Getting a Grip Page 23

  “What is it?” she asked.

  I didn’t say anything. I just pointed to the television. We sat on the bed, transfixed by the images being broadcast to us down in the southern hemisphere. The phone rang. It was a tournament official calling to say we’d be going on with the matches. He mentioned something about New York.

  “Wait, those planes were in New York?”

  He sounded surprised. “Yes, downtown. The World Trade Center.” Just then a panoramic shot flashed on the screen. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t made the connection between those skyscrapers and the city I’d just left. None of it made sense. Phone calls weren’t going through to New York and there was no Internet connection where we were staying. When I got to the stadium, players were huddled in little groups exchanging what little information they had. It wasn’t much. The only information we had access to came from the local news shows and those anchors seemed just as confused as we were. I swore I’d never take the twenty-four-hour CNN news feed for granted again.

  The week went by in a blur of matches and thirdhand information from home. Everyone’s head was somewhere else, and people were itching to get back. I won the tournament but it didn’t mean very much. Planes weren’t going anywhere, so my plans to fly straight to Japan for the Toyota Princess Cup were put on hold. Instead, the players had to cool their heels in Bahia until we were given the go-ahead to leave. It was a strange waiting game. Knowing there was no way to get to Tokyo in time for my first match, I was starting to jump out of my skin sitting there in my hotel room. I had a headache from watching so much horrific coverage on the news and I needed some fresh air. I decided to explore Bahia’s coastline. We were staying in a completely rural area with just the one resort surrounded by acres and acres of white dunes and coconut groves.

  One afternoon I walked down to the ocean as the sun was setting lower in the sky. I’d been there for a week but hadn’t yet walked the seventy yards from my hotel to see the water. Between the incessant television watching and my matches, it hadn’t even dawned on me. The Atlantic looked glassy and the water was comforting and warm on my tired feet. It was like slipping on a pair of cozy aquatic socks. I stood in the soft sand with my feet sinking deeper and deeper as the waves rolled in and out around me. Suddenly I heard a rustle nearby. A man was leading a horse up to a lean-to shack I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Hello!” he called to me.

  “Hi, there!” Two other horses were tethered under the palm frond roof of the lean-to.

  “Would you like to take a ride?” he asked.

  Would I like to take a ride? I hadn’t been on a horse since I was eight years old.

  “May I?” I was already jogging across the sand toward him.

  “Of course: they belong to the hotel. You may take them for as long as you like. I will be your guide.”

  Hotel horses? If I’d known about this little slice of paradise, I would have been down there ages ago.

  “Great, let’s go,” I said as I stroked the silky mane of a white horse. He adjusted her harness in preparation for our ride and offered to help me up. “Let me give it a go. It’s been a while, but I think I still remember how.” With a steady hand on her saddle and a bare foot solidly in the stirrup, I hoisted myself up and swung my leg over. I could have sworn I heard a quiet grunt from my horse, and I was struck with the fear that I was too heavy for her. I began scratching behind her ears to make up for the burden I’d just placed on her back. But one look at the stocky figure and pot-belly of my guide atop his chestnut mare and I knew these horses were well conditioned to carrying around loads more challenging than mine.

  We took off in a trot down the pristine beach as our horses weaved in and out of the incoming tide. To the left of me all I saw were rows and rows of coconut trees. To the right all I saw was the ocean. Paradise. After a few minutes my guide told me to take her into a gallop.

  “What do you think, girl?” I patted her neck as we trotted in the shallow water. “You wanna run?” She jerked her head up and snorted. I took that as a yes. I gave her a sturdy but not too hard (I didn’t want to hurt her!) kick with my feet and some slack in the reins. I even threw in a cowboy-worthy Hyeeeah! for effect. It worked. Off we went as I held on for my life. Jumping out of the water in one fluid movement, she found solid ground on the hard-packed sand. Perfect terrain for giving it her all. We soon fell into a rhythm together and I was no longer white-knuckling it on the saddle horn. I had total faith that she knew what she was doing and I was just going to trust her and enjoy the ride. The sound of her hooves hitting the ground sent goose bumps down my arms. Her power was staggering. We flew down the beach and I felt something I’d never felt before: weightless. I’ve heard about the healing effects of horses, the spiritual connection they have with humans, but I’d never experienced it for myself. That night, as the sun gave way to the moon, I got it. My feet felt no pain in those stirrups and I couldn’t stop smiling as the sand and ocean spray hit my body. Her energy was primal and raw and I felt like nothing could hurt me from atop her back. I wasn’t trying to jump out of my skin anymore; I wanted to ride her forever.

