Ernie Conrick - Backhand

Losing in the quarterfinals was the worst part of the U.S. Open. The next worst thing was that it all took place in Flushing Meadows, Queens -no comment necessary there. The next worst thing was that it was painfully hot. The next worst thing was that Oleg, my hockey player boyfriend, ignored me because his babushka was in town and he was ashamed to be seen with his seventeen-year-old blond devochka. I think that in English you would say that he has no balls.

But Mariana made up for all of it. I don't need to say a thing about her really, she was a legend in women's tennis before I even picked up a racket. I'm still not sure I like her, even after what happened, but I am sure that I do respect her for not giving a shit about being a six-foot-two-inch Slavic dyke when it was still hard to be anything but a proper lady. And I respect her for what she did for me-although that's fucked up in its own way, as you'll see.

Mariana is an intimidating presence, tall, tow headed, piercing blue eyes that look out from a severe brow and pointed eyebrows. Even at forty-four, her body is rock hard, or at least the muscles are. As for her skin, it's simply spent too much time unprotected under the sun, like all tennis players, and is leathery and tough like a hide, as if it had been skinned from her body, treated by a tanner, and then reattached. Nevertheless, a defiant sensuality shines through those forty-four-year-old wrinkles so that, even as I made a concerted effort to ignore her, I, on occasion, could not help but glance quickly at her from the sidelines and admire the knots of muscles on her calves, or the severe shadow of her jaw.

Of course, she hated me immediately. Rather I should say that she hated me in a very particular way that is unique to women, and possibly unique to Mariana herself. Whenever her eyes would fall on me either during a warm-up or in the locker rooms, I would feel a cold disdain, cold and hard like I imagined her heart to be. She got to where she was by a Nietzschean effort of will, and she could see quite clearly that I was where I was (financially at least) with the generous help of my figure, my long blond hair, my party-girl image, and the pictures of me on the covers of fashion and sports magazines looking kittenish, coquettish, and just plain slutty.

From my own point of view, the only people who complain about it are people who can't do it themselves, but I will admit that I've had more press coverage than the top ten women in the world, and I've never been ranked higher than twelfth. I don't blame her.

She first spoke to me as I walked off the court about two days before the Open. I was having a great day on the court, which bothered me, because I thought I would curse my game if I was too good during the warm-up. I feel better when I am less than my best until the day of the matches. Somewhere in my mind, I believe that you only get so many good games and you need to save them up for the right time.

"Your name is Anna?" she asked as I walked off the court.

I nodded but stayed silent.

"Anna Gramovitch?"

We both smiled weakly at each other. I rubbed a towel up my arm, across the upper half of my chest.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, gaze following the rag as I slid it across the back of my neck.

"A variant rival to a man," I answered.

There was a pause as she drove her hard blue eyes into mine.

"Let me tell you something" she leaned close. "Think more about your game, less about hockey players."

I rolled my eyes and headed for the locker room, but Mariana fastened an iron grip around my triceps and held me in place. "Gravenfort will eat you alive if your return is not better." She looked me dead center.

"Spasibo," I said. She was old and ugly and retired and irrelevant. I ripped my elbow from her and walked away.

When the Open started I was a victorious tornado. I removed the much-acclaimed but slow and lumpy Gravenfort 6-2, 6-3. Next, I eked out a win over the younger Neptune sister, Valariana, with a perfect shot down the baseline, followed by a perfect backhand and a series of equally perfect serves (even though the press keeps claiming that I cannot serve). She pouted and looked at me like an enraged lemur, but I met her most irate behavior with professional sportswomanship.

The crowd naturally championed their faltering poster girl, but nevertheless, a vocal minority could not resist my golden charm and made their support known.

After my win (4-6, 6-4, 6-4) Valariana's father told reporters I was the product of a Nazi eugenics experiment. Despite these remarks, I noticed he never took his eyes off of the Nike swish on the front of my tennis dress. I suggested that perhaps she would do better next time if she would rid herself of those swinging braids, which surely affect her peripheral vision and make her look ridiculous. I even offered to braid her hair like my stylish coiffure, but this placated neither Valariana nor her rabid sire.

I was looking for Mariana after my victories to remind her that her prediction about Gravenfort had gone horribly wrong, but I did not see her either during or after the matches. I did see her once briefly in the company of Terri Fierce, that amazon with the prominent beak. I wondered what was going on there, but decided that I didn't want to know anyway.

My performance was faultless up to this point. I was in the quarterfinals and faced Christina Hinges, who was, in my opinion, a bit rusty, having been sidelined for six weeks with an ankle injury. Prior to this I had defeated her twice in a row. I fully expected to make cheese out of this little Swiss girl with my obnoxious forearm.

And so, the night before my quarterfinal match, when I should have been at the hotel resting, I was confident enough to accept Oleg's apologetic invitation to dinner. He was very gentlemanly, and obviously wanted to make up to me. Apparently his babushka did not like Ukrainians or some such nonsense. I really didn't give a damn what this old woman thought, but was irritated that he would hide me like that from his family. I was, after all, an international tennis superstar and sex symbol with millions of dollars in paid advertising endorsements. You'd think that the boy would be able to get around some fossilized prejudice in the old bag's head.

Despite his best efforts, our date was a disaster. If he wasn't talking about his mother or his grandmother, he was going on and on about his team's owner, some brain-damaged millionaire named Henry Quillgreen. According to Oleg he had taken most of the money meant for the hockey team and given it to a man who promised to develop barrel rides for tourists over Niagara Falls.

The long and the short of it was that Oleg might be traded to Calgary. When he said this I just looked at him. He must realize that if he moves to Alberta the most he will see of me is the pictures on the Gatorade bottle. I told him he could either make his peace with the Jew or forget about me.

"Ach, listen my little fish" he said, leaning in close, " I was just mentioning it to let you know what is going on in my life, that is all."

"Well, now I know."

"Don't be angry, Anna."

"How can I not be? You are such a disappointment."

There was silence for a long time. I drank a Vodka tonic, then two.

"Anna Petrovna," he sighed after a thoughtful puff on his cigar, "You cannot be unhappy with me for long. I have quite a gift for you back at my place, you will-"

"Then I must remain unhappy with you for a while longer, because I am not going to your place tonight," I answered firmly.

"Anna"