Ad In Ad Out: Collected Tennis Articles of Michael Mewshaw 1982-2015. Michael Mewshaw
and no one had seen them there.
On Sunday I stayed at it—telephoning Carlos and Gaby, the Italian Tennis Federation, the tournament director, and the on-site Women’s Tennis Association office. Shortly after noon there was word that Gaby had been spotted at the Foro Italico, where the courts were now dry. Although the WTA rep couldn’t guarantee a reply, she agreed to pass along a message.
My message was as blunt as I could make it without burning all bridges. If Gaby wanted to appear in Vogue, she had to talk to me, painful as that prospect obviously was.
The WTA rep called back. Gaby wondered how long the interview would take.
Having been promised two days, I was down to haggling over minutes. “I’ll need at least an hour.”
“A whole hour?” The WTA rep sounded doubtful, but returned with the news that Sabatini had agreed to meet me in the players’ dining room.
The road from the Hilton to the Foro Italico was a spillway of hairpin turns and wrecked cars, and as we sped down off Monte Mario, the cabbie kept repeating, “Ecco Italia.” He pointed to gypsies begging at streetlights, to drivers double and triple parked, to a woman sitting insolently in her car holding up traffic while she applied lipstick. “You can’t do anything in this city,” he complained. “Even driving is a compromise, a deal you have to cut with every other asshole on the road. Look at that!” he screamed as a motorcycle zipped the wrong way down a one-way street. “Where are the carabinieri? I’ll tell you where. They’re all in a bar reading Gazzetto dello Sport and combing their hair.”
Compared to his problems, mine seemed insignificant. It certainly wasn’t worth wasting any of my hard-won hour badgering Gaby to explain her disappearing act.
The players’ dining room reverberated with dropped plates and cutlery and the shouted greetings of old friends. Sabatini sat with her face fixed in a beatific smile, saying nothing, volunteering nothing, simply waiting for me to set up the tape recorder.
I began lobbing at her the softball questions Dick Dell had planted. I figured she’d smash them away for easy winners, then once she found her range and rhythm, we’d move on to more substantive matters.
Her agent had told me she memorized song lyrics to improve her English. Was that true?
No. She used to, but not anymore. Now she was writing her own lyrics.
“In English?” I asked.
“No, Spanish.”
Well, what about the guitar? Dell claimed Carlos was teaching her to play.
“We didn’t start yet,” Gaby said. “But we will.”
Was it true she had taken up photography?
Her smile brightened. “Yes, taking lots of pictures.”
I waited for her to go on. When she didn’t, I asked her to discuss her other interests.
“Trying to learn some French,” she said.
“How’s it coming?”
She shrugged her broad shoulders.
Did she have a tutor? Was she taking lessons?
“I have a book and some tapes.”
I observed that French grammar was difficult. She agreed, and that finished that.
Among tennis commentators, there was a general agreement that she had changed in the last year. Was she happy because she was winning? Or winning because she was happy?
“I think I’m winning because I’m happier. I think I’m going through a good time. I feel more mature. So many things are changing inside me. I think that’s the reason I feel so happy.”
When I coaxed her to discuss what had changed inside her, she said, “I feel more confidence in myself, more secure.”
In the United States women spoke of taking control of their lives. Was that what she meant?
“Yes, I’m taking control of all the things—of my feelings. I’m thinking more. Taking my time.” Yes, she was doing that. A long pause ensued.
I broke the silence and urged her to tell me about her change of coaches.
“That’s the reason I’m playing so well. First, I needed to change coaches. That was a great motivation for me. I think Carlos is a great person. We do a lot of things outside of tennis.”
What did they do?
She pondered this. “We have fun.” Pause. “We go walk on the beach.” Pause. “We talk very much.”
I didn’t dare glance at my watch. I had demanded an hour and was now groping to fill it. Since she had such difficulty discussing the new, thoughtful, feeling, and fulfilled Gaby, I retreated to strokes and strategy. Technically, how had Carlos helped her game?
“We’re working more on coming to the net, to get more confidence.”
Ah, back to the slippery subject of confidence. Okay, how had Carlos increased her confidence?
“Speaking.”
I waited for her to go on. She stayed silent and studied my face, which I attempted to make a mirror of her sweet smiling countenance. “That’s all,” she said. “Just telling me, ‘Go! Just do it.’”
I brought up sports psychologist Dr. James Loehr, hoping a reminder of their sessions might persuade her to dig deeper. But she cut off that line of inquiry. “I don’t like to talk about it very much.”
Since she was such a hero in her country, did that put her under greater pressure?
“I don’t feel any pressure. I just keep doing what I have to do. I enjoy everything that’s happening to me.”
At that moment I couldn’t make the same claim, for what was happening—and Sabatini appeared to be sublimely oblivious to the fact—was that she was killing any chance that Vogue would run a feature on her. I floundered for some way to get Gaby to convey in words a small portion of the fluency I had seen her display with a racquet in hand. Perhaps she was content to let her body do all the talking, to let her lovely face have the first and last say. Still, I asked, weren’t there times when her beauty caused her difficulties?
“No,” she said, but then added, “It’s better to be a good person than to be good-looking or a good tennis player. Being a good person is for always.”
Had she thought about life after tennis?
She laughed. “Yeah, sure. I have to think of it.”
What had she thought?
“I don’t know. It’s hard. I always say I want to get married and have children. Maybe try to teach children. Maybe teach tennis. I like also to sing. Who knows, maybe in the future I will do something.”
When I attempted to get an idea of what she did in Rome when she wasn’t practicing or playing, she said she had seen all the sights. Although she had trouble recalling what they were, she didn’t care to see them again. What she liked best about Rome was eating out with her family and friends.
“What’s your favorite restaurant?”
Her face clouded. “There are a few.” She frowned with concentration. “There’s one with my name.” She meant Sabatini’s in Trastevere. “And I…” She struggled to name another. She had played here since she was fourteen. It was one of her favorite cities in the world. She ate out every night but couldn’t say where. She was embarrassed, and so was I. “I mean I just love the food, the Italian food,” she blurted.
This offered a polite excuse to change the subject and discuss her diet. “I think I eat very good food,” she said. “When I’m playing tournaments, I eat pasta. When I’m just practicing, I eat fish and chicken salad. But I don’t have any problems. I eat very good.”