Losing in the quarterfinals was the worst part of the U.S. Open. The next worst thing was that it all took place in Flushing Meadows, Queens -no comment necessary there. The next worst thing was that it was painfully hot. The next worst thing was that Oleg, my hockey player boyfriend, ignored me because his babushka was in town and he was ashamed to be seen with his seventeen-year-old blond devochka. I think that in English you would say that he has no balls.

But Mariana made up for all of it. I don't need to say a thing about her really, she was a legend in women's tennis before I even picked up a racket. I'm still not sure I like her, even after what happened, but I am sure that I do respect her for not giving a shit about being a six-foot-two-inch Slavic dyke when it was still hard to be anything but a proper lady. And I respect her for what she did for me-although that's fucked up in its own way, as you'll see.

Mariana is an intimidating presence, tall, tow headed, piercing blue eyes that look out from a severe brow and pointed eyebrows. Even at forty-four, her body is rock hard, or at least the muscles are. As for her skin, it's simply spent too much time unprotected under the sun, like all tennis players, and is leathery and tough like a hide, as if it had been skinned from her body, treated by a tanner, and then reattached. Nevertheless, a defiant sensuality shines through those forty-four-year-old wrinkles so that, even as I made a concerted effort to ignore her, I, on occasion, could not help but glance quickly at her from the sidelines and admire the knots of muscles on her calves, or the severe shadow of her jaw.

Of course, she hated me immediately. Rather I should say that she hated me in a very particular way that is unique to women, and possibly unique to Mariana herself.