Two days later, in August 1989, I pulled out of the US Open and announced my retirement. “I have had a momentous run during a truly outstanding time in the world of tennis,” I said as I read my prepared statement at the lectern. “I have achieved everything I set out to achieve. I believe my accomplishments will be remembered in the decades to come. And now, I am done. Thank you.”
I did not play a professional match again.
Until now.
THE
COMEBACK
OCTOBER 1994
Three and a half months before Melbourne
I wake up at seven-fifteen. I drink a blueberry smoothie and eat raw unsalted almonds for breakfast. I put on my track pants and a T-shirt. I slip a sweatband across my forehead.
And at eight a.m. on the dot, half a decade after my retirement—and fifteen years since my father last coached me—I step onto my tennis court, prepared to train.
The sun is shining bright against the mountains, and the sky is clear except for the fifty-foot palm trees lining my yard. It is quiet here, even though the frenzy of L.A. traffic is just beyond my gates.
I do not care about the rest of the city. I am focused on this court, this ground underneath my feet. I will defend my record. I will take down Nicki Chan.
“We begin,” my father says. He is in a polo shirt and chinos. Looking at him, I can see he’s so much grayer since the last time we were on the court together, skinnier too. But he stands just as tall as he did when I was a child.
“I’m ready,” I say. He cannot hold back his smile.
“Three things I want to get a good sense of today,” he says.
I bend down and reach for my toes, stretching my legs. “My serve, first,” I say as I bounce, grabbing my right foot with both hands, then my left.
My father shakes his head. “No, I’m telling you what I want to see––you’re not guessing. It’s not a quiz.”
I stand up and blink at his tone. “Okay.”
He sits down on the bench on the side of the court, and I put one foot up beside him and stretch again.
My father starts counting off. “Uno,” he says, “your serve. By which I mean, I want to know what kind of firepower you still have, I want to see your control.”
“Está bien.”
“Second is footwork. I want to know: How fast are you getting from one end of the court to the other? How agile can you be?”
“Perfecto. ?Qué más? Endurance?”
He ignores me. “Third, endurance.”
I nod.
“Your endurance greatly improved with Lars,” my father says. I flinch at the mention of Lars’s name. “What did he add to your training to get you there?”
I am not sure how to respond, unsure how to have this conversation with him. “You mean other than the jump?” I finally say.
“We’re not putting your knee through too much jumping. You had surgery to fix your ACL and you’re not gonna tear it up again—”
“Bueno, papá. Basta, ya lo entendi.”
“So what else did he add to your game?” He meets my gaze and holds it. “Contame.”
“Cross-training,” I say. “You and I always ran, but he added aerobics, calisthenics, weight lifting.”
He nods and rolls his eyes. “You train for tennis doing things other than tennis. What a genius.”
“You asked. And it worked.”
My father nods. “Bien, bien, bien.”
We are both quiet for a moment. I can hear the gardener starting a lawn mower at the estate behind mine. “So…do you want to do that or…?”
My father nods. “Sí, estoy pensando.”
I wait for him to finish his thought. I start rolling my neck.
My father says, “Nicki’s going to assume her best bet is to wear you out.”
“Anyone playing me is going to assume that. I’m thirty-seven years old. All you have to do is wear out the old lady.”
My dad laughs. “You have no idea what it feels like to be old.”
“In the grand scheme of things, Dad, sure,” I tell him. “But in tennis…”
He nods. “So the most important thing we can do for you right now is work on your stamina.”
“Yes, agreed.”
“So, let’s start with—every day—you run ten miles.”
I haven’t run ten miles in a few years. But fine. “And then we start hitting balls?”
He shakes his head. “And then squats and sprints, plus jump rope for the footwork. I’m assuming that’s what you’d do the most with Lars? Then you’ll swim, to further condition your muscles but keep it low impact. Then you can have lunch, and then in the afternoon, you hit.”
“I’m gonna die,” I say.
“Don’t whine.”
“I am not going to perform a triathlon every day and not whine about it,” I say.
My father starts to open his mouth, and I stop him. “I’m not a child anymore. Sometimes I’m going to have an opinion. Sometimes, when I’m ten miles and fifty laps in, I’m going to complain. But I’ll do what you say, and you deal with my attitude, and maybe one day soon, we’ll win another Slam title, ?Está bien?”
He looks at me, emotionless for a moment. And then he smiles and holds out his hand. “Perfecto.”
* * *
—
Every day for seven days, I put on my running shoes and take off.
I run as fast as I can as my father rides in a golf cart next to me, yelling, “?Más rápido! ?Más rápido!”
My feet hit the pavement, over and over and over again. He yells, “If you are not ahead, you are behind!”
“Sí,” I say each time. “Lo sé.”
“?Vamos, más rápido!” he yells the second he can tell I’m slowing down. “We are not out for a nice jog! We are running to win a title!”
I try to yell back to him from time to time, in whatever language comes to me first. But by the end of ten miles, I stop wasting any extra breath.
The runs are manageable. It is after that, when I’m jumping rope as he stands there barking out things like “?Más rápido!” and “?No pares!” that make me want to scream.
Instead, I focus on the burning of my calves, the ache of my arms.
And then there is the swimming. Lap after lap. As my legs and shoulders start to slow from wear, my father stands on the edge of the pool chanting, “Usá esos brazos,” like some sort of military command.
Every day when I come out of the pool, my arms are limp, my legs wobbly. I am a newborn calf, unable to find my footing.
On the seventh day, after my last lap, I can barely get myself up the ladder. Everything hurts—my hamstrings and quads are sore, my shoulders and biceps ache. I wasn’t able to stay on my lap pace.
I lie down on the deck, and my father comes over and hands me a towel. He sits beside me.
I look up at him. I can feel his frown before it makes its way to his face.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
My father tilts his head from side to side. “You’re half a mile per hour too slow on the runs. Your form needs work. Your swimming is…” He inhales deeply. “Mirá, considering your age and how long you’ve been off the court, it’s impressive. But you are not where you need to be to win a Slam, cari?o.”
“Sí, lo sé.” I dry my face. I sit up. I shake my head and look up at the sky. It is clear and bright, not a single cloud, not a single impediment.
This whole thing is a fucking joke. A player coming out of retirement after this many years? And I think I’m going to win a Slam? Am I insane?
“I do think you are on the path,” he says.
I look up at him.
“You are the hardest-working person I know,” he says. “If you decide to dedicate yourself to this, you will do it.”
I nod, already resenting that we are starting with the old “effort” chestnut and not the “sheer talent” one. “Thanks.”
He bumps me on the shoulder and smiles. “What I’m telling you is even though there is a lot of ground to cover, I believe you can be the greatest in the world again. I have that faith.”
I start fiddling with the nails on my left hand. “Yeah?” I ask. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. But listen, hija,” my father says, putting his arm around my shoulders and squeezing me. “It does not matter if I have faith.”
“It does, actually,” I say. There is an edge to my voice that startles us both.
My father nods but leaves it at that. Like me, he has no interest in excavating what is long buried.
“Your faith in yourself drove you to the top once. And it can drive you there again,” my father says finally.