Getting a Grip Read online

  That is why my jaw nearly hit the ground when I heard the WTA was moving the championships to Munich in 2001. I was on the players’ council and had never been asked for my opinion. Again, money talks and Munich was offering a lot of it. One million more than the WTA was making from the championships being held in New York City. They decided it was worth it. After nearly thirty years of having the top players gather in Madison Square Garden to duke it out at the end of the season, the tour packed up and took the show on the road to Germany. I wouldn’t be going with them. Besides that disappointing news, 2000 ended well. I was ranked fourth in the world, I weighed 157 pounds (a number I couldn’t seem to get below), and I had huge hopes for 2001. My plan was to lose more weight by the Australian Open—at least ten pounds—and firmly put myself in the top three.

  33

  A Chemical Army

  Creatine. Glucosamine. Xenadrine. Hydroxycut. MuscleTech. Muscle Milk. It was like stumbling into a science fiction movie where “real” food no longer existed. Now you could get all of your basic nutritional needs met with one cube of food a day! Ick.

  As usual, I started the year off Down Under and it was glaringly obvious that the nutritional supplement craze had the tennis world by the throat. Was there a memo sent over the holidays that I missed? Body-for-LIFE held a favored position on my bedside table back in Sarasota, but I never took all the nutritional suggestions to heart. I was more than willing to try any exercise program and nutritional plan (with real food), but this fake, synthetic stuff freaked me out. I’d tried putting protein powder in my shakes, but suddenly that wasn’t enough. Now there were all sorts of “designer” proteins on the market. What did that mean? Did they come in a stylish little Prada bag? MET-Rx bars were everywhere; I couldn’t walk two steps in the players’ locker room without tripping over a wrapper. Every sport drink and every energy bar had PROTEIN screaming from its label. Had we all been severely protein deprived and not known this, or was this just another food fetish? It all seemed a bit obsessive: people walking around like robots eating chemically engineered food. But maybe I was missing out on something. I was still stuck at 157 pounds so maybe everyone else had the right solution. I was confused, and I didn’t have anyone to run it by.

  Chris left after the close of the 2000 season and then Bobby, whose father was ill, decided to stay home to be with him. I fully understood and supported his choice. I was on my own and left to my own nutritional devices. Yikes.

  The Australian hard court trifecta started out with the Hopman Cup in Perth, where I paired up with Jan-Michael Gambill to represent the U.S. in the high-profile mixed-doubles competition. No points are earned at this tournament; it is solely for your country’s bragging rights. Jan-Michael is one of the only players who has the same double-handed forehand that I do, so I always got a kick out of warming up with him. It was like watching my swing’s reflection. And I thrive on the competition that comes with playing mixed doubles. The men always try to nail a shot past the women and I never fail to get a thrill out of returning it just as hard. We won our first three matches but lost in the final to the mighty Swiss duo of Martina Hingis and Roger Federer. That was the first time I’d ever seen Roger play; I was blown away by his talent and skill. He hadn’t yet won a title on the ATP tour and he was still over two years away from his first Wimbledon championship, but I knew that he was going to dominate the sport. His hands were unbelievable, he was uncanny in passing people at the net, and he made the entire thing look so easy. I turned out to be far more accurate in my prediction for Roger than I’d been for Pete. Two and a half years later he won the first of his five straight Wimbledon championships and soared to the number one spot, where he made himself at home for over four years. My dad would have been impressed I’d called that one.

  After a stop in Sydney for the Adidas International, I headed to Melbourne for the Australian Open. Here I saw player after player chugging sugary “energy” drinks as though they had discovered the fountain of youth. They hopped around like Energizer bunnies, only to crash and go rifling through their bags in search of another bottle. It seemed so unnatural, especially as I’d always been told to stay away from sugar. Why were all the players obsessed with the new drinks? What happened to good old water? Did they know something I didn’t? I flashed back to when I was nine years old and had just won a big European tournament in Italy. A man walked up to my dad and started giving him advice about all the different pills I needed to be taking in order to grow and get stronger. He even handed him a package of colored capsules. In a very commanding voice my dad said, “No, thank you. Those are not for my daughter. I will never give her anything like that.” He thrust the package back at the pill pusher and took my hand as we left the tennis court.

  That would explain my adult aversion to swallowing pills and taking supplements. I’ve never even taken a vitamin in my life. I much prefer getting my vitamins and minerals from natural food sources. Just drinking those protein shakes for Bobby was a major concession on my part. I had to fight my gag reflex each time. So this processed protein fad was not going to be my scene. I decided to leave the glucosamine, creatine, xenadrine, and all the other “-ine” foods (exceptions made for fettucine and linguine) to others.

  I faced Justine Henin in the fourth round and was amazed at the agility and power she had at her disposal despite being much smaller than all the top players. I’d played her in the Fed Cup the year before but was astonished at how much she had improved. She was literally growing up before my eyes and had developed one of the fiercest single-handed backhands I’d ever seen. Oh, great, I thought, another one to worry about. I survived that match but lost to Jennifer Capriati in the quarterfinals, who went on to win the entire tournament—her first Grand Slam championship ever.

