Getting a Grip Read online

  My time at the Academy was intense. My memories of those years are filled with a lot of tears, a lot of laughs, and a ton of hard work. Nick and his staff had been very supportive, and it had been an incredible place for me to hone my skills in preparation for the tour. After eighteen years I can look back on those times with a big smile on my face. I still see Nick and his wife, Cindi, at tennis events throughout the year. In 2004, they founded Camp Kaizen, a nonprofit fitness and weight-loss camp for teenage girls. They are doing such good work, and I love catching up with them. At seventy-seven, Nick looks as tan and as fit as ever. He still gets up before the sun and works harder than anyone else at the Academy. His intense work ethic has paid off: his record in producing top players is unmatched. A lot has happened since our departure from the Academy, and I will always love Nick and be grateful for the opportunity he gave me.

  Our family left Bradenton and found a new place in Sarasota. It was time to get back to basics again. I didn’t want to hear about money, endorsements, or how rankings translated into dollars. I was sixteen and I just wanted to play tennis.

  Most kids my age were taking driving tests and getting ready for the spring formal. I didn’t have time to go joy-riding around town with friends, and dating wasn’t even on my radar. Traveling for eleven months of the year ruined any chance that I’d go through the trials and tribulations of puppy love. I was too busy packing up to go on the European swing of the tour: Rome, Berlin, Paris, and then London, with no time to breathe between each city. I’d had a taste of the Grand Slams the year before and I couldn’t wait to go back. With my mom and dad as my support team, we flew into Rome, where I had a breakthrough victory in the final against Martina Navratilova. We’d played twice before and I’d fallen to her superb game both times. In Rome it was my turn. I beat her 6-1, 6-1 and felt infused with the confidence it takes to win a Grand Slam. I belonged there just as much as every other player. With that win, Rome made a deep imprint on my heart. My dad and I worked out every day near the Tiber River, and I was primed for Paris. This time I was ready.

  I beat Jennifer Capriati in the semifinal 6-2, 6-2, and faced Steffi in the final. Winning my first Grand Slam came down to what was going on between my ears. If I believed I could beat her, I would. Rome had made me feel invincible, and I walked into Roland Garros a far different person than I’d been the year before. And the climate in the locker room was changing. A new generation was taking over. Chris Evert had retired and was commentating for NBC; Martina had skipped Paris to prepare for Wimbledon; and Arantxa Sánchez-Vicario, Jennifer, and I, all still teenagers, were proving to be the forces to be reckoned with. In two years tennis had become a whole new game. Riding the energy of the new guard, I thought I had a chance in the final.

  First things first: To feel good, I thought, you have to look good. I was feeling mighty cute in my pink and purple Fila outfit. Remember when no ensemble was complete without color-coordinated scrunchies? Of course, one wasn’t enough for me, so I layered a purple one on top of a pink one in my ponytail. I shudder when I look at those pictures now, but back then I thought I looked great. I went out ready for battle. After I lunged forward with a 3-0 lead in the first set, a rain delay was called. Rain delays are dreaded when you are winning, and hoped for when you are losing. When we returned to the court, Steffi came back to tie it up. She had taken advantage of the delay and completely regrouped. We went back and forth until it was tiebreaker time. I was still unproven on the Grand Slam scale, so it was important that I close out the first set. I had to assert my power early. If I blew this one, I’d have little chance of beating her two sets in a row. Seven is a lucky number when it comes to tiebreakers, and I had to beat Steffi to it. I focused all of my attention on placing the ball in the farthest angles of the court, keeping her running from side to side—and I did it. I owned the first set and the momentum was in my corner. I didn’t want to lose it. I won the next set 6-4 and, with the cloudy sky turning more ominous by the second, hoisted my first Grand Slam trophy above my head.

