Getting a Grip Read online

  “Monica,” he said with great calm, “please do not look at the finish line. Right now, the finish line does not exist. Just play each point and don’t think past the next one. That is your only goal today.” He gave me a big hug and I ventured toward the locker room. I wouldn’t be able to talk to him again until the match was over.

  Just play every point. That’s all I have to do. I saw Chrissie in the locker room and she gave me a quick nod of recognition. She was all business, so I followed her lead. I put on my headphones, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and zoned out to “Hungry Like the Wolf” until an official called us out. Even though I tried not to let my nerves show, they were on display in front of the whole crowd. I was playing tight and not getting into the flow of the game. I was reacting to her shots instead of taking the lead through sheer force of power. I’m in the final, I’m in the final! raced through my head, and I couldn’t shake those words out no matter how hard I tried. It was like a dream and the real me was hovering above the court, watching the pretend me suffering another loss at the hands of Chrissie. She took the first set 6-3, but instead of feeling more pressure, I felt less. I had nothing to lose in the second, so it was time to just go for it. So you’re in the finals: big deal. Just focus on every point, I reminded myself. I found my rhythm, and with each point I won, the next one came a little easier. Before I knew it, I’d won the second set 6-1—my first victorious set against one of the greatest tennis players in the world. But I didn’t start patting myself on the back. There was still another set to play.

  In the third I tightened up again, this time because the thought of actually winning—something I’d been too hesitant to consider—kept popping into my head. It was distracting, so I repeated my dad’s advice out loud. Every point. Every point. I loosened up and went for broke. I won the third set 6-4 and looked straight at my dad for confirmation that what I thought had happened really had, indeed, happened. He was on his feet clapping and nodding his head up and down as if to say, Yes, you won. You aren’t dreaming. I walked to the net and, for the second time, shook the hand of my idol. The thing about being fifteen and achieving something extraordinary is that it isn’t fraught with the same drama that it would be when achieving it as an adult. I was fifteen, what did I know? If I’d been older, I might have psyched myself out. I might have thought I didn’t deserve to win and let negative thinking sabotage my success. But at fifteen I didn’t know any better. If I played the best that I could, why shouldn’t I be able to beat her? Teenagers are fueled by a naïve invincibility that can lead to tremendous achievements—it just goes to show how much power the mind has. Before you’ve been knocked down by life and seen your share of disappointments, you think anything is possible.

  Chrissie was gracious in defeat, and when we got back to the locker room she gave me some valuable advice: “Enjoy every day you have on tour now. Before you know it, a new generation just like you will be rising up, but they’ll be faster and stronger. You’ll have everything to lose and they’ll have everything to gain.” I just nodded my head and offered my usual self-conscious “Uh-huh.” Her speech was kind of a downer but it wasn’t out of bitterness: she was genuinely trying to be helpful. And she’d just been beaten by a player less than half her age, so maybe it was a way to vent her frustration. But I was fifteen at the time and, like most fifteen-year-olds, the thought of ever being thirty was something I couldn’t wrap my head around. Thirty? It sounded old. By then I’d be married with kids and I’d be shuttling around in a little space car in the sky. It was a long way off. Too far off to think about now. Why would I worry about getting old? I’d be young forever. I had no idea that Chrissie’s advice would turn out to be dead-on.

  For winning the tournament, I received a check for $50,000. They presented it to me in a jumbo-size form for publicity photos. I’d never seen so many zeros before and I thought that, because it was a lot of money, it had to be written on a really big check. I was convinced that I had to take it to the bank to cash it, so after the awards ceremony I kept walking around with it even though it was nearly as big as I was. The tournament director explained that they’d give me another check, one that I could put in my pocket, but I was so thrilled with my victory that I wanted to hold on to that big piece of cardboard for as long as I could. My dad carried my bags for me and I struggled to hold on to the check as we walked through the parking lot. I wasn’t represented by an agency yet, and during the short walk to our rental car we were besieged by well-dressed executive types giving us their business cards. During my quiet practice time at the Academy over the past year I’d been shielded from the business side of tennis, but beating Chrissie had catapulted me onto the radar of every sports agency in the world. Things were going to change. After squeezing my check into the backseat, we headed to the airport, where I claimed it as my carry-on luggage. For the next twenty-four hours it went everywhere with me. I’d never been so proud of myself.

