Getting a Grip Read online

  I’d heard about a shark-diving trip near Cape Town so, after our safari week came to a close, it was our next stop. My mom thought I was even crazier than when I jumped out of the plane. Voluntarily coming face-to-face with a great white shark was not her idea of fun. It wasn’t mine, either, but I had to do it. On the day of the dive, I put on a wetsuit and oxygen tank, took a few deep breaths, and got into the protective steel cage. It was slowly lowered down into the water. My heart was pounding as they dropped the bloody bait into the water above my head. The ninety seconds I’d been in the cage felt like an hour, when suddenly I saw a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. I whipped my head around and saw an enormous shark heading right toward me. Go for the fish, the fish! I kept thinking. When it was about two feet away, it jerked its entire body up with one big thrust and the impact pushed me to the back of my cage.

  No sooner had I regained my balance than another shark came charging in my direction. It stopped a few feet in front of me and began to glide back and forth. It angled its head toward me and I got a full frontal of its jagged teeth. If I reached my hand out, I could have touched it—and lost my arm in the process. If the cage door opened, I was dead. All I could hear was the sound of my respirator, and all I could see was this terrifying and beautiful animal that could end my life in two seconds if it wanted to. This is life, I thought. Right now, and now, and now . . . I am living right this very second. The entire dive wasn’t longer than thirty minutes, but when I resurfaced I felt like I’d taken an extended trip to another universe. For the rest of the day I felt as if a gentle buzz of energy surrounded me. I wasn’t just living life—I was feeling it. The sun seemed brighter, the ocean smelled stronger, and every noise was amplified. It was like life as I knew it had been a two and it was now cranked up to an eight. Everything seemed more real and I wanted to experience all of it. The life I was creating for myself was turning out to be anything but small.

  47

  Life 101

  Go to a late-night movie.

  Learn to make risotto.

  Have a glass of wine without guilt.

  Master my digital camera.

  My planner was filled with a checklist of “normal” things I wanted to do, and I was marking them off one by one. I was embracing my new life at home and filling my days with things other than tennis. There was one thing that I never thought would go on a checklist, but in 2007 I added it:

  Go to the gym.

  My weight was holding steady in the mid-140s but I hadn’t lost sight of my target weight of 136, the weight that had remained elusive for fourteen years. I’d made tremendous progress—I’d lost thirty pounds already—but I knew I could reclaim my old body if I set my mind to it. And without going crazy. I just wanted to feel like I was in the body I was meant to be in. Of course, I could easily have lived with those extra ten pounds, but I didn’t want to. They were more than just a little extra weight: they were a symbol of all the bad things I’d been through since I was nineteen years old. Those pounds reminded me of my old self-sabotaging state of mind. Now I had a new mind-set and I wanted my body to reflect it. Thirty pounds had been lost by dealing with the built-up emotional wreckage in my head and by incorporating the “Less is more” theory into my life, but I needed one last kick to get to my target weight. I had to step it up if I wanted to reach my goal.

  I called Gyll, a trainer at my local gym who had worked with me several years earlier. She was in incredible shape and ran a notoriously difficult boot-camp class. I’d never taken it—it always looked too intimidating—but I thought it would help shake up my new life. I told her I wanted to try her class.

  “Have you been working out lately?” she asked.

  “I’ve been walking a lot, but I don’t remember the last time I lifted an ounce.”

  “Monica, don’t worry. Just increase your walking, start lifting a little to build up your confidence, and observe the class a couple more times so you get comfortable with what we are doing. The last thing I want is for you to join us, get discouraged, and never come back again.”

  The irony of being a professional athlete but not being able to jump right into the class was funny. But I did just what she told me: I walked every morning and every evening, went to the gym for two weeks to do lightweight circuits, and watched her class. Her students were on a mission: for an hour and fifteen minutes they pushed themselves and pushed each other. I’d never done a group class before—during my playing days it was the last thing I had the energy or desire to do—but there was a strong vibe coming out of that room that, even as an outsider, I could feel. Still, I hesitated.

  I didn’t know if I was ready to go back to gym life, no matter how different it seemed from my old tennis workouts. I’d spent four years off the tour and away from trainers, coaches, and nutritionists. The quiet was something I’d desperately needed in my life. It gave me the space I craved to finally hear myself and to discern what my own needs were. Being on my own had calmed me down, and my trip to South Africa had challenged me to jump into the life I was capable of living. For the past year I’d been keeping my weight steady and spending my time presenting fitness and confidence-building programs for kids in local schools and fostering abused and neglected dogs. Even without tennis as a full-time job, I was still managing to fill up my life. The more full my life felt, the less need I had to turn to food for temporary comfort. My inside was healing and my outside was following close behind.