  Right after my loss, Martina Hingis and I paired up in doubles. Playing with Martina was fantastic, and not just because she was brilliant at the net. Whenever we practiced together, I got great advice from her mom, Melanie, an incredible tactician who was always willing to give me tips on improving my game. Some people looked to technology to give them an edge—finding a magical stringing tension or pair of super-shock shoes—but I relied on tiny tweaks to my technique. Melanie was a huge help in that area. Martina and I made it to the semis, where we were at the receiving end of the Williams sisters’ revenge. A week earlier, in our debut as doubles partners, we’d taken them out in Sydney. It had been a second-round match but all four of us were playing like it was a Grand Slam singles final. And it was at night in a full and rocking stadium. It was so intense! The harder I hit it, the harder they’d return it. We took it all the way to a third-set tiebreaker and Martina and I squeaked out a victory, ending Venus and Serena’s twenty-two-match doubles winning streak. I was so exhausted I barely made it back to my hotel room that night. I did, however, have the energy to order a plate of spaghetti, a baked potato loaded with sour cream, and a piece of chocolate cake from the room service menu. I was hopeless on my own.

  Understandably, the sisters wanted to prove something at the Grand Slam. They brought the heat and they brought it early. The match was over in two sets, 7-5, 6-2, quickly and efficiently erasing our previous week’s triumph.

  I booked a return flight to the States that night. Back in Florida and still coachless, I felt a bit lost. My momentum and mental strength were fickle friends, and I never knew when they’d make an appearance. One minute I felt like I was within striking distance of my tenth Grand Slam victory and the next I felt like I had a long, long way to go to keep up with the new power players. Bobby told me many times, “It’s not your game, it’s your head that needs work.” Billie Jean had said the same thing at the Olympics. I knew that once my head was screwed on straight, the pounds would fall off and I’d be back in top form. But I couldn’t get my head clear unless my size-ten clothes felt loose. It was a chicken-and-egg dilemma. Did my self-confidence need to return before my body got to its ideal level or was my self-confidence a result of feeling like I
looked great in my tennis skirt? And where did my performance on the court fit into all of this? I just wanted a simple solution. I didn’t want to trudge through the dirty, messy underbrush of my psyche.

  Onward I went to Indian Wells, a Tier I tournament in Southern California that was right behind the Grand Slams in prestige and importance. It is a mandatory tour stop for all the top players. I promptly suffered another stress fracture and an early exit after the second round. It turned out I’d have plenty of time—in fact, four months—to delve into my psyche while I waited yet again for my foot to heal. I spent a lot of time at the physical therapist’s office and I read a lot of books on losing weight and achieving the best version of me. For a few weeks I lost myself in an abyss of overeating until my mom gently reined me in. As she heard me taking down a bowl to fill with ice cream, she cheerily called from the family room, “Look at the sunset . . . It’s gorgeous. Let’s take Ariel for a walk.” The clink of the dishes in the cabinet was like a car alarm going off, warning of imminent danger or disaster. Alert! Monica is about to go on calorie overload! Act now! My mom rose to the occasion and continued to do so throughout my recovery. Knowing I had a walk waiting for me every evening calmed my nerves and prevented me from stuffing myself at dinnertime. And being outside with my dog and my mom on warm, balmy nights was a tonic for the panic that usually struck me in the evening hours. I couldn’t walk very fast, but it was enough to give me a break from the thoughts racing around in my head. How long is this recovery going to take? How much weight am I going to gain this time? How long will it take me to climb back into the top three again? The questions were getting old. Arriving back home at around eight, I felt like I could settle in for the night without venturing into the kitchen in search of something to keep me company.

  34

  Back in the Saddle

  Roland Garros and Wimbledon went by while I sat on my couch during the summer of 2001. I could barely handle watching the matches. I should be there, I kept repeating as I cursed my foot. The year before I’d been right in the mix and had proven the retirement rumormongers wrong. Now they were back in full force. But the fact that I was angry about sitting there on the couch instead of warming up on center court held my answer: I still wasn’t ready to retire. I just had to get over this little hurdle and I’d be back. But there was something that was bothering me more than the pain in my foot: it was the dreadful suspicion that these nasty recurrences of foot injuries were a direct result of the extra weight I’d been carrying around for the past five years. It’s common for tennis players, especially those who start out early like I did, to battle chronic injuries in their ankles, knees, and wrists, but I’d been uncommonly healthy and free of injury until my stabbing. I’d never had foot issues until I came back in my supersize form. Could I really have brought this upon myself? Was my weight causing irreparable damage to my body? I was afraid to even think that it was possible and I never once asked my physiotherapist whether fat was a factor. I didn’t want to know just how big an enemy I’d been to myself.

  Other than a few test runs on my foot in Madrid (no bueno) and Hart-ford (better), I spent the rest of the four months hibernating in Florida and poking my nose around for another coach. My weight gain wasn’t awful: about eight pounds, thanks to a handful of chocolate-covered almonds here and there and the huge drop in exercise. As summer slid into fall, I had no time to waste if I was going to play in the U.S. Open. Enter Mike Sell.

