Getting a Grip Page 24
The cavernous, intricately carved theater was silent as we waited for the show to begin. Like traditional Shakespeare, in Kabuki both the male and female roles are played by men, but the makeup is so immaculately applied, it is hard to tell it’s a single-sex production. Thank God I had my earphones with an ongoing English translation, otherwise I wouldn’t have had any idea what was going on in the story. But I didn’t need an explanation for what was happening when, twenty minutes into the production, an actor with uncommonly good looks walked onstage and the women in the crowd erupted into gasps, shrieks, and applause. He was being received like Brad Pitt with the musical talent of the Beatles. The proper and reserved nature of the audience was broken for a three-minute freakout over the actor’s dreamy qualities. Some things are the same, no matter where you’re from.
36
Call Me Ox
The Year of the Ox. According to the Chinese zodiac calendar, all babies born in the Year of the Ox have a solid and steadfast nature and thrive on taking a methodical approach to life. But these people also have a stubborn streak and hatred of failing, which often results in self-defeating behavior. And don’t look for them to be the life of the cocktail party—their serious nature makes them feel uncomfortable in large social gatherings and they are frequently told to “loosen up.” It is rare for ox people to try something new, though when they do they surprise themselves with how much they enjoy it. A dark cloud has the potential to hang over those born in the Year of the Ox, but if they learn to value their own positive qualities, they will see the glass as half full.
Hmmm, guess what year I was born in? The last stop on our Asian swing was Shanghai. My mom, coach Mike, and I got on a plane bound for my last official tournament of the year and my first trip to China. On the plane I found an article on Chinese zodiac signs in the in-flight magazine. Normally I don’t put much stock in that kind of stuff, yet I couldn’t get over how dead-on that description was. I didn’t want a dark cloud hanging over me for the rest of my life.
The Shanghai Open was a thirty-two draw, a smaller tournament, which offered a good chance for some eleventh-hour points if I managed to take home the title. They’d had the inaugural tournament the previous year but it was a soft opening of sorts; this year was the real deal. The event organizer pulled out all the stops and the tournament ran like clockwork. Tennis was a new thing in China, so there was an air of eagerness and a little unease about proper protocol. For example, the court was painted red, a lucky color in Chinese culture, but it wasn’t made of clay. That didn’t bother me, but the incessant cell phone ringing took some getting used to. Most tournaments have a strict ban on cell phones because they disrupt play. The last thing you want to hear when serving for the tiebreaker is the electronic jingle of “Lady Marmalade”; good luck getting that one out of your head. But the Chinese had no such ban. The crowd wasn’t sure when to clap or when a game was over. After I hit an impossible crosscourt backhand against Nicole Pratt to take the first set in the final, you could hear a pin drop. One brave spectator clapped, then another, then—the silence broken—the entire crowd got into it. By the time I won the final 6-2, 6-3, they had a much better grasp on the intricacies of scoring. It was a learning experience for all of us. Cell phones and awkward applause notwithstanding, the tournament went off without a hitch and Shanghai seemed to embrace this new, somewhat confusing sport of tennis.
The enthusiasm of the Chinese kids was contagious. After every match, they surrounded me like a swarm of bees. I saw many up-and-coming players hitting the ball with a two-handed forehand, including fifteen-year-old Peng Shuai, who was making her WTA debut, and I kept thinking about how happy my dad would have been to see that. His coaching method hadn’t been so crazy after all.
Eating proved to be a bit difficult, since I couldn’t read a thing on any menu. I lucked out with sweet rice and bean curd soup, a paper-thin pancake stuffed with chives and egg, and a carnival-worthy fried dough stick. You generally can’t go wrong with sugar-covered fried dough. But my luck ran out when, on one of my last nights, I ordered what I thought was the sweet rice soup. After digging in for my first bite, my spoon emerged from the murky liquid holding an animal claw. We were dining with some of the tournament organizers and I didn’t want to appear rude, so I tried to hide my shock even though my eyes were probably as wide as my soup bowl. I picked around the claw as best I could and tried not to think about what kind of animal my dinner had once been attached to. It may be close-minded and culturally ignorant of me, but I’d rather enjoy my dinner without crunching into mysterious feet!
