"Spasibo," I said. She was old and ugly and retired and irrelevant. I ripped my elbow from her and walked away.

When the Open started I was a victorious tornado. I removed the much-acclaimed but slow and lumpy Gravenfort 6-2, 6-3. Next, I eked out a win over the younger Neptune sister, Valariana, with a perfect shot down the baseline, followed by a perfect backhand and a series of equally perfect serves (even though the press keeps claiming that I cannot serve). She pouted and looked at me like an enraged lemur, but I met her most irate behavior with professional sportswomanship.

The crowd naturally championed their faltering poster girl, but nevertheless, a vocal minority could not resist my golden charm and made their support known.

After my win (4-6, 6-4, 6-4) Valariana's father told reporters I was the product of a Nazi eugenics experiment. Despite these remarks, I noticed he never took his eyes off of the Nike swish on the front of my tennis dress. I suggested that perhaps she would do better next time if she would rid herself of those swinging braids, which surely affect her peripheral vision and make her look ridiculous. I even offered to braid her hair like my stylish coiffure, but this placated neither Valariana nor her rabid sire.

I was looking for Mariana after my victories to remind her that her prediction about Gravenfort had gone horribly wrong, but I did not see her either during or after the matches. I did see her once briefly in the company of Terri Fierce, that amazon with the prominent beak. I wondered what was going on there, but decided that I didn't want to know anyway.

My performance was faultless up to this point. I was in the quarterfinals and faced Christina Hinges, who was, in my opinion, a bit rusty, having been sidelined for six weeks with an ankle injury. Prior to this I had defeated her twice in a row. I fully expected to make cheese out of this little Swiss girl with my obnoxious forearm.