  When we brought the horses back, my guide, Marcelo, asked me if I’d ever eaten a coconut before.

  “Not a real one,” I said. “I mean, not from straight off the tree. Does coconut cake count?” He laughed and said that it didn’t.

  “Here.” He handed one to me. It felt heavy and scratchy in my hands.

  “What do I do with it?”

  “You open it!” He laughed his melodic laugh again, which made me laugh too. “Like this.” He took the coconut back and grabbed a narrow, six-inch, rectangular piece of wood. “Look for the happy face first.” He held the coconut up to me; sure enough, one end was marked with a distinct set of eyes, nose, and what could arguably be called a little squiggle line of a mouth.

  “Next, you make holes in the eyes and nose.” He swiftly popped right through the poor coconut with the pointy edge of the wood stick. “Then you do like this.” Marcelo slammed the coconut down into the sand with surprising force. Then he handed me the stick and showed me where the vertical “equator” of the coconut ran. “Just hit on this line until it opens for you.” I kneeled down on the sand and started tapping away. There was no way this thing was going to open. It felt rock solid and stubborn and in no mood to surrender to me. Over and over I tapped along the orb’s side, but there was no progress. I took a break and looked up at Marcelo.

  “Keep going?” I asked.

  “Yes, keep going. Do not be afraid to hit it!”

  If there’s one thing I’m not afraid of, it’s hitting something hard. I ramped up the intensity of pounding until suddenly I heard a crack.

  “There!” Marcelo exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “You are almost there. Just a few more taps, gentle this time, and you will have your coconut.”

  I urged the coconut on with a few subtle knocks to its shell and watched in astonishment as a neat fault line deepened along its side and fell cleanly open into two halves in my lap.

  “Quick, quick!” He grabbed one half and funneled the juice into a glass bottle. I did the same with the other half. “This is very good for you, this juice. It gives you very good strength.” Marcelo whipped out a pocketknife—this guy was like Inspector Gadget—and peeled off a few perfect crescent slices. “Try one.” He handed me a piece. First, I heard a nutritionist’s voice lecturing me about the high fat content in coconut and how, despite its benefit in replacing electrolytes after a hard workout, I should stay away from it. Then I heard myself say, “Screw it.” My voice was louder than the nutritionist’s. The coconut was fantastic. After a few more slices off of Marcelo’s knife, I thanked him for the lovely ride and went back to the hotel.

  “Do you want to go down for dinner?” my mom asked when I got back to my room.

  “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” I wasn’t. The coconut and horseback ride had filled me up in every way. I got ready for bed, left the television of
f, and picked up a book.

  “Really?” my mom asked. It had been a long time since she’d heard those words come out of my mouth.

  “Yeah, I think I’m just going to relax for a while.”

  “Okay, sweetheart.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Have a good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Cuddled up in bed, I could hear the distant sound of waves crashing outside my window. I fell asleep before I turned a page of my book.

  35

  Diet Secrets of the Sumo Wrestler

  I was in Tokyo for the Japan Open, a hard-court Tier III event. I adored going to Tokyo, the headquarters of my longtime sponsor, Yonex. I’d progressed from using their rackets to being outfitted from head to toe in their gear. Jun, a Yonex representative who had become a close friend of mine, would be in town. So I went into the tournament expecting to do well and excited to reconnect with old friends. My body felt healthy, I was rested from the forced break in Bahia, and I was playing a solid game with Mike’s calm and steady coaching behind me. I won all four of my matches in two sets each and in the final I defeated Tamarine Tanasugarn, a determined and gritty retriever who runs down every ball. Tamarine is from Thailand and is one of the sweetest girls on tour. We always got along well, but our matches were fiercely competitive. My victory made a small dent in the point deficit I had from missing the two summer Grand Slams. At the postmatch press conference a journalist asked me what it felt like to win my fiftieth career title.

