Getting a Grip Read online

  When I got back to Florida, there was an e-mail from Martina. It was one line: Did you do it?

  I wrote back one word: Yes.

  My in-box immediately beeped with a reply: You go, girl!

  45

  A Certain

  Je ne sais quoi

  I’d been to Paris a dozen times but I’d never seen much of it beyond the borders of Roland Garros. That fall I did something about it. I was determined to see the City of Light the way it is meant to be seen. My good friend Nicole lived there and I decided to pay her a long-overdue visit. While she worked during the day, I spent hours rambling along the streets of the different arrondissements, each with its own distinct personality. Crisscrossing the Seine, I explored every inch of the Left and Right Banks. I browsed the funky boutiques in the Marais district; stood in wonderment before the architectural feat of the bizarre Centre Georges-Pompidou with its exposed skeleton of tubes snaking around its outside; finally checked out the Place des Vosges, the oldest square in Paris (the girls in Madrid were right—I could definitely see the resemblance) strolled around the opulent Opera Quarter; hiked up an endless set of stairs and navigated winding cobblestone streets to get to the top of Montmartre for a stunning view of Paris; and indulged my inner foodie at the outdoor market along the Rue de Buci.

  I loved walking to the market in the late morning, where I’d do my daily round: picking up a small baguette, a wedge of soft cheese, and an apple. Then I’d stroll the city before taking my little picnic to the Luxembourg Gardens, where I’d find a sunny spot and bask in the beauty of early autumn in Paris. Biting into the crisp red apple, I remembered how good fresh produce tasted. Growing up in Novi Sad, my mom went to the market every day. Produce never lasted longer than twenty-four hours in our kitchen, and eating a banana or an orange was a delicacy. Who needed added sugar when the sweetness of fresh fruit filled your mouth?

  In the ten bites it took me to finish my apple—which was much smaller than the ones I’d grown accustomed to seeing in my supermarket in Florida—I realized that the further I ate away from food in its most natural state, the further away I was from building my core. One year, right before I left for the Australian Open, I left a pear and an apple in my fridge. Usually I clean out the fridge before a long trip, but I’d been in a hurry and totally forgot. Two months later, when I returned home, there they sat in the fridge, like perfect plastic replicas of real fruit, looking exactly the same as they had the day I bought them. And you wonder if your food is filled with preservatives? That apple in my fridge was nothing like the apple I ate in Paris. It was like they were two completely different foods.

  “You are what you eat” isn’t just a worn-out cliché. What I was putting into my body had a direct effect on my mood and my well-being. Nourishing myself with food that was free from preservatives and that had as little packaging as possible was an integral step in rebuilding my core. After I had the time and space to grieve for my father and contemplate my life without tennis, I started to see that some of my weight issues were due to focusing on what I was eating instead of looking inward to see what was eating me.

  I knew I used food to cope with emotions, but just knowing it wasn’t enough to completely stop it. That’s why I created the twenty-second rule: Before letting myself rip into a bag of junk food, I forced myself to sit down and count to twenty. Slowly. During those twenty seconds I made myself answer a very simple question: What was really bothering me? Almost every single time, I came up with the answer before the twenty seconds were up. The next question was: What can I do right this minute to help fix it? Do I need to call someone to sort out a misunderstanding? Do I need to get paperwork done? Do I need to run overdue errands? Do I need to sort out an account with the cable company that sent me an inaccurate bill? Do I need to make a decision about whether to participate in a fund-raiser? Do I need to decide whether my foot is feeling strong enough to play in an upcoming exhibition?

  By the time I came up with something that I could do right at that moment—even if it was a tiny action—my urge to eat had subsided and I was tackling the underlying problem. Soon the twenty-second rule became a habit and it became easier every single time I used it. My dad had drilled into me over and over that I had only one life to live, so I’d better live it the best I could. Every time I sat down to a meal, I could make a decision. Was I going to treat myself with love and respect, or was I going to sabotage my own happiness and health for a short-term rush? When I approached my meals from a place of empowerment, the decision was an easy one: I chose nourishment over destruction every time.