  I spent early spring preparing for the French Open, a Grand Slam I’d been fantasizing about for years. Clay is hands-down my favorite surface, and that year my love affair began with Roland Garros Stadium. After I unpacked my bags in the hotel, my dad came into my room.

  “How are you doing? Are you tired?” He looked concerned. It was my first Grand Slam and my first trip overseas for a professional tournament. I could tell he was worried it would be too much for me to take in.

  “I feel great!” I was so pumped on adrenaline that a long flight and a six-hour time change weren’t having an effect on me.

  “Want to get some fresh air?” he asked. “It will help with the jet lag.”

  “Yes, of course!” I couldn’t wait to hit the streets of Paris, but we didn’t have time to set off on a whirlwind sightseeing day. Versailles and the Louvre would have to wait awhile. As it turned out, they’d have to wait sixteen years until I was able to see Paris the right way.

  Our walk took us down the sidewalks of the 16th Arrondissement, the ritziest neighborhood in the city, with grand apartment buildings. I was amazed by the women who whisked by on the sidewalk with hair as silky as their Hermès scarves. It was an effortless chic, and I was hooked on the glamour that seemed to be their birthright. I wanted to look like that. We made our way through the leafy and gigantic Bois de Boulogne until we ended at Roland Garros Stadium. It was the Roland Garros, the stadium I’d been dreaming about since seeing it on our TV in Yugoslavia.

  “You want to go in?” my dad asked, although he knew the answer. Without waiting for my reply, he was already through the front gate. I went half running, half skipping after him. Up and up we climbed until we reached the top row of the stands. You know how sometimes when you see a famous person, they look smaller than you’d imagined? Or you see a movie or television show being filmed and the set looks way smaller than it does on the screen? That’s not how the stadium was for me. Seeing it with my own eyes was startling. It was twice as big, twice as grand, and twice as intimidating as I’d thought it would be. All those spring days spent in front of the television watching the players duke it out on Court Central had been abysmal preparation. I felt small and young. I felt like a kid pretending to be a tennis player. I let out a big sigh.

  “What is it?” my dad asked.

  “It just looks so huge.” The butterflies in my stomach were getting an early start on making me a nervous wreck. My dad took off his sunglasses and pointed down to the court.

  “Monica, look down there.” There were rows and rows of seats between me and the court. It looked so far away.

  “That court is not huge,” he continued. “That court is the same size you’ve been playing on your whole life.” He waved his arms around the stadium. “All of this, it doesn’t mean anything. Just look at the court.” He was right. There wasn’t anything different or special about this red clay court. It may have been housed in one of the most famous and legendary stadiums in the world, but it didn’t make the actual court any harder to play on. On our walk home, my butterfli
es grew tired and went to sleep.

  My first Grand Slam was won in Paris, but it wasn’t destined to be that year. Instead, I inadvertently offended an opponent. On my way out to the court to play a third-round match against Olympic doubles gold medalist Zina Garrison, two little girls handed me a bouquet of red roses. I didn’t know what to do with the flowers, so I threw some to the spectators and offered the rest to Zina at the net. Oops! Kids are much more media savvy now. Sports academies have media training classes for players before they hit their teens. But back then I was a young girl who thought flowers were pretty and wanted to do something nice for the fans. I took a lot of heat for it in the postmatch conference. Nobody asked me about the match; they just wanted to know why I threw flowers to the crowd. What statement was I trying to make? I didn’t have an answer for them. I just wanted to focus on my next match. I got through the next two rounds in two sets each and reached the semifinal. It was the first match in what was to become a rivalry with Steffi Graf, the epitome of on-court athleticism and eye-popping agility. She was four years older than I was, but I remembered seeing her at junior tournaments in Europe. Even as a kid she could bound around the court as if she had springs in her long legs. She was the type of athlete who probably would have excelled at any sport she chose. I lost the semifinal to her 3-6, 6-3, 3-6, but I wasn’t distraught. The stadium in France might have been bigger than anything I’d ever played in before, but I belonged there just as much as anyone else.