I was pleased to win in Shanghai, especially after such a disappointing run at the U.S. Open. It was a relief to finish the year strong: three titles in one month. Not a bad road trip, but these tournaments weren’t heavy hitters like the season ender I was missing in Munich, and it was reflected in my ranking: I was down to number ten. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother me; in fact, it was a wake-up call that my international tennis traveling days might be coming to a close.
Instead of bolting back to Florida the moment the tournament was over, my mom and I decided to head to Beijing. I didn’t pick up a racket for five days. We went to Tiananmen Square, were awed by the Great Wall, and took a rickshaw ride through the city. It was one of the best times I’ve ever had. I wasn’t thinking about practice times, endorsements, or airline reservations: I was just being. It was calming and liberating. I thought about all the opportunities I’d passed up in other cities over the years. I wondered if I’d ever get a chance to go back and make up for lost time. I hoped so. I’d given up so much for tennis and had never mastered the art of striking a balance. I had been convinced that, to be number one, I had to eat, sleep, and breathe the game. But while I was walking along the Great Wall, I realized there was so much out there for me to see. Maybe I’d been too hard on myself over the years. Maybe I’d been too strict about my schedule. Maybe limiting myself to the hotels and the tournament sites had been counterproductive. What if I’d been able to see the world and play tennis? Would that have taken the pressure off of me? Would that have made my mental game stronger? What if working out so hard and restricting what I allowed myself to do hadn’t been the key after all?
By the time I got back to Florida, I vowed to strike a better balance in 2002. But old habits die hard. After my Asia trip, I was tipping the scale at more than 160, so once again panic set in. I needed a new angle, a new person, a new workout; I was still searching for the magic answer. I contacted Pat Etcheberry, a renowned fitness and conditioning coach who had worked with dozens of top players, and he gave me some intense workouts to incorporate into my training. My practices were going well and my tennis was solid, but I hadn’t had a food babysitter since the previous winter. New workouts wouldn’t be enough. I was still too heavy, and as much as I hated admitting it, I needed constant supervision again. It is a quick jump from 160 to 170, and I didn’t want to make that leap. Pat put me in touch with Lisa Reed, a trainer at the University of Gainesville who competed in fitness competitions and had one of the hardest bodies I’d ever seen. That’s it! This is my answer, I thought. A female trainer will be a completely different experience. This time it will work.
37
A Pumpkin by Midnight
Armed with Mike and Lisa I started the season off with a bang in Australia. At the Hopman Cup in Perth, Jan-Michael and I beat France 3-0, lost to Italy, beat Belgium—despite their being aided by the fiercely good Kim Clijsters, who went on to win the U.S. Open title a few years later—and lost in the final to Spain. The highlight of the week was spending New Year’s Eve at the players’ ball. It was held in a beautiful and glamorous casino. I channeled my inner Cinderella and had my hair blown out and makeup done and arrived at the glittering party wearing a pink organza dress. After spending 95 percent of my time in workout clothes, it felt refreshingly indulgent to primp and devote an inordinate amount of time on my looks. When the transformation was complete, I hardly recognized the girl in
the mirror. I even felt—dare I say it?—pretty. And, like Cinderella, I really did have to get home by midnight. Our second match was at 10 a.m., which meant a 7 a.m. wake-up call. All the players had been keeping their fingers crossed that they wouldn’t have to ring in the New Year with a morning match, but in a draw of just five teams I knew there’d be a decent chance we’d have to cut our New Year’s celebration short. Like a good girl, I took my leave early, just before the dazzling fireworks display.