  Sitting in the middle of a Parisian royal garden, enjoying bites of cheese that I would have tortured myself over two years earlier, was the best nourishment I could have wished for. Eating wholesome food left me satiated much more quickly than mounds of fat-free processed fake food ever did. In Paris I ate anything I wanted, but it was always fresh and of the highest quality, and I walked after every meal. Allowing myself to enjoy some Brie left me feeling satisfied after three bites. Reasonable portions—that was another new concept for me.

  When Nicole and I enjoyed our morning cappuccinos at her local café, I was struck by the size of the cups. Our frothy concoctions were easily half the size of what I was used to in the States. My eyes had grown so accustomed to the supersize portions in American restaurants that it took some conscientious mental retraining to know that I didn’t need a soup bowl full of coffee to get my morning started. The same went for food. The flaky croissants looked like petite distant cousins of the bloated American pastries. At first I was worried I wouldn’t be satisfied with such a meager breakfast. There was a time when I could have downed four croissants, no problem, my hunger was so insatiable. But this time, over breakfast with one of the good friends I was finally getting a chance to catch up with, that cappuccino and that croissant were plenty for me.

  One afternoon my exploring took me to the ritzy 16th Arrondissement, the neighborhood my dad and I had walked through on our very first visit to Roland Garros. I took pictures of the stunning Art Nouveau architecture and spotted the tops of the Bois de Boulogne trees I’d been so enthralled with at fifteen. I headed east toward the Champs-Élysées, the high-end shopping avenue that was the only sight I ever saw apart from Roland Garros during my playing days. In 2002 I’d popped into one of the intimidatingly chic boutiques before my quarterfinal match against Venus. I was stressed about playing well and I thought an hourlong jaunt down the coolest shopping street in the world would take my mind away from the court. As soon as I walked in, I knew I’d made a mistake. I was twice as big as any of the clothes on display, and the saleswomen (there were three of them and I was the only one in the store) refused to look at me. I made my way over to a table of cashmere sweaters and picked up a vanilla-colored one that was deliciously soft. It was stunning but it looked like it could fit a six-year-old. I looked over to the saleswomen chatting by the register and asked if they had any other sizes. Finally one of them lifted her head up from their conversation and said simply, “No, we do not have clothes in your size.”

  “Oh, okay, thanks.” I quickly put the sweater back and tried to will away the humiliated blush that was spreading over my cheeks. The three of them were silent as I hurried toward the exit. That was the last time I tried shopping for clothes in Paris. The only things I ever let myself look at were shoes and bags, the great weight equalizers in fashion. And here I was three years later, walking past Chanel, Prada, Armani, and Louis Vuitton, when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a store window. My fitted shirt, long trousers, and cute flats gave me a lean silhouette and I was having a great-hair day. More than anything, though, I looked content. My brow wasn’t furrowed and I wasn’t rushing to get somewhere. It was just me looking strong, healthy, and just plain good. Paris was agreeing with me this time around. I thought about paying a visit to that boutique again with my arms loaded down with bags from the most expensive stores, finding that saleswoman, and pulling a Pretty Wom
an—“You work on commission, right? Big mistake. Big. Huge.”—and then sashaying back out the door. But really, why did I have to prove my worth to her? I’d already proven it to myself.

  On one of my last mornings in Paris, I took a walk along the Seine. I was leisurely browsing a used-book stand and chatting with the older gentleman who was working there in my rudimentary French.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” He tipped his tweed cap toward me.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur.”

  “Ça va?” He didn’t smile—not many French people do—but his eyes kindly crinkled up in the corners.

  “Oui, ça va bien, merci. Et vous?” I was feeling proud of my Français 101. During my time off due to yet another foot injury, I’d been taking language lessons at the community college in Sarasota. I wasn’t a natural by any stretch of the imagination, but if the vendor kept it simple, I’d be good for another few exchanges of pleasantries.

