaltered. To make a quick buck isn’t worth sacrificing my principles.