Two weeks later at the Australian Open, I shocked every prognosticating journalist by beating Venus in the quarterfinals. She was going for her third Grand Slam in a row, and it had already been six years since I’d last taken home that honor. I was seeded seventh, she was seeded second, and I was 0-6 in our past meetings. On paper, my chances looked bleak. But I still had hope. I knew I could defy the odds if I was on top of my game and able to take advantage of any weakness Venus might show. The problem with Venus is that she is rarely off her game, so going in I knew I had to immediately neutralize her take-no-prisoners serve. Her serve turns the ball into a bullet: it regularly reaches a speed of 115 miles per hour and has been clocked at 129 miles per hour, much faster than the serves of most of the men on tour. Mike told me my only goal was to hang in there for all three sets; if I could do that, I’d have the opportunity to end her twenty-four-match winning streak. The hard court in Australia produces higher bounces and is my favorite surface after clay; if I was going to beat her, this was an ideal situation.
I got off to a fast start. I won the first eight points to charge to a 2-0 lead, but I didn’t get ahead of myself. Play every point, I thought, the games and the sets will take care of themselves. Venus broke back and we eventually went to a tiebreaker, which she grabbed with a backhand volley that I didn’t have a prayer of getting. No problem: new set, new game, new chance to take the first point. I stayed calm like the old days and sailed through to tie the match by taking the second set 6-2. It all came down to the third set. I’d never kept up with Venus like this. All six feet two inches of her looked powerful on the other side of the court, but I now knew that she was not invincible. Could I do it? Stop. Don’t ask questions right now, just play. And so I did. I was up 4-3 and, after Venus failed to capitalize on three break points, managed to scrape my way to 5-3. Almost there. On the second match point Venus hit a backhand into the net. It was over.
There was some postmatch press conference chatter about it being a weird match, not representative of how we usually played because Venus was dealing with a hamstring problem and I was combating a fever, but that was becoming the norm on the tour. Long gone were the days when everyone was playing at her optimum health. Workouts were more intense, the current serves could blow away ones from a decade earlier, and the traveling was even more constant than ever. It was bound to inflict a beating on a player’s body and immune system. Playing with an injury or a nasty virus was becoming the rule instead of the exception. But beating Venus showed me that the magic that I’d been able to find on the courts of the Australian Open for so many years hadn’t disappeared completely. In fact, it lasted just long enough for me to take the first set in my semifinal against Hingis, but it didn’t stay around to get me to the final. Hingis came back swinging in the second set and won the match 4-6, 6-1, 6-4. I left without my fifth Australian Open title but with a small reprieve from the bombardment of the retirement rumors.
38
Live to Work or Work to Live?
After our first week together I should have known that, even though she was a woman, Lisa’s approach was exactly the same as the male trainers I’d worked with: extreme and unyielding. I’d been hoping for a confidante, but she was just as hard-core as the others. I was doing the same thing I’d always done and expecting different results again. Lisa was amazing: her disciplined food intake was unmatched. I thought if I spent every meal with her, studied the way she approached food, and copied exactly what she did, I’d eventually adopt her habits on my own. It didn’t work. If we were on the road, I made up excuses about where I had to be. I’d say I had to meet a Yonex representative, but I’d really go to the grocery store and buy chips and cookies. If we were home in Florida, I’d wait until Lisa went to bed to make my move. I’d quietly tiptoe past her bedroom door, get in my car, and head to the nearest drive-thru. I’d binge on all of the forbidden foods and not say a word about it the next morning. I kept the anger and frustration buried deep inside me.
While my food intake was still out of control, the last few months had been good on the tennis front. I’d made it to the finals of a tournament in Tokyo and won a title in Qatar. Before the start of the European swing, we returned to the U.S. for the Indian Wells tournament, where I lost to Martina Hingis in the semifinal, and the Miami Open, where I lost in another semifinal, this time to Jennifer Capriati in a nail-biting, pushed-to-the-limit third-set tiebreaker. I was having my best start in years, making it to the semis or better in seven straight tournaments. My body was holding up injury-free despite my still being twenty-five pounds overweight. I was beginning to think, To hell with it. I’m just meant to be this big forever. But then I’d see a size four walk by and I’d be struck with an undeniable pang of envy. I used to look like that. I hated that I cared that much, but I did.
