Gretchen Rush

It’s Circa 1989 London SW19 Southfields or Wimbledon stop on the Green District line. Our names have been called over the loudspeaker from our respective locker rooms to the little ante-room next to Center Court. 

My opponent today is 20-time Wimbledon champion heavyweight, Martina Navratilova. She is coming from the champion’s locker room. I am not being called from the champion’s locker room but from the competitor’s locker room. 

We come from more than different locker rooms for our Quarterfinal match. Martina grew up in communist Czechoslovakia. I grew up in Suburban Pittsburgh, the middle daughter of 5, to a mildly upper middle-class dentist and housewife. At 18, Martina requested political asylum and defected to the United States. When I was 18, I graduated early from high school embarking on my new life as a college student which basically consisted of tennis, beer drinking, and playing catch up in class from our numerous tennis trips. 

We came from worlds apart and were cut from way different pieces of cloth. She was a hired tennis assassin who made me look like a domesticated house cat lying around in the afternoon sunbeam. Martina famously “ate to win,” lifted weights, and sported bulging muscles and veins. She was ranked #1 or #2 in the world; I was maybe 30-something in the rankings and ate and drank for pleasure and the joy of my friends' company on the tour. 

On this day, she had already won 8 of her 9 Wimbledon singles titles on this very court. It wasn’t a fair fight on paper and it certainly was not a fair fight on the tennis court. I was ANXIOUS, to say the least. I do not think I slept a proverbial wink the night before our match. She had played over 30 finals on this court and this was my one and only time. 

I was sitting on the bench on a very proper English couch with ancient pictures of the Grounds being used as a hospital during WWI. All I remember was that the room looked and felt yellow. A very, very large smiley red-headed German teen waltzed by and peeked in. “Hallo!” said Boris. “Are you scared?” 

“Sh*tless…” I thought in my head. “A little”, I mumbled without moving my lips.
“Have fun!” he smiled and bounded down the hall like a tiger on his way to the men’s champions locker room. 

Have fun? Have fun?? I am going to be demolished on BBC, NBC, and lots of other TV’s around the world. My high school tennis coach and his wife are in the stands, and my husband Steve is in the stands with a camcorder (remember those?) at the ready. My siblings, former teammates, and friends are at home watching on TV. This is not going to be fun. 

I was waiting and waiting and in STRUTS the one and only  Martina Navratilova. “Hey”, she calmly and confidently greets me with a smile. Martina is no social dummy, she sees the look of pure panic on my face. “You okay?”

“Sure”, I lied.
“Have you ever played on Center Court?”
“No, “ I said without breathing a sip of air into my lungs.
“Do you know how to curtsy?”
I couldn’t even respond to this question. I am an AMERI-CAN! We curtsy to No-one where I come from.

“Ok, Don’t worry, just follow me.”

“Miss Navratilova, Mrs. Magers….It is time.“

And off we (the elderly, elegant, and impeccably dressed usher, Martina the Great, and me) went into the dark hallway and then miraculously we burst onto the hallowed tennis ground. I was walking breathlessly beside the great Martina Navratilova. I felt like the teeny, tiny Christian entering the Roman Coliseum about to face my assured death, mauled by starving lions. She wasn’t much taller than me. She looked like a mere mortal when I peeked at her sideways. But that walk of hers, the confidence that oozed out of every pore…I obediently followed behind the usher onto the green, green, and more green center court. 

A soft subdued round of applause welcomed the champion and her prey to the court. Martina slowly turned to the royal box and we simultaneously curtsied to the Duke and Duchess of Kent.

And now to the business at hand, my systematic annihilation by the one and only serve and volley goddess, Martina Navratilova.