  But I still had a fear. I was anxious that returning to the gym would catapult me back into my old mind-set: I’m not good enough, I’m too fat, I hate this, I am miserable on this treadmill, I have to lose more weight, I have to push myself more, etc. I thought about it for another week and I came to a conclusion: I had the control. There were things—a lot of things—that I didn’t have control over. Being stabbed, my dad’s cancer, an unjust court ruling, losing my number one ranking, losing endorsements, losing two and a half years of my career, losing the peak of my playing days, my dad dying, the critical and hurtful comments people made—these were all things that I couldn’t control. They were out of my hands, but for years I’d wanted to believe I could control them. If I just tried hard enough, I thought I could bend them to my will. Unfortunately, that set me up for an avalanche of negativity, because the moment another bad thing happened, I’d be even more angry, frustrated, and upset because I had failed to control it. What I should have been doing was just letting it go. And the one thing I did have control over—the way I treated my body and myself—was the one thing that got more out of control than everything else. I’d had it backwards the entire time.

  Once I let go of the things I couldn’t control, an enormous amount of space opened up in my mind and the things I could control suddenly became clear. How I chose to move my body, what I chose to put into my mouth, how I chose to view myself, and what I chose to do with the rest of my life were the things I did have control over. Going back to a gym wasn’t going to take that power away from me: It was part of me now. It was in my core. It was time to lose those last pounds. I wasn’t going to the gym because I had to: I was going to the gym because I wanted to.

  Sometimes it took more than a little self-motivation to get me there, but working out in a group made me accountable. If I missed a day, at least three people would ask me where I was. When I was playing tennis, I had to show up for workouts because it was my job. When I showed up for Gyll’s class, it was my choice. I started going to her class twice a week. On the other days I went for walks. It was the perfect balance. I was careful not to get caught up in unrealistic expectations. Gyll has the body of a fitness model: toned, lean, and strong. The kind of body that looks great running along the beach in a bikini. During our first workout I could feel myself starting to engage in the damaging comparison game. I put an end to it immediately and I got real with myself. Gyll’s body looks like that because she has tremendous discipline and she works extremely hard. My body was not meant to be a size two. It just wasn
’t. If I wanted to be a size two—and there were more than a few in the class—I’d have to go to the gym six times a week and supplement that with hours and hours of extra cardio. I’d also have to go back to the days of calorie counting, food-journal keeping, and cheese shunning. Even then, being that tiny was unlikely and I knew I’d be miserable. Extreme approaches like that didn’t work for me; in fact, they had the opposite effect. I had to find what I was comfortable with and compare myself to my own expectations, not to anyone else’s.

  I focused on my own journey. At the start I couldn’t do fifty sit-ups in a row, let alone the three hundred everyone else was churning out. But I didn’t let it bother me. Focus on your own mission, I told myself. Stop focusing on the big numbers. All or nothing never works. Baby steps taken consistently achieve great feats. After six weeks I could keep up with the whole class like a veteran. By the time I reached the four-year mark of my early exit from the French Open, I was at my goal weight of 136 pounds. And I hadn’t dieted once.

  48

  Home

  When 2008 began, I knew it was time to say good-bye to tennis. Do I wish I’d learned how to treat myself with compassion and forgiveness earlier? Yes. Would that have given me a better shot at regaining my old game? Probably. Do I regret not winning a tenth Grand Slam? Sometimes. But when it comes down to it, one more Grand Slam doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just another line in my obituary. It doesn’t define me as the person I am today. And if I had to make the choice between winning another Grand Slam or attaining this peace I have with my body now, I’d pick the latter without a flicker of hesitation. It has been a long, painful, and challenging journey, but I love where I am today. I wouldn’t give any of it back. It’s made me who I am.

  Shortly after I got back to Florida after Dancing with the Stars, I got the most unexpected call of my life. There was an inquiry from Playboy: they wanted to know if I would be interested in doing a shoot for them. Playboy ? As in the ultimate men’s magazine with the most stunning women in the world? They wanted to see me naked? Me? It had to be a joke. No, it wasn’t a joke, I was assured. I got a satisfied giggle out of the offer but declined it. I didn’t need to prove how good I looked and felt to anyone. Proving it to myself was more than enough. But it was nice to be asked just the same.

  I’d been away from home for over a month and spent the first few days catching up with texts, e-mails, and voice messages. Despite my early ejection, my friends had been overwhelmingly supportive and encouraging of my attempt to find the dancer in me. (I still didn’t know where she was, but I hadn’t given up all hope: I was still determined to nail the mambo one day.) I called a few of my girlfriends up and told them to meet me for dinner at my favorite local Italian spot. I hadn’t had a good plate of pasta in a long time. I opened up my closet, which was still a disaster from my trip to L.A., and searched for something clean to wear. My laundry was about two months behind. I was rifling through a pile of T-shirts when I saw it peeking out from behind a blazer: the little black dress I’d bought at Century 21 four years earlier. The tags were still hanging off of it. I hadn’t ever tried it on. I slipped it off the hanger and stepped into it. If it doesn’t fit, I promised myself, I won’t stress out about it. After all, I did indulge in a few too many Hungarian pastries in L.A. It slid right past my hips and I zipped up the side without a moment’s hesitation. It fit like it was made for me. I twirled in front of the mirror a few times and couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

  It felt good to be home.