  9

  The Grand Dame of Grand Slams

  There is an energy at Wimbledon that is different from the other Grand Slams. It may be the formalities, the presence of the royal family, the perfectly polished silver, the high tea, the well-dressed and serious crowd that rarely claps even on amazing points, the all-white dress code, or just the fact that it’s been around the longest that gives it such a special aura. While the French is a gut-wrenching war of attrition played out through long, grinding points on clay, Wimbledon is a fast-paced clash of high-flying egos and beautiful serve-and-volley skills, an integral part of the game that I never mastered. The media works itself into a frenzy leading up to the action on the court, so by the time the players get there, the energy is already pumping before the first-round matches have been played. Players get the same number of points in every Grand Slam, but there is an undeniable cachet that goes along with adding your name to the plaques on the wall of the All England Club.

  There are three different locker rooms at Wimbledon. The top sixteen seeds get one locker room, the next thirty-two get another locker room, and the rest get a third locker room. It is the only tournament that divides the players and it sets a very formal tone right away. Normally we’re all crowded into the same place, and as the days go by the room begins to slowly empty out until just the last two players are left. It’s hard not to talk to your competition, but you can’t be too friendly, otherwise you won’t be able to harness the do-or-die instinct you may need later on the court. If you’re not emotionally invested, you can remain coolheaded when it counts. My philosophy was always “Get to know people as little as possible; that way nobody gets hurt.” It won’t give you the happiest life, but it will improve your tennis game a lot.

  When I walked into the locker room at Wimbledon for the first time, I thought I’d taken a wrong turn. It looked more like Buckingham Palace than a tournament site. Silver trays and china were laid out in perfect alignment on tables, and a stunning display of food was right in the middle of the room. It was the fanciest thing I’d ever seen. It was like I’d stumbled back in time to a tea party in Victorian England. Plates were filled with finger sandwiches of every kind and there were tins upon tins of shortbread cookies waiting to be feasted on. When it comes to my willpower, shortbread cookies are almost as bad as peanut butter. Before each match I’d treat myself to two of them, but I made sure to stop because I didn’t want to feel sick on the court.

  I made it through the first three rounds but was halted in the fourth when I came up against Steffi. I didn’t fare as well as I had three weeks earlier in Paris. Before our match there were rumblings that Princess Di would be there. I wasn’t an easily starstruck kid, but Princess Di was special. She transcended celebrity status. A tournament official pulled me aside as I was walking out to Centre Court. What was going on? Was the match canceled? Did we have one of those rain delays that Wimbledon was notorious for? No, just a quick lesson in how to curtsy to royalty.

  My lesson lasted ten seconds before the official was pushing me toward the court. The sun was shining brightly on the green grass, and I hadn’t the slightest idea of where to look for the princess. I did a weird sort of sweeping curtsy move covering as much room as I could, hoping that somehow I’d aimed in her general direction. During the match I finally spotted her. Her grace, elegance, and poise made her stand out in the crowd of thousands—though not enough to let me spot her when it had counted. She was a beautiful princess. The All England Club was straight out of a fairy tale. Unfortunately, my score against Steffi was not a happy ending: I lost 6-0, 6-1. But I’d made it to the final sixteen and I got to see the best locker room on the grounds. It could have been a worse run. My long, rocky relationship with Wimbledon had just begun.