  There are five things I look for in a coach.

  1. Great work ethic and impressive stamina. If he is going to hit with me, he’d better know what he is getting into. Before hiring potential hitting partners, Tony always asked them, “Are you sure you’ll be able to keep up with her? She only knows one speed.” No matter what, they always said, “Yeah, yeah, of course.” They were probably thinking, Hey, she’s a girl, how bad could it be? Some guys quit after a week, some made it to two, but very few made it past the maximum shelf life of two months. If they did, they were keepers. So if my coach was going to hit with me too, he had to be in insane shape with a work ethic bordering on the masochistic.

  2. Stability. If my coach says practice starts at 8 a.m., I will be there at 7:45 warmed up, with my shoes tied, and ready to go. The younger coaches on tour wouldn’t think twice about rolling into morning practice twenty minutes late after a raging night on the town. That wasn’t a good fit for me.

  3. Steady hitting ability. See #1. If a coach can’t place the ball where it will be in a match, and place it there over and over while I perfect a shot, then there’s no point.

  4. Knowledge about the other players’ games. When I was younger I made a point of not knowing what the other players were doing. My theory was that I was just playing myself out there, so it didn’t matter who my opponent was. If I played my best, everything would turn out fine. It wasn’t that easy anymore. The technical side of the game had risen along with the physical power of the players. I needed every edge I could get, and if that meant knowing the intricacies of my opponents’ weaknesses, then bring on the video and practice notes. I was an eager student.

  5. Willingness to make me a part of his life. A coach has to sacrifice a lot to be on the road with me. When we’re on the tour, it’s just the two of us battling everyone else. If I don’t get along with the coach off the court, it won’t be a successful union. And if he has a family, it’s important that I have a relationship with them as well. For a few hours during a professional match, tennis is an individual sport. For all the rest of the time it is a team one.

  I’d been lucky in finding a good combination of these five factors in Gavin, Bobby, and Jimmy Arias (who graciously filled the coaching vacuum whenever I was in need; I’m so lucky we’re neighbors), and I was relieved to find it again in Mike. Standing six feet tall and looking like he’d just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog, Mike had been a standout player at the University of Georgia (Go, Bulldogs!) and had played on the pro tour for a bit. More important, he grew up with three sisters, so he was very attuned to the tricky business of dealing with women. At the risk of sounding sexist, this is an art form and it’s not for the faint of heart. If you can’t cope with me the night before a Grand Slam, there’s no point in being my coach. That’s what you’re there for: to keep your player calm, cool, and focused. Mike walked into our new situation without any fear. Nothing rattled him, and his tranquil, down-to-earth energy worked for me. With my foot feeling strong, I hit the ground running. In the month leading up to the U.S. Open, I beat Jennifer, Serena, Justine, and Martina Hingis (twice). It was a good four weeks.

  But I think I used up all of my good playing karma too early. In the midst of the electric hustle and bustle at the U.S. Open, I was handed my earliest exit in eleven years: I lost in the fourth round to Daja Bedanova, an eighteen-year-old Czech player I’d never faced before. While walking around the grounds on my way to see some quarterfinal matches, I could see that the transformation of tennis into a sport of hard bodies was complete. For the first time, there was a fully outfitted gym at the tennis facilities. In the nineties, it had been impossible to find a StairMaster or squat rack in any tournament location. It had been a monumental challenge for coaches to come up with makeshift fitness routines for their players on the road. I’d done countless leg and arm workouts on chairs in my hotel room and on benches in nearby parks. And in a pinch I could always do push-ups and sit-ups on my hotel room floor. But resourcefulness was no longer needed: now gleaming cardio machines and circuit weight-training stations stood at the ready at tournament sites and in decent hotels around the world. A nonstop procession of girls wearing sports bras and tiny shorts kept these gyms hopping—and kept me out of them! Call me old-school, but I’d rather run on a city sidewalk for over forty minutes than on a treadmill any day of the week. In between tournaments, I had to log loads of time at the gym. I didn’t want to spend every waking moment on the road in those sterile environments.

  After my surprising loss on September 6, I
headed to Bahia for the Brazil Open with the help of Michael Rodriguez, a fast-thinking USTA official who helped my mom and me secure travel visas at the last minute. My U.S. Open loss had been much earlier than predicted, so I made this snap decision to go to Brazil to help boost my ranking.

  Bahia was a new event and I’d been given a bye in the first round, a common practice new tournaments use to entice top players to come. Players seeded fourth or higher usually receive a bye, which is helpful since you can scout your second-round opponent. But there is a drawback: if you lose in the second round, you still only get one point, the same as if you’d lost in the first round.

  I woke up on the morning of September 11 thinking about my second-round match. My mom had gone downstairs to get breakfast for us. The local news show was interrupted to bring the footage of the second plane hitting the tower. I couldn’t understand anything they were saying. Was this real footage? I flipped the channels and it was the same thing over and over but I had no context for what I was seeing. What was this? What was going on? Was this in Brazil? I had no idea it was New York City. My mom came back to the room balancing juices, fruit, and pastries in her hands. She stopped in the doorway when she saw my face.