  “It is?” I asked, bewildered.

  He checked his notes and nodded vigorously from the press gallery. “Yes.”

  “Oh, well, it feels good. I’m feeling like I’m playing solid tennis and I’m looking forward to next season.” I had no idea it was my fiftieth title. I guess that’s something of a milestone in tennis but, with the exception of Grand Slams, I never kept track of tournament wins. His stat caught me off guard. After I won the tournament the Yonex group took me out for a celebratory dinner of sushi. I love sushi. It isn’t an ordinary love like “Oh, I love ice cream.” I love it to the point of dreaming about it. We talked business for the first ten minutes—How was the second season with my new racket going? Was I happy with my clothes? Did I need to make any changes to my gear?—and we spent the rest of the dinner talking about the dream itinerary that my Yonex friends had in mind for me; the plan included Kabuki theater and sumo wrestling.

  On my way back to the hotel, I popped into one of my favorite places in Tokyo. A paragon of high culture and taste, a place that takes a special person to truly appreciate it: the am/pm convenience store. I know they have them in California, but the Japanese version is completely different. It is a fast-food temple extraordinaire. If you put them side by side, the Tokyo version would be insulted. Jun, my go-to Yonex guy, was based in California but he made frequent trips back to Tokyo to see his family. Every time he went, I asked him to bring back some am/pm treats for me. He was happy to do so and was convinced that I knew Japanese sweets better than he did.

  Whenever I flew to Tokyo I’d be a wreck from jet lag for the first two days. I’d walk around for forty-eight hours barely knowing my name. When I grew tired of watching the surreal, laugh-out-loud Japanese game shows, I’d walk the city streets until I found my fluorescent-lit beacon of comfort. I’d spend an hour in the dead of night strolling up and down the aisles, not understanding a word of the packaging but loving every brightly colored cartoon smiling up at me from the wrappers. By my fourth trip to Tokyo I knew my favorite snacks by sight, although I had no idea what they were called. I’d fill my basket with little crackers, tasty pretzel sticks covered in cinnamon and chocolate, and bags of mix-and-match candies, then go back to my hotel room and nibble on my new stash like a crazed chipmunk. The next day I’d play for four hours in a panicked attempt to work it all off.

  I’m not sure why I stopped at my favorite store after dinner with the Yonex crew. I wasn’t particularly hungry, even though portions in Tokyo were minuscule compared to the gargantuan sizes I was accustomed to in the States. I think I was drawn through the doors out of habit. It had always comforted me before; why wouldn’t it now? I loaded up my basket, just like always, and headed back to my hotel laden down with treats. I spread them out on the bed and picked up a package of cinnamon pretzels. I ate them all, then chased them down with a handful of chocolate pretzels. Then I stopped, wrapped the rest up in a bag, stuffed it deep inside my suitcase, and shoved my suitcase to the back of the closet. I didn’t want to ruin a perfect night with a binge. I was getting better, but I didn’t trust myself with a mountain of my favorite treats sitting out in plain sight. One day, maybe, but most definitely not yet.

  The two days were a high-energy tourist’s dream. Brazil had caused a fissure in my normal tennis-and-only-tennis façade. I was suddenly on a mission to see everything I could before I had to leave for my next tournament in China. I went to my first sumo match and I was in shock—these guys made my Greco-Roman wrestling buddy Rulon look like he was in junior high school. They not only had superhuman size but also the superhuman strength to back it up. After the match I couldn’t wait to talk to the star wrestler. It was a huge honor to meet him and right after our introduction, I asked, “I’m sure you’re tired of hearing this question, but I’m dying to know one thing: What do you eat?”

  He chuckled and graciously replied, “I am on a very strict diet.”

  “A strict diet? How strict?” If this guy was on a strict diet and still weighed over four hundred pounds, I was going to give up all hope.

  “I am on a strict diet of fifteen thousand calories.”