  Index

  Academy. See Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy

  accomplishments. See milestones

  Adidas International (Sydney)

  Agassi, Andre

  All England Club. See also Wimbledon

  Amelia Island (Florida)

  clay court

  island charm

  postmatch press conference

  rain delay

  tournament

  Andreas (hitting partner)

  Annabelle (Bahamas vacation friend)

  Arias, Jimmy

  Ariel (dog)

  Astro (dog)

  Atlantic City exhibition match

  ATP (Association of Tennis Professionals) and ATP tours

  glamorization of professional tennis

  travel schedule

  wives and girlfriends of male players

  attack. See stabbing incident

  Australia

  Adidas International (Sydney)

  Hopman Cup (Perth)

  2000 Olympics (Sydney)

  Australian Open

  1991 (second Grand Slam title)

  1992 (fifth Grand Slam title)

  1993 (eighth Grand Slam title)

  1996 (ninth Grand Slam title)

  1999

  2001

  2002

  2003

  Bahia, Brazil

  Bailey, Kate

  ballroom dancing

  Banck, Bobby

  Barcelona

  Bedanova, Daja

  Beijing

  Benjamin (boyfriend)

  Boca Raton tournament

  body image. See weight problem

  Bollettieri, Cindi

  Bollettieri, Nick. See also Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy

  boyfriends

  Benjamin

  dating while touring

  Dave

  Enzo

  Brazil

  Brosnan, Pierce

  bungee jump

  Burke, Cheryl

  business of tennis. See professional tennis

  Cacic, Tony

  Caitlin (New York friend)

  California tournaments

  Indian Wells

  Los Angeles

  San Diego

  Camp Kaizen (Florida)

  Canadian Open

  Capriati, Jennifer

  Australian Open

  French Open

  Italian Open

  Miami Open

  professional debut

  ranking, 2002

  San Diego tournament

  U.S. Open

  “youngest” title

  Carson, Johnny and Alexis

  Caterina (Madrid tournament employee)

  Chang, Michael

  Charlton, Bobby

  China

  Cho, Yoon-Jeong

  Chris (food monitor)

  Claudio (Anna Smashnova’s husband)

  clay surface

  Clijsters, Kim

  clothing

  bridesmaid’s dress

  Chanel dress

  Evert’s

  for first Grand Slam win

  for first professional tournament

  of ice skaters

  large and formless

  little black dress

  packing for travel

  of Parisiennes

  U.S. Open standards

  vintage designer dress from New Orleans

  Wimbledon standards

  “Worst Dressed” designation (People)

  coaches

  Arias

  Banck

  cost of

  Dinkins, as honorary coach

  father’s advice as coach

  father’s techniques as coach

  parents as

  selection of

  Coetzer, Amanda

  Connors, Jimmy

  Costa Rica

  Courier, Jim

  Cunningham, Carrie

  Dancing with the Stars

  Date, Kimiko

  dating

  Benjamin

  Dave

  Enzo

  while touring

  Dave (boyfriend)

  Davenport, Lindsay

  Atlanta Olympics

  fitness of

  Italian Open

  loss during number-one ranking

  Sydney Olympics

  weight as teenager

  Wimbledon

  de la Fuente, Christian

  Dechy, Nathalie

  Dementieva
, Elena

  depression. See emotional problems

  Dev, Kapil

  Dinkins, David

  Dokié, Jelena

  du Plessis, Morné

  Dubai

  Eastbourne (England)

  eating. See weight problem

  ego and sense of entitlement

  Elizabeth, Shannon

  emotional distancing from opponents

  emotional problems

  food as solace for

  grief over father’s death

  homesickness

  post-traumatic stress disorder

  recovery from depression

  slow emotional development and lost adolescence

  after stabbing incident

  survival techniques

  therapeutic value of walks

  endorsement contracts

  Enzo (boyfriend)

  Ericsson Open (Miami Masters)

  Etcheberry, Pat

  Evert, Chris

  Farina, Silvia

  fashion. See clothing; hair

  Fed Cup

  Federer, Roger

  Fernandez, Mary Joe

  Australian Open

  French Open

  friendship

  retirement

  U.S. Open

  wedding

  Florida

  Boca Raton tournament

  Key Biscayne tournaments

  Miami Masters

  Orange Bowl (Miami)

  Palm Springs tournament

  Sarasota, Seles family home in

  Sport Goofy Tournament (Orlando)

  See also Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy

  food. See weight problem

  Forbes

  Foro Italico. See Italian Open

  Frazier, Amy

  French Open

  1989

  1990 (first Grand Slam title)

  1991 (third Grand Slam title)

  1992 (sixth Grand Slam title)

  1996

  1997

  1998

  1999

  2000

  2002

  2003

  Gambill, Jan-Michael

  Gardner, Rulon

  Garrison, Zina

  Germany

  avoidance of

  stabbing incident