  That night we went out to celebrate, Parisian style. My family and a few friends indulged in a decadent meal at the Ritz Paris. Mark McCormack, the head of IMG, was there to join in the celebration. In fact, our whole group was made up of adults, with me being the youngest by far. Living in the vacuum of being a tennis prodigy had a strange effect on me. While I was still emotionally a few years behind my peers, I had no problem relating to adults. It was like I skipped over adolescence and never learned how to relate to people my own age. I was a kid caught up in an adult world, but I never had a smooth transition between the two. Constantly jumping back and forth between them, I had little time to digest what my life had become and who I was becoming as a person. I was making a lot of money, giving interviews, hanging out with high-powered people much older than I was, and going to fancy restaurants; but I still lived at home with my parents, still had to do chores, and still liked to watch cartoons in the morning. It was a strange universe I was living in.

  Mark’s wife, Betsy, also a player on the tour, couldn’t make the dinner because she had already left London for another tournament in Birmingham: the engine that drives the professional tour never lets up. My agent from IMG, Stephanie Tolleson, was there. I’d first met her when I was ten years old, and scouts were coming to tournaments in Europe to check me out. The business side of tennis starts early. James La Vea, a close family friend, joined us, as did Virginia Ruzici, another family friend and former tennis player who had won the French Open in 1978. The night could not have gotten any better. Well, maybe a little. Johnny Carson and his wife, Alexis, good friends of the McCormacks’, celebrated with us too. It was a dream dinner. Mr. Carson, who loved tennis even more than I did, was charming and funny. He kept the table in stitches all night long. At the end of the night he asked me to be on his show. I couldn’t believe it. I was a huge fan! My life was definitely changing. Two months later, a few weeks before the U.S. Open, I flew to Los Angeles to tape the show. My blond hair was bigger than ever, and my nervous giggling took up most of the segment. It was so much fun. Mr. Carson was a true entertainer and a true gentleman.

  There were many celebratory toasts that night at the Ritz, and we were all a bit punch-drunk from the stress of the previous two weeks. I was decked out in a hot-pink vintage designer dress with silver trim. I’d found it in a little boutique in New Orleans and I added long dangly earrings to complete the look. It’s one of the only outfits from my early playing days that I don’t look back at and wonder what the heck I was thinking. On the outside, surrounded by such accomplished and sophisticated adults, I felt older and more experienced than my sixteen years, but on the inside I was jumping up and down and giggling my head off with glee. I’d just accomplished one of my dreams and I was ravenous from the effort. I cleaned every plate that was brought out to me over the five mouthwatering courses and couldn’t make up my mind when it came time for dessert: everything looked so good, and choosing just one was nearly impossible. I chose two, the crème brûlée and apple tarte tatin with crème fraîche. They even brought out a specially made cake with Congratulations, Monica! beautifully written across the top. A mini tennis racket poked out of the icing, and I held on to it for the rest of the night. Nearly two decades later I can’t remember the scores of my Grand Slam matches, but I remember the meals in Europe in vivid detail. After I inhaled both of my desserts, someone said, “You really eat like a horse, don’t you?” I just smiled, nodded my head, and reached over for a bite of my dad’s warm chocolate cake. My size two dress was roomy, and the thought of ever not being able to eat anything I wanted was laughable. Of course I ate like a horse: I was an athlete! When I think about that dinner, it’s hard for me to go back to being in that mind-set: to not worry about calories, to not give what I was eating a second thought, to not feel guilty after devouring two desserts, to not care what people thought about my eating habits. It’s like I was a different person.

  11

  Reaching th
e Top

  Being sixteen was sweeter than I ever could have expected. My first Grand Slam win and a record-breaking four-hour, five-set match against Gabriela Sabatini at the season-ending championships in New York City capped off my year. It’s the only tournament that uses the five-set format for the women, and the sport hadn’t seen a match that long in ninety years. I was mentally and physically destroyed at the end, but I won the title and our duel was named one of the greatest matches of the Open era. With that end-of-the-year title, my new name seemed to be “Monica Seles, the youngest player ever to win (fill in the blank).” The French Open, a Grand Slam, the Virginia Slims championship—I’d won every single one at a record-setting age. I don’t know if that was a good thing. When you accomplish so much before you can legally vote, where is there to go? At sixteen, I still had a whole career ahead of me, but I’d already accomplished something that players spend decades trying to achieve. I didn’t have time to think about the greater picture of my early success, because a few weeks after the championships in Madison Square Garden it was time to pack up again.

