Hitting Back (20 page)

So, I spent my birthday in an MRI clinic in my tennis kit
with my agent, Patricio, having a scan for an injury and then
waiting around for the results. I didn't need to be told it was
serious. I knew something bad had happened because I
couldn't open doors with my right arm. I couldn't even lift up
a drink. It was just completely useless.

In the end, I think I was expecting worse news than we were
actually given. I thought I had torn something really badly,
ripped something of the bone, but I hadn't. I was lucky in a
way. The German guy who ran the clinic explained to me that
the tendon I'd damaged was like a tube and had split down the
way, not across. That was good apparently. If the damage goes
across, the tendon is snapped in two. Later they discovered it
wasn't quite as they had first described, but I don't really know
what it was. I just knew it hurt.

I could imagine the headlines about me being 'frail' again.
Maybe those first impressions from Wimbledon 2005, when I
suffered cramp, would stick with me. But I hoped people
would understand this was an injury you could not control. If
I hadn't been stretching properly and I'd hurt my hamstring or
quad, you could say it was my fault. But a wrist injury can
come from just one shot. Loads of tennis players get this sort
of damage – I know it's happened to Marat Safin and Mardy
Fish. But I was also aware that quite a few come back too soon
and then it takes its toll in the long run. I knew I was going to
have to be patient, even though patience is not my strongest
point.

So we were pretty glum when we went out for dinner to
celebrate my birthday: Patricio, Mum, Gran, Brad, Kim and
me. However, something happened that cheered me up a good
deal. Eating in the same restaurant was Wladimir Klitschko,
one of the recent heavyweight boxing champions of the world,
who lives in Germany.

I didn't like interrupting his dinner but boxing is my
favourite sport. You don't get the chance to meet one of the
world's heavyweight champions every day, so I went over to
him and someone introduced me. He didn't know who I was
but I didn't mind. I might be well known in Britain, but I am
sure he's much more famous than me in the sports world.

He was really nice and friendly, and incredibly massive. He
must be about 6'7" tall and his back looked about two or three
times the size of mine. He hands were massive too – mine was
lost in the handshake. I said, 'I'm sorry, I can't shake hands
because of the split on my wrist.' He said, 'It's OK, we shake
with the left because it comes right from the heart.' He was
obviously a pretty intimidating guy and I'm just glad he doesn't
play tennis. No disrespect to my family, but that made my
birthday a bit better.

Contrary to what people may think, I never did have words
with Brad about his suggestion that I play on in Hamburg
before he realised how serious the injury was. He wasn't to
know how sore it was from the side of the court and it is
typical of the way his mind works that he would be keen for
me to tough it out if I could. But I wasn't going to be playing
tennis for a while, so we parted company and I just went home
to have another scan – I believe in getting second opinions.
When that confirmed the first diagnosis, all I could do was try
and wait for it to heal.

The worst thing to do in that situation is sit around and
mope. Luckily I had no time for that because it's one of the
biggest fallacies that you laze around doing nothing when
you're injured. I was still going to the gym every day, running,
doing leg weights, getting rehab. I was desperate to get better
as quickly as possible. I even tried swinging a racket underwater
in a swimming pool, so that I could help strengthen my
wrist without impact. We tried loads of things that were
outside the box. After four or five weeks I could start to knock
a tennis ball around, but because the injury affected the way I
generated topspin. I could only hit slice forehands. That shot
improved beyond belief but unfortunately it's not one I hit very
often.

All the time, there was this little rumour that sometimes
flared up that I might never play again. People who'd only seen
me getting cramp at Wimbledon and injuring my ankle at
Queen's were getting the idea that I was fragile. To be honest,
the thought of quitting never crossed my mind. Wrist problems
are a hazard of the job but I never thought it would keep me
out for ever. I did have a lot of people asking me whether the
weight of my racket was the problem. I said it wasn't and that's
true. It was just one of those freak things.