  “Avec une belle journée comme aujourd’hui, ça va très bien!” He gestured emphatically to the sky. He was right, it was an incredible day. Paris is infamous for its gray, gloomy weather so when you luck out with a blue sky and a shining sun it seems exceptionally glorious. I took my time leafing through the dusty pages of books whose previous owners had tired of them and wished my linguistic skills were good enough to buy the works of French writers in their original language. I was a long way off from that, so I found the tiny English section and settled on a copy of John Grisham’s latest legal thriller. It wasn’t exactly Proust but I wasn’t complaining. I knew it’d be a page-turner.

  The gentleman wrapped my book in brown butcher paper and expertly tied a piece of twine around it. The result was simple and elegant. It was so French. Even a used-book transaction carried with it a flash of unexpected beauty. I strolled across Pont Neuf, the bridge that connects the Left Bank to the Right Bank, and stopped midway. I leaned against a tall, elegant lamppost and took in the view. A few fluffy clouds dotted the blue sky and a breeze ran over the Seine, leaving subtle ripples behind. Some bohemian-cool students were sitting by the water, playing guitar and passing around a bottle of wine. An elegant, middle-aged woman wearing a sundress and high heels rode by them on an ancient-looking bike. So this is Paris. I didn’t have to be anywhere, do anything, or meet anyone. I wasn’t playing tennis, but life was still going on all around me. And then I realized with a bit of a jolt that, even without tennis, my life was still going on.

  Tennis had taken me all over the world and exposed me to so many different ways to appreciate life. Those lessons were finally starting to sink in.

  46

  Embrace the Fear

  “Do one thing every day that scares you.”

  —ELEANOR ROOSEVELT

  That was my motto for 2006. I was feeling healthy enough to play a handful of exhibitions, and my new weight of 141 pounds(!) was doing wonders for keeping my foot in good shape. But it wasn’t yet strong enough to hold up to the rigorous demands of the tour, so I had a lot of free time on my hands. I decided to use it. I threw myself into reading photography, art, and design books and accepted a three-month internship in one of Chicago’s top architecture firms. After the first day I knew I didn’t have a future in the profession—there was too much math—but it was a fun few months anyway.

  In the fall I was presented with an incredible opportunity. After my forced break in 2003, I started to work with the Laureus Foundation, an organization that promotes the use of sports as a tool for social change. My dad’s artwork had always been based on the power of sports to transcend politics and bring people together, so the Laureus mission was right up my alley. I’d acted as an ambassador for them on trips to disadvantaged areas in the States and had found it to be one of the most fulfilling things I’d ever done. When they asked me to join a group of athletes heading to South Africa in the fall, I jumped at the chance. Along with Edwin Moses, the chairman and incomparable track legend (my dad would have loved to meet him!), former European Footballer of the Year Bobby Charlton, cricket legend Kapil Dev, Olympic gold medalist runner Kip Keino, former world number one tennis player Ilie Nastase, Olympic gold medalist alpine ski racer Franz Klammer, Olympic gold medalist decathlete Daley Thompson, rugby star Morné du Plessis, English football star Lucas Radebe, and Martina Navratilova, I headed to South Africa. Being given the chance to travel with such a distinguished and accomplished group of people from all over the world—each one with the intent of doing some good—was a thrill. I was so honored to have been included.

  We took a bus from Johannesburg to Soweto, a city that had been developed as a township for black people under the apartheid system. The city’s outskirts looked like ruins, with makeshift shacks filling every inch of space. We got out of the van to walk around. Immediately, Lucas, the footballer, was mobbed by kids screaming his name. We quickly found out he had grown up there and used his football skills to get out—all the way to the Premier League in England. It was like walking down a street in Memphis with Elvis, but better. The next day we visited two orphanages, one for boys and one for girls. The buildings were immaculate and the kids were dressed in spotless uniforms. We got them dirty pretty fast. Loaded down with chocolates—the international icebreaker—and the sports equipment we brought for them, we were welcomed onto the grass field with high-pitched squeals and open arms. Hours went by and we all worked up a good sweat teaching the kids the basics of each of our sports. The kids had no idea who we were—except for Lucas, of course—but they were thrilled with their new friends and didn’t take a minute’s break from playing all day long.