  It had been just under two years since I’d turned pro, and I had packing down to a science. One suitcase was filled with my tennis gear and the other was filled with my clothes. I divided the clothing bag up into sections. At the start of the trip, three quarters was filled with tennis and workout clothes and one quarter was filled with cute clothes. By the end of the trip it would turn into a mountain of chaos: clothes that needed washing, souvenirs I’d bought in new cities, stuffed animals and trinkets from fans; I’d have to sit on my suitcase and fight with the zipper to force it to close. Every tournament has cocktail parties and sponsor dinners that players are obligated to attend, so the trick was to find clothes that would stand up under the pressure of international travel and several rounds of unpacking and repacking. I rolled everything—shirts, jeans, dresses, shorts, underwear, skirts—to maximize space and keep everything unwrinkled; I crammed all of my socks and a few pieces of cheap jewelry into my shoes; I picked dark colors that would survive a few wearings (hotel laundry service is shockingly expensive, and finding a local laundromat in a new city when you are desperate for one is nearly impossible). The best tip I picked up along the way was to pack my pajamas and toothbrush at the top of my bag, so if we checked into a hotel late at night, I didn’t have to go rooting around my luggage in search of them. I didn’t start wearing makeup until I was eighteen, so my toiletry kit was light: just a few bottles of anti-frizz shampoo, conditioner, gel, and hairspray to keep my fluffy hair under control.

  Right after the five-setter against Gaby, I turned seventeen. I spent my precious two weeks off at our condo in Florida and my whole family sat down to collect itself. The year had been filled with nonstop travel, press coverage, and sponsor demands. We had started the year in Chicago, then went to Washington, Boca Raton, Key Biscayne, San Antonio, and Tampa. We got home, packed some more bags, and flew over the Atlantic for the European swing: Rome, Berlin, Paris, and London. As soon as I arrived back in the States, I was off to the other side of the country to play in Los Angeles, then boomeranged back to New York for the U.S. Open. That was followed by a long plane ride to Tokyo, a stop in Oakland on my way back, and a final stop in New York for the season-ending championships. I’d become a frequent flyer whose miles could rival any international diplomat’s. I also shot a few of my first magazine layouts. At the first one, Sonia Kashuk, the legendary makeup artist, worked on me. I didn’t wear makeup in my regular life yet, but I knew she was a master so I paid careful attention for future reference. The stylists and makeup artists did a great job, but I was so young: trying to make me look older had the opposite effect. When I look back at those photos, I don’t look like a glamorous woman; I look like a child playing dress-up. I was not a mature teenager and I didn’t have the first clue about how to handle myself in the cyclone of fame and success that was swirling around me. I just hung on and went along for the ride. “Yes . . . yes . . . yes,” I said to everything that was asked of me. If my family hadn’t been with me, that first full year on the tour could have been a disaster.

  The middle of December is the only time during the year that players have two weeks in a row off. It is just enough time to empty your suitcases, do your laundry, and catch up on paying your bills. As soon as you start to catch your breath, it’s time to start packing again. We spent Christmas Day on a plane heading for Australia. It was the best time of the year to fly, and since we had always celebrated the holiday on January 1 in Yugoslavia, I didn’t feel as though I was missing out on anything. I love Christmastime—the decorations, lights, and trees are fanciful and fun—but I don’t have a sentimental attachment to it. At that point in my life, a half-empty plane was the best gift I could have wished for. It was my first trip Down Under and I was just as excited to see a koala bear as I was to play in the Australian Open.

  Within the first hour of landing in Melbourne I knew it would be my home away from home. Fantastic people, beautiful weather, and the laid-back energy of the culture calmed my nerves. I lost only twelve games in the first five rounds and faced a tough battle against Mary Joe Fernandez in the semi. The last two times we’d met on the court I’d beaten her in two sets, but she wasn’t going down easily this time. In the second set my game fell apart and she took it 6-0. Our third set went back and forth like a seesaw and we played until 9-7. I was exhausted but I was on my way to the final. Years later Mary Joe would become one of my best friends and I’d dread playing against her. If we’d been friends back then, I don’t know whether I would have been able to summon the gritty focus it takes to win a set that close. Jana Novotna, a gifted doubles player from the Czech Republic, was waiting to play me in the final. She was five years older and had beaten me in two sets at an indoor tournament during my first year as a pro, but I had an advantage now. This was her first Grand Slam singles final and I’d already won in Paris. In a monumental event like a Grand Slam final, if you don’t have confidence, you don’t have anything. I’d already been on the court in a final and prevailed. I knew I could do it.