  10

  Hitting My Stride

  Bursting into the top ten rankings is a baptism by fire into the business side of tennis. I was sixteen when it happened. I had to grow up fast. The strong showing I’d put on during the ’89 season carried me right up the rankings to a solid number six. Suddenly the phone started ringing. The sports management firm IMG was representing me, and there were equipment, clothing, and advertising sponsors sending them boxes and boxes of free merchandise to give to me. It’s funny how when you really need things, nobody will give you anything, but when you are finally able to afford what you need, you’re given far more than you could ever use. My parents, who despite having two good jobs when I was growing up still had to run our household on a tight budget, taught me that money means very little. It comes and it goes but it doesn’t define you and it certainly isn’t something to base your self-worth on. I don’t remember playing in tournaments for the money. I played in them because I loved playing tennis. The money part just allowed me to keep at it.

  Deciding to play tennis is like cutting a hole in your wallet. The money just disappears. It takes a team to build a successful player: a coach and hitting partner travel with you everywhere. They are paid whether you win or lose, and often there are bonuses for them when you score a title. You are responsible for more than just your own livelihood, so it puts that much extra pressure on you to win. People are depending on you. Logistics can be a nightmare. You are responsible for making plane and hotel reservations, which can change at the drop of a hat, depending on how you perform at each week’s new tournament. I never knew any of this when I was a teenager. I took care of the travel details but I had no concept of how much everything was costing. My dad was my coach and Zoltan, who handled the finances, was my hitting partner. We were a closely knit, efficiently run family business. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties and out on the tour alone that I saw the challenging cost-benefit nature of being a professional tennis player. If you hit it big, you will never have to work again in your life. But if you’re struggling and ranked in the mid-twenties to -thirties, which is still a really impressive worldwide ranking, it can be very difficult to make it work financially.

  “You look like a tipsy jackrabbit out there,” Zoltan said to me over dinner one night.

  “What?” I had no idea what he was talking about. I’d just lost a disappointing third-round match in Boca Raton, but the press didn’t care too much because it was where Jennifer Capriati, the thirteen-year-old American phenom, had just made her professional debut. All eyes were on her. I wasn’t the youngest on the tour anymore—not even close.

  “You know, jumping all over the place, like this . . .” He got up from the table and performed a perfect imitation of me. From the time I was
little, I’d had a silly superstition of not stepping on lines. I have no idea where it came from. I knew I looked ridiculous hopping and walking awkwardly around the lines between points, but I had convinced myself that if I didn’t do it I wouldn’t win. It was a bad habit. I didn’t want it to affect my game or, worse, my head. Zoltan had pointed out the obvious: I did look crazy out there. I asked myself a simple question: Was my superstition adding something positive to my game? Was it really the reason I was winning matches? During the beginning of 1990 my performance had been far from fulfilling, so it was clear that avoiding the lines wasn’t adding anything to my winning percentage. If I was serious about being in the top ten (I’d started that year’s season at number six but was rapidly losing ground), I had to leave my childhood security blanket behind. In the next tournament in Key Biscayne, I stepped on the lines. I won my first title of the year.

  Things happened really fast after that. Labeling me as the “most mentally strong and tenacious player on tour,” the media projected that I’d break into the top three by the end of the year. I didn’t want to hear about that. I didn’t want to think about the numbers. It gave me a headache. I just wanted to play the best tennis possible. A short while after I vowed to break my line superstition, I took another giant step: I left the Academy. You know when you have an uneasy intuition that something is about to go wrong but you don’t know how to stop it? My dad and Nick both had big egos, and they were bound to clash. I was too young to grasp exactly what was going wrong—I hated anything involving the business side of tennis—so I just ignored the whole thing, hoping it would go away. It didn’t. Shortly before the Italian Open in the spring, we left the Academy. At the end, there was miscommunication, misunderstanding, and a lot of hurt feelings. We’d all reached a breaking point in our relationship and it didn’t make sense to stay there anymore.