I worked really hard because I wanted to give myself the best
chance of getting back in time for Wimbledon. There was a
difference of opinion about that. Brad thought I was ready to
play and everyone else said I shouldn't play. I spoke to three
doctors, two physios, Mum, my agent, friends and everyone
told me the same thing: 'It's not worth it.' I was criticised for
leaving the decision to the last moment but the conflicting
advice made it difficult to decide. Brad thought I could and I
was so keen to try, even if everyone else was against it.

I was in a really bad mood the Tuesday before Wimbledon.
Kim said to me: 'What's up with you?' because I was visibly so
fed-up. I told her I sensed I would not be ready in time. 'I'm not
going to be able to play. It's not getting better fast enough.' To
be honest, I didn't quite understand why Brad thought I could
play. I'd practised with Jamie Baker at the NTC the day before
and I still couldn't hit topspin. I was hitting it with my whole
arm, instead of the wrist. No one ever won Wimbledon hitting
with an unnatural forehand like that. Even if I could win one
match playing with slice forehand, I wasn't going to win three
matches in a row, especially if any of them went to five sets.
Imagine what would have happened if I'd gone on court and
then pulled out after a few games. Everyone would have gone
berserk.

I'd like to say it was a tough decision, but actually no it
wasn't. It was tough in the sense that I had to miss Wimbledon.
But it was right for me. I can't understand Brad's attitude.
Maybe he believed the injury wasn't that bad. He spoke to the
doctors, but the doctors were wrong according to him.

I was criticised for announcing at a press conference just a
couple of days before Wimbledon: 'As of now, I plan to play.'
It annoyed some Sunday paper journalists because they
thought I wasn't telling the truth. But I was really trying to give
myself the best opportunity to play – just in case. Following
practise at the NTC that morning, where I didn't feel totally
comfortable hitting over my forehand and Brad said I would be
OK to play, I left the NTC saying, 'Fine, I'll play.' My mum
and Patricio followed me out and we all came back to my flat
where we discussed it. I calmed down and wrote up a list of
pros and cons and when you saw it in black-and-white like
that, there was no argument. If Brad hadn't thought so strongly
that I would be fit to play, I might have pulled out much
sooner. Regardless of what people think about our relationship,
if I hadn't respected him I would not have listened when
he kept saying: 'You can play. You can play'. I tried my best
but it wasn't to be. I pulled out just after lunch the day before
the event started. I was desperate to play and I was more than
entitled to wait until the last minute. But if this was to happen
to me again, I'd pull out the week before and continue with
rehab instead of giving hopeful, but misguided, press
conferences.

Two-and-a-half months later, on the 5th of August – a full
month after Wimbledon was over – I was back on court
beating Robby Ginepri 6–4 6–4 in the Canadian Open. It
sounds better than it was because I still wasn't hitting through
my forehand. After playing on grass where the balls come in at
a nice height, I was having to adjust to American hard courts
where the ball bounces high and you have to use a lot of
topspin to control your shot. That was the movement that hurt
my wrist. It was fine when I had my whole body behind the
ball, but when I was out of position it was still really sore.

It wasn't surprising. You don't go from being in unbelievable
pain and not being able to open doors to suddenly hitting the
ball perfectly again. There was a lingering problem, in my mind
as well as with the wrist. Every time I wanted to generate
topspin, I was scared to try. I hadn't practised it enough and I
was scared.

The doctors were telling me this was normal. Your brain is
trying to protect you from feeling that pain again. Some
mornings when I woke up, my wrist would be sore and stiff
and it would crack a good deal. It's pretty tough in those
circumstances to go out and hit a tennis ball at 100mph. It was
tough on the mind. I was walking out on court just hoping to
get through matches, not going all out to win.

I had stuck in my mind all the instances of other players, like
Safin, who had tried to come back from a wrist injury too soon
and then ended up needing surgery and missing far more time
than he had already taken. A wrist injury is one of the toughest
in tennis because you need to use your wrist on every shot. If
you injure your shoulder that's better, because it is going to
ache only when you serve.