  I was furious with myself when she took the first set 7-5. My mind started to slide down the canyon of negative thoughts, but I stopped it before it was too late. Just play each point—my dad’s words came back to me at full volume. I won the next set 6-3 and, with the momentum on my side, took control of the rhythm and didn’t let up until I won the third set 6-1. I’d done it. I won my second Grand Slam title under the unforgiving Australian sun. In front of the boisterously supportive local fans and playing on 130-degree hard courts, I proved that I was more than just a clay specialist. I was more than a one-hit wonder, and with that win I was within striking distance of being number one, a position Steffi Graf had held for the past three and a half years. Two months after Australia the points were tallied and I became the top-ranked female player in the world.

  Tennis is different from other sports in the way the number one spot is determined. The ranking system is based on an intricate mathematical equation that gives varying points to players for their performances in tournaments. The harder the tournament, the more points it is worth. Tier I events and Grand Slams are worth the most and the points decrease down to Tier IV events. Having a good showing in one Grand Slam can be worth more than winning a handful of tournaments with fewer points. All season long the rankings are changing and your schedule has to be carefully planned out in order to maximize your potential for points.

  By the beginning of March it was just a matter of time before I moved into the number one spot. I was at a tournament in Palm Springs and, according to the ranking calculation, if I beat a top-five player in the finals, I’d net enough new points to move up to the top of the tennis world. If I didn’t pull off a strong finish, I’d have to wait until the new calculations came in the following week. Steffi had lost to Gaby at a tournament in Boca Raton, but her points hadn’t been affected yet.

  I headed to Palm Springs with my parents and Astro, my l
oyal sidekick, who went with me everywhere. He was a tiny Yorkshire terrier who had joined our family the year before. Ever since I was a little girl I had begged my dad to get me a dog. “No, Monica, absolutely not” was his usual response. I even tried to bargain: “If I play well in the twelve-and-under tournament, can I get a dog?” The answer was always the same. No. Our apartment in Novi Sad was just big enough for our family, and my dad was intractable on the pet front. My whole family knew about my mission to get a dog, and every year for my birthday my grandmother fueled my obsession by baking me a delectable sugar-filled pastry in the shape of a dog. Sugar and dogs, my two favorite things in the whole world. It was a special treat that was made only on birthdays, and I couldn’t wait for the next 364 days to go by so I could get another one. After my parents moved to Florida to be with me, the begging resumed at its usual intensity. Finally my dad relented: “Okay, you can get a dog,” he said, “but if you get it, you must promise to take care of it by yourself.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed.

  “And another thing,” he added. “Under no circumstances is the dog allowed into any of the bedrooms.”

  “Got it,” I promised, already jumping up and down.

  The next day I ran to the corner store to pick up a copy of the Bradenton Herald, our local weekly paper. I tore it open to the classifieds, where I found a listing for the dog that I knew had to be mine. I named him after the big, goofy mutt from my second-favorite cartoon, The Jetsons. Back in Yugoslavia we only got Tom and Jerry, so moving to Florida was like cartoon nirvana for me. I got to know the Jetson and Flintstone families as if they were my own. Even though my Astro never perfected barking “Ruhroh!” like his namesake, it only took a week before my dad fell under his cuteness spell. A few days later I saw Astro curled up at the foot of my parents’ bed. My dad didn’t say a word. The no-dogs-in-the-bedroom rule was quickly forgotten, and Astro started coming to all the tournaments with us. The little ball of fluff sat in the player’s box with my parents and never once made a peep. I was excited to take him to Palm Springs: I’d never been there before, but I was sure my four-legged best friend was going to love it.