  “Fifteen thousand a day?” I asked. That was a whole lot of steamed spinach and egg-white omelets. Or ten cheeseburgers, three plates of pasta, an ice cream sundae, a large bag of potato chips, and a milkshake to wash it all down.

  “Yes, I must eat that every day. I am not allowed to eat any less or I’ll risk losing my size. And I make sure to lie down as soon as I’ve finished eating. That is very important in helping with fat production.” That’s it, I thought, I’m giving up sleep. He went on to describe all the other rules and how they helped him stay in top sumo shape. I kept a mental checklist to see how I compared:

  Rule number one: Skip breakfast. This slows down your metabolism and keeps it down for the rest of the day, making it harder to burn off the calories you ingest at lunch and dinner.

  Verdict: not guilty. If unsatisfying and tasteless protein shakes count, then I’m a breakfast eater.

  Rule number two: Eat two big meals a day. Starving all morning and then gorging yourself in the afternoon is a surefire way to get fat. It ruins your energy and wreaks havoc on your metabolism. Verdict: guilty. I ate next to nothing during the day and then, just as my metabolism was reaching its slowest pace in the evening, I’d consume a mountain of junk food. Living in those extremes guarantees serious weight gain.

  Rule number three: Nap right after eating.

  Verdict: guilty. Is there anything better than passing out after Thanksgiving dinner? Food comas aren’t a good idea, but they are so tempting. It’s fine to do it once a year in November, but I fell into one nearly every night.

  Rule number four: Exercise on an empty stomach.

  Verdict: guilty. In my extreme training phases I was down to 1,200 calories a day (before the evening binge), so even if I’d just eaten a meal, I was still starving while working out.

  Rule number five: Eat in social settings. Sumo wrestlers live in “training stables” and eat all of their meals gathered around a communal table.

  Verdict: guilty in the past but currently recovering. The Atlanta food court had been a fiasco, but by the Sydney Olympics I did prove that I’d reformed in that area.

  My “guilty” tally was disturbing. Horrified, I realized that my habits bore an eerie resemblance to sumo training. Uh-oh. But meeting that athlete was the most educational experience of my life. I learned more from him in twenty minutes than I had from years of reading books and list
ening to trainers. I’d been living my life like a quasi-sumo wrestler! And the most important thing I learned was that what you put into your mouth is more critical to weight loss than how much exercise you do. These guys were working out more than six hours a day but they were still enormous. If you are consuming thousands of calories, no amount of exercise can burn it all off: you will be big. It takes one hour of intense exercise to burn off five hundred calories, but it only takes one bagel with cream cheese to add five hundred calories. Calories are easier to put on than they are to take off, which is why one of my half-hour binges would wipe out an entire day’s worth of hard work. After my stabbing, it had taken less than a week to destroy all the progress I’d made with Bob Kersee because I hadn’t mastered the energy balance equation. Working out hard didn’t give me a free pass to eat everything in sight, but that’s exactly what I did. I worked out in extremes and I ate in extremes. Nothing was in balance and my body showed it.

  I woke up early the next morning to go on an excursion with Mr. Yoneyama. At 5 a.m. we were in front of the fish market downtown. The fish, gorgeous works of art pulled fresh from the ocean, were being auctioned off like masterpieces. Buyers walked up and down the aisles, gently rolling the fish onto their sides to check out the color, texture, and fat content before the bidding started. Once it got going, it was as chaotic as the New York Stock Exchange. Hand signals and money were flying across the room. Several of the priciest catches were headed for a nonstop flight to Nobu, a fancy sushi restaurant in New York.

  That night the Yonex group took me to see Kabuki theater in all its splendid glory. The audience was dressed to impress. Not a pair of jeans in sight. Men wore elegantly tailored suits and women were draped in gowns of silk. I’ve never been able to go shopping in Japan: the sizes are tiny. In a land of seventeen-inch waists, I couldn’t even get my leg through a pair of pants. Aside from the sumo guys, who had to work hard at it, I never once saw an overweight person in Japan. Despite am/pm, it is not really a culture of snacking, and it’s difficult to put on weight when eating three small meals a day, made up mainly of rice and fresh fish.