She challenged me to do my best, didn’t skimp on the suggestions, but also ensured that it was still my book at the end of the day. Sandra Gerth was my editor this time around, and holy moly, she has tough love down to an art. Once again, many people came together to push this book out into the world.Īs always, the biggest thanks go to Astrid and the Ylva team for gold medal service to lesfic. This book is dedicated to my adoptive mother, May, who, as well as being such a wonderful mother, passed her love of tennis on to me. Let me pause on that name for a moment in happy contemplation. It was the days of Björn Borg, John McEnroe, Ilie Năstase, and of course Chris Evert, Virginia Wade, Billie Jean King, and Martina-the-goddess Navratilova. It didn’t take long for me to enjoy curling up on the couch with Mum, as absorbed as she was. For two weeks, us kids scrounged our own food, got ourselves ready for school, and could stay up as late as we wanted-as long as we were watching the tennis. My mother would be hunched on the sofa, staring at the TV, an untouched cuppa and a Rich Tea biscuit beside her. The only sound would be the bonk-bonk of tennis balls, followed by sedate applause. The house would be dark, the curtains drawn tight against the summer light. When I was a little tacker in the UK, I’d come home from school, walk up the path, dragging my school satchel thump-thump-thump over the pavers, and push open the door. I’ve been watching tennis for as long as I can remember.
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