Why do I even
play tennis? Tonight I lost in three sets on my worst surface to a 15-year-old.
I couldn't have played more uptight if I had a gun to my head. I totally
whiffed one overhead—I can't remember ever doing that—and still, I had a point
for the first set only to mishit an easy backhand volley.
I'll say one
thing for Maleeva: At 15 this kid is a veteran at stalling and interrupting the
flow of play. She knows all the tricks. Now, I'll admit that I was obnoxious
myself at times, but I'm 22 and I've been playing for seven years. I'm allowed
to be obnoxious.
After the match,
I made poor Hank go into the bar with me. I'm not much of a drinker, but I
started with a black Russian and then had a strawberry daiquiri. You can tell
I'm not much of a drinker if that's what I'm ordering back-to-back.
Now it's 2 a.m.,
and I can't sleep. I'm writing this on the toilet because I'm rooming with
JoAnne Russell, who's asleep. Given the state of my game, it's an appropriate
location for me.
Martina beat little Maleeva 6-1, 6-0. Katerina sure didn't have the nerve to
hold up play and stall against Martina the way she did against me.
More in the saga
of Pamela H. Shriver, fodder for teenagers one day, partner for the
Vice-President the next. Marion, my older sister, drove up from Baltimore with
me, and Vice-President Bush greeted us when we arrived. He must be the most
pleasant, easygoing important person I've ever met. I played tennis with him as
part of a whole Bush family get-together. The Vice-President is a good athlete,
too. We beat his son, Jeb, and his brother, John, 7-5. After swimming (I even
dove) and lunch, we shot some skeet. The Vice-President hit 19 of 25 targets,
while I was nine for 25. Then Marion and I watched him as he took off for
Washington in his helicopter.