Yesterday I played a 39-year-old past champion, and today I get a future champion who turned 16 two weeks ago. I'm lucky I got Steffi Graf on the grass. It's her worst surface, and she didn't serve and volley at all. She knows how to, but she just forgot to. That's the difference between Steffi and American kids. They're not even taught to serve and volley.
But I don't know what it is about these German fathers and me. Today Mr. Graf was sitting right behind a linesman, and when he called one of Steffi's passing shots out, Mr. Graf started yelling, "No, no, no" right into the poor guy's ear.
So I turned to him and yelled, "Shut up!" And he did. There wasn't a peep out of him the rest of the match.
Today is the day: Martina in the quarters. I'm determined to sting my volleys, gamble on my returns and concentrate my hardest. It's been nearly three years since I beat Martina at the U.S. Open, and these are the matches I dearly need to win if I'm going to win a major. So now, enough writing. It's time to find out my destiny this year.
Well, I tried my bloody hardest, but what can I say? Martina played the best against me that she has in a year, I had my chances and I failed to capitalize. I'm satisfied that I played the right way, and that the points were of a high standard. Only I didn't win. I wasn't good enough.
Happy Birthday, me! I'm 23 years old. My birthday always causes a big fuss because it takes place at Wimbledon and on our Independence Day. This year I decided not to have any big party, just a few people for dinner.
But Virginia Slims decided to bring out a cake for me after our doubles quarterfinals. We beat Chris and Jo Durie. While I didn't say anything, Chris's selection of doubles partners kills me. For the Australian Open, she picked Wendy Turnbull, who's Australian; for the French, she chose Pascal Paradis, who's French; and here she picked Jo, who just happens to be British. I wonder if she's lined up Carling Bassett for the Canadian Open.