I wasn't sure whether I had come back too soon in the States.
My mind was badly affected, and on the court the matches
went from bad to worse. After the fortunate win against
Ginepri, I found myself floundering against Fabio Fognini, a
guy from Italy not even ranked in the world Top-100. I didn't
just lose, I lost easily 2–6 2–6. My relationship with Brad was
deteriorating because I didn't think he was really listening to
me. He felt I was just being depressed and negative. Maybe I
was, but I had a pretty genuine reason to feel like that.

When you think it can't get any worse, it does. The next
week I was slaughtered 1–6 2–6 in the first round of Cincinnati
by Marcos Baghdatis. I couldn't go on like this. I phoned home
and spoke to my mum and we made the decision that I should
just cut short the American trip, come back to London and see
a sports psychologist that she had found for me who had
worked with the West Ham United football team. It was Brad,
actually, who suggested I speak to someone professional who
might be able to relieve the mental pressure I was feeling. But
he seemed to think I had more deep-rooted problems and that
worried me. I asked my close friends what they thought. They
all said that off the court I was just as chilled as ever.

I had two or three sessions with this guy Robert Forzoni,
who had worked with a number of Britain's Commonwealth
boxers as well as a few West Ham players such as Dean
Ashton. He believes in motivational videos, reminders of things
you do well to act as inspiration or maybe a distraction from
your problems. He was also a big fan of the 'inches' speech that
Al Pacino delivers as a basketball coach in the film
Any Given
Sunday
. It sounded pretty appropriate to me.

We are in hell right now, gentlemen, believe me and we
can stay here and get the shit kicked out of us or we can
fight our way back into the light. We can climb out of hell
one inch at a time . . .

I can't remember it all, but that was the gist of it. I don't even
remember exactly what Rob and I talked about but I know it
wasn't about my wrist. Maybe that was the secret. We were
discussing other things like how I was going to win matches,
how I saw myself as a player, what my goals were – positive
things. For a long time, I had been dwelling on my injury and
for months every single person I saw asked me: 'How's your
wrist? How's your wrist? How's your wrist? Are you going to
be OK for Wimbledon?' On and on and on. It was all people
could talk about and all the time I just wanted
not
to talk
about it.

When I went back over for the US Open, Rob came with me
to watch and I started to play better tennis again. Even so, I
was hitting the ball with only 50 per cent power. It was just
taking me a long time to get over it. I had to go through a
process first. I had to build up strength in the wrist physically
and faith in it mentally until I was sure it was absolutely secure.

I went into New York, my favourite tournament, with a
different mentality. Usually I am desperate to win but that
wasn't my priority any more. I just wanted to get through it as
best I could. I needed to do as well as I could without any more
injury scares. The first round against the Uruguayan, Pablo
Cuevas, ranked 129, went fine and I won pretty easily in
straight sets. Then the real test came in the wily and experienced
shape of Jonas Bjorkman, the 35-year-old Swede who had
played a lot of doubles tennis with my brother's new partner,
Max Mirnyi. It wasn't a comforting thought that he'd played
fifty-four of the last fifty-five grand slams going into our match.

I was going to be tested but I wasn't scared any more. It was
nice to be back on court again, competing with the top players.
I was still not that comfortable on my topspin forehand and I
was missing a lot of balls, but I was still in there fighting. I won
a tough five-setter 5–7 6–3 6–1 4–6 6–1 and it was the first
time since Hamburg that I'd managed to string two victories
together. The relief didn't last that long. I lost in the next
round to Hyung-Taik Lee, but all things considered, and
throwing in a visit to the top of the Empire State building
which was awesome, I think I turned a corner.

I came home for the Davis Cup tie against Croatia and won
another five-setter against Marin Cilic. Progress was good and
I went off to Metz after playing the dead rubber (the one Jamie
had given me a hard time about) to get a bit more match
practice. It was while I was there that the BBC interview about
gambling and match-fixing in tennis occurred. The controversy
had yet to break when I played Tommy Robredo in the final
and lost, having won the first set 6–0. I was playing really well
and I should have won the tournament, but I came away
pleased more than disappointed.