And so, the night before my quarterfinal match, when I should have been at the hotel resting, I was confident enough to accept Oleg's apologetic invitation to dinner. He was very gentlemanly, and obviously wanted to make up to me. Apparently his babushka did not like Ukrainians or some such nonsense. I really didn't give a damn what this old woman thought, but was irritated that he would hide me like that from his family. I was, after all, an international tennis superstar and sex symbol with millions of dollars in paid advertising endorsements. You'd think that the boy would be able to get around some fossilized prejudice in the old bag's head.

Despite his best efforts, our date was a disaster. If he wasn't talking about his mother or his grandmother, he was going on and on about his team's owner, some brain-damaged millionaire named Henry Quillgreen. According to Oleg he had taken most of the money meant for the hockey team and given it to a man who promised to develop barrel rides for tourists over Niagara Falls.

The long and the short of it was that Oleg might be traded to Calgary. When he said this I just looked at him. He must realize that if he moves to Alberta the most he will see of me is the pictures on the Gatorade bottle. I told him he could either make his peace with the Jew or forget about me.

"Ach, listen my little fish…" he said, leaning in close, "… I was just mentioning it to let you know what is going on in my life, that is all."

"Well, now I know."

"Don't be angry, Anna."

"How can I not be? You are such a disappointment."

There was silence for a long time. I drank a Vodka tonic, then two.

"Anna Petrovna," he sighed after a thoughtful puff on his cigar, "You cannot be unhappy with me for long. I have quite a gift for you back at my place, you will-"

"Then I must remain unhappy with you for a while longer, because I am not going to your place tonight," I answered firmly.