Before we got to Paris at the end of May, we had a stop in Spain for the Madrid Open. I loved Spain for many of the reasons that I loved Italy: the warm, laid-back people, the food, the history, the parks. But there was one thing I didn’t like: the obscenely late dinner hours. When I got there I walked from restaurant to restaurant, searching in vain for a dining room that opened before 10 p.m. It seemed like there were two siestas, one in the afternoon and another from 7 to 10 p.m., when—finally!—the restaurants would throw open their doors and the night would officially get under way. Sure, it sounded sexy and sophisticated to say, “Meet you for a midnight dinner,” but there was no way that could be part of my routine when I had a 10:00 a.m. match.
The tournament went great. My semifinal against Paola Suárez was the only match that went to three sets. I beat Chanda Rubin in the final, 6-4, 6-2. It was my first clay court title since Rome in 2000 and I felt good going into Paris. I was having little flashes of hope that I had another Grand Slam in me. I was playing solid tennis and had some momentum on my side. Being on the tour didn’t feel like such a struggle this time. What had changed? A tiny spark had been lit in me. It was nearly a year since my Bahia beach ride, and I was taking baby steps to make my life more whole, reaching outside the confines of tennis. In Qatar I rode a camel (harder than it looks) and slept in a tent under the stars in the middle of the desert. In Madrid I went to the Prado, one of the most impressive museums in the world. I am about as far from an artsy sort of person as you can get, but I stood completely transfixed in front of all the Velázquez masterpieces. Being around such beauty, created by a pair of hands and some paint nearly four hundred years ago, gave me a jolt like the one I had experienced when I saw the Great Wall. It made me realize that I’d been missing out on so much. For thirteen years I’d been lucky enough to travel through five continents and visit some of the most culturally and historically rich cities in the world. But I couldn’t remember a thing I’d done or seen that wasn’t colored in some way by tennis. Walking around the grand rooms of the Prado, relishing every minute of the art and solitude, was like discovering a whole other layer of life.
On the evening of my final match victory, two cool local girls who worked for the tournament took me out to dinner. “You need to get out of the hotel. We’ll show you the real Madrid!” they promised. We had a drink in Las Cuevas, one of the oldest taverns in Madrid. The bar was at the bottom of a set of creaky stairs in a dark cave. It seemed like a strange place for an establishment, and I almost asked them if we’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. As soon as we rounded a corner I knew we were in the right place. The bar was packed with locals, and flickering candles lit the room as pitchers of sangria were passed around from table to
table. The three of us sat on an old wooden bench, and they kept me enthralled with stories of growing up in Madrid and how the Spanish way of life differs from the American.
“It is quite simple,” Caterina said. “We work to live while Americans live to work.” Teresa nodded her head in emphatic agreement. Well, yes, that was true. But I’d always considered myself a citizen of the world. I could get along in Tokyo just as well as Melbourne and Dubai. On an analytical level, I knew how other cultures embraced life and stressed quality over quantity, but on an emotional level I hadn’t yet figured it out.
Next we hit a tapas bar, where we ate no fewer than twenty-one tiny plates of delectable dishes. I’d escaped Lisa, telling her I was going out with some friends. Maybe she thought I deserved one night off after winning the tournament. I certainly thought so. The cuisine was entirely new to me, so I didn’t recognize half the things put before me. But I did know two things: each plate was more delicious than the last, and Lisa would not have approved of any of them. We left the restaurant at one in the morning and I could barely keep my eyes open. If I ever moved to Spain, I’d have to completely revamp my body clock. I said good-bye to my new friends and walked through Plaza Mayor on the way back to my hotel. The girls told me that it was similar to the Place des Vosges in Paris: surely I’d been there? No, actually I hadn’t. I didn’t have the slightest idea of what they were talking about. Plaza Mayor was majestically lit up and full of people eating and drinking at outdoor tables. Everyone looked so happy to be where they were in that moment. Yeah, I thought, me too.