I'll Tell You About Tennis

FEBRUARY 23—LUTHERVILLE

Tomorrow I start back on the tour. I left it 2½ months ago. Before that, I'd been playing for six years and the longest I was away was a month—and that was because I had an arm injury. Why can't tennis have an off-season like other sports? It's too demanding, but there are too many opportunities to make money all year long.

I took off from the game because I wasn't happy anymore and I was a rotten player and my arm hurt all the time. My right arm has become such a focal point in my life, and I hate it. The other day, here at home, I found this note I wrote myself at a tournament in Arizona in 1979. It said:

"I'm so worried about my shoulder, which aches now as I write. The pain is frightening because of its intensity. I want so much to get rid of this pain. I must be strong. I must be strong."

I was 17 years old when I wrote that. I don't think it's good that a game brings kids to writing things like that.

Finally, I needed some time off because I had to make some changes in my tennis life. My coach has been Don Candy. He has been the greatest influence in my tennis life and my best friend for the past eight years. He has taught me since I was nine, but in the last year our practices have grown less productive and we've been arguing a lot. Besides, he's almost 56, and I need a younger man to practice with. So I've hired a new playing coach, Hank Harris, and Don won't travel with me anymore except to some of the major tournaments.

So now, here we go again. It has been a wonderful time off, and I should be so carefree, but I'm so scared when I play tennis. I fear failure at every corner, and until I rid myself of that attitude, I know I'll never attain my goals, winning a Wimbledon or a U.S. Open. My career now stands at its most crucial stage. Gone is the young girl who got to the finals of the U.S. Open when she was barely 16. Now there's only a young woman who struggles with an arm that hurts.

FEBRUARY 24—EN ROUTE

Right now, I'm sitting in a center seat on a flight to San Diego, and we're 40 minutes late. Normally, I couldn't care less, but John is coming out to see me when we stop at DFW, and our 45-minute layover together is about to become a five-minute layover.

I met John Field last year when I played in Dallas. I never stay in private houses, because then you have to keep your room neat and smile all the time, but in Dallas I do stay with a family, the Belknaps—Ralph and Lucy—because they're dear and don't make a fuss. John is their nephew. So maybe I should stay in houses more often, because John is the only important male I've ever met on tour. I guarantee you, Mr. Right is not hanging around any Best Western piano bar or any Ramada video-game room.