  I remembered how ecstatic I’d been when I was seven years old and Yannick Noah, the most famous tennis player at the time, came to my town to play in the Davis Cup. My dad took my brother and me to see him. After the match I was leaning over the railing with the rest of the crowd when he reached up and placed his broken racket and sweaty wrist-bands right into my hands. I was beside myself with happiness. Everyone oohed and aahed over my loot as I made my way out of the stadium and through the parking lot to our car. It was a very powerful feeling of Hey, I’m something special. Even though the racket had broken strings, I didn’t let it out of my sight for months. I even slept with it next to me with its head on my pillow. I never forgot that kindness, and that one small gesture fueled my passion to practice against the brick wall even harder every morning. I’d always loved kids and made time in my schedule for charity events, but this trip reinforced the powerful connection between kids and sports that I’d always believed in. I was going to work harder to make a difference.

  After the orphanage, we drove into Johannesburg to meet Nelson Mandela. As we walked into his office I was struck by the light and energy that came from him before he even uttered a word. I was almost speechless. Before the trip I’d read as much about him as I could, and I was awed by his courage, strength, and determination. During the apartheid era he was unjustly imprisoned for twenty-seven years. Almost three decades of his life were stolen from him. Most people would have been destroyed. After his release he continued his tireless work for equality. Instead of being angry and bitter, he pursued peaceful and empowering strategies like reconciliation and negotiation. It worked. He was the first fully democratically elected president of South Africa and was a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. Meeting him was one of the highlights of my life. We talked about kids and sports: he told me he’d followed my career in the early nineties and had loved watching me play. Me? Nelson Mandela knew who I was? I couldn’t believe it.

  I left his office feeling hopeful. He has a magical way of doing that to people. Throughout my trip, I’d been carrying around a piece of paper with one of his quotes written on it: “There is no passion to be found playing small—in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.” He lived that philosophy every single day. I wanted to live it, too.

  The Laureus trip was a life-changing experience, and I promised myself that I was going to carry that inspiration home with
me and put it to good use. But I wasn’t ready to head back to Florida yet. I had some more living to do. My mom and I headed to Kruger National Park so I could fulfill one of my life’s dreams: to go on a safari. We stayed in a treetop lodge and had a brilliant guide who met us at 5 a.m. every morning. After hours and hours of hiking, we came across a lioness and her cub, a leopard, a herd of buffalo, a giraffe, and a family of rhinos. I had to pinch myself. When you are trying to find animals in their own habitat, you have to be patient and quiet. You have to be in the moment. For me, being in the presence of animals is calming and humbling. I truly believe that there is a primal connection between the human soul and the animal soul that gets lost in our busy day-to-day life. But when you get a glimpse of it, you are almost knocked over by its power.

  One afternoon I was taking a nap up in our tree house. Our hike had been particularly grueling and I was exhausted. After about an hour, I felt something tugging on my leg.

  “Mom, just give me fifteen more minutes,” I said from underneath my pillow. The tapping on my leg continued. “Come on, just fifteen minutes, please!” I begged. The tapping got harder. “Fine, I’ll get up.” I threw the pillow off my face, sat up in bed, and found myself face-to-face with a baboon. I don’t know which of us was more shocked. My eyes grew wider and so did his. I started screaming, then he started screaming. I jumped out of my bed, then he jumped out of my bed, ran to the open window, turned around, and gave me one more confused look before scampering off into the trees. It took an hour for my heart rate to return to normal.

  When I told my mom what had happened, she couldn’t stop laughing. “Well, you said you wanted an up-close experience with the animals!” I got more than I bargained for, that’s for sure. On that trip I decided that no matter what had happened to me in the past and no matter what fears were trying to hold me back, I was not going to lead a small life.