That frizzy cinna-bun of auburn hair, those often imitated but never duplicated two-fisted strokes, that ridiculously over-sized Yonex trampo-racquet…never again? Really? She and Lindsay D., both gone - it’s almost too much for a guy to handle. I’m disgruntled and whiny about it: Whyyyyyyyy, God?
Even with the news of Seles’ retirement last year, and the inevitable announcement of her Tennis Hall of Anyone Who’s Won A Grand Slam induction this year, it’s still weird to think she won’t be back to her old tricks soon, especially when she was practically yanked off Dancing with the Stars with one of those gigundo Looney Tunes showbiz hooks.
Anyone tuning in with hopes of seeing her re-live her 1990’s glory days saw something quite different - how someone so competitive in one arena could be so Nemo-out-of-water in another. It was Patty Smyth, John McEnroe’s wife, who reminded him that God’s usually busy with his other hand; hence, his chances of making it as a rock star were slim. Still, I’ll be first in the e-line to buy Monica’s upcoming memoir of life lessons via my amazin’ Amazon Kindle. In her own words, Monica plans "to share how I found balance, strength and happiness in my life after a rollercoaster ride of exhilarating accomplishment and sometimes overwhelming tragedy."
It's more than a tad bittersweet to think that Monica became fit and healthy only after her career was over, that it took until then to lift the weight of expectations off her shoulders (no pun intended). Obviously tennis was both a blessing and a burden to her, and I’m sure she’ll expand upon that in the pages of her book.
But take heart, Seles fans; Monica lives on at YouTube. And like every overzealous fan since the advent of the VCR, I have tapes, thank you. Tapes upon tapes of Monica’s best and worst matches, stowed in a closet somewhere at my parents’ house, just in case I need to spend another lonely, rainy afternoon wallowing in what already was and what I wish still were. Just in case I need to be reminded how to play the game and compete as if my life depended on it.
In her last match, Monica lost a first-rounder to Nadia Petrova at the French in ’03, I'm sure you’ll forgive me for coveting a more satisfying goodbye, and maybe it's not too late. I crave one last hurrah, from (as Jon Wertheim so eloquently put it in his book, Venus Envy) the Greta Garbo of our game. I’m not talking a farewell of proportions like the Martina Navratilova Retirement World Tour. I just want one match that counts for something, one more shot at being able to root for Monica as fiercely and resolutely as she herself played the game. I know that’s the only way she would ever let me/us repay her. Monica is nothing if not a woman of immense pride. I doubt that she'd want anyone's pity or sympathy. She would Wha --- heeeeee that crap out of her face so fast the even the best-intentioned well-wisher wouldn’t know what hit him.
The Monica I picture in my head is always moving forward, both on the court and off. She has been programmed to do so since her days in pigtails, hitting the crap out of ball with her beloved father, Karolj, in a makeshift parking lot turned tennis court. I’m sure she wants her fans to move forward, too.
So I search for Monica in today’s crop of current players, both male and female. To me, the two that most take after her point-by-point, never-say-die mentality are Maria Sharapova and Rafael Nadal. They leave everything out there on the court, nothing to chance, as they should. Because really, a tennis player never knows when it's time for his/her last dance.
Daffy Duck is always at the ready with that pesky hook.
