Why on earth do they schedule tennis during the summer months? I understand it is a traditional summer sport, but the infrastructure going into things these days; the huge, indoor centres with their capacity to close the roofs, the air conditioning: I mean, why is it still necessary to follow the sun?
I have been on the international circuit for ten years, another ten as a junior: the early coaching, the local, and eventual national competitions maturing and honing my game. But the long exposures: days, and weeks in the baking, unrelenting sun have taken a toll on my skin; long ago losing its supple, smooth tone. Visiting the skin cancer clinic is a part of my off-season professional routine.
I carry a small brush in my bag to lather myself in suncream before the matches. It’s actually one of Dad’s small paintbrushes. My Celtic heritage, the trademark reddish hair, the fair skin, the freckles all provide countless column inches for the tabloids.
I suffer and after last January’s outing in Melbourne, I realised I have had enough. At the pressa’, following my loss to Raffa, I gave the media a bit of a spray. Australia, with its rampant skin cancer statistics, still think it’s acceptable to expose us to this extreme southern hemisphere slow roast.
The administrators introduced on-court ice-packs and chilled water, ever our own eskies next to the couches: umbrellas, to boot, but then they just sit back, happily counting the numbers, calculating the profits, while we entertain the crowds, sometimes with five sets on court temperatures reaching 50+ degrees. Something has to change!
My game suffered. No matter the gruelling gym routines, the unending practice sessions, the endurance training; as the seasons rolled around: Melbourne, London, Paris and New York, the hotels, the constant, pressured environment; it all took a toll. I saw one headline accusing me of being a lazy player, always favouring the drop shot and the backhand slice, reducing court movement to a minimum, instead of their preferred baseline play. I instructed my agent to write a ‘stinger’ to that bloody journo.
Yes, I’m giving it away. I have three Grand Slam singles titles and two Olympic golds to my name. I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. I have climbed the ‘tree’, but the input is unsustainable. Yep, I know I’m in a rarified club, able to bring Kim, and the kids along as we swing around the globe, but enough is enough. After New York – finito!
I feel a slight prick as the needle goes into my shoulder. As I lie back on the table, I reflect on that last slice against Novak, it dropped ineffectually into the net. The match was lost, but the crowd were appreciatively cheering; on their feet, whistling, clapping loudly as we both made our way to the net. Holding back tears, I bade farewell to the circuit.
The surgeon takes up her scalpel. I doubt if this will be the last slice!