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I was 12 when I had all these dreams of becoming a professional. I started to play junior tournaments at that time. My first was the Orange Bowl. I won my first round, but was quickly ousted by someone half my size named Carrie Fleming, Laurie Fleming’s younger sister, 6-0, 6-0. I kept my nose to the grindstone and got better and better. To improve even more, you had to travel, and I was being invited to national championships. I suppose there is a point in every athlete’s life where politics come into play. I had not thought at all about my being Cuban and it’s relation to tennis, but my mother had. It was not the tennis that concerned my mother; it was the flying. Between May 1, 1961, and the end of 1972 there had been 159 planes hijacked many of the hijackers demanding to go back to Cuba. My mother would drive me to the airport herself with tears and dread in her eyes. She would grab me firmly by the shoulders and stare into my eyes and say, “If you get hijacked DO NOT SPEAK SPANISH, do you understand me? Pretend like you don’t understand it, do not respond to it and don’t speak it!” I assured her, I understood. Thankfully nothing ever happened.
Although my cousins played Davis Cup for Cuba I never had the opportunity to play Fed Cup for the U.S. I did, however, get the chance to play on the Junior Wightman Cup team with Janice Metcalf and Jane Stratton after playing for the University of Miami for one year. The Jr. Wightman Cup team traveled the country and played tournaments in different cities ending with the U.S. Open at Forest Hills. I played the qualifying and beat Betsy Nagelsen in the third round to get into the tournament then beat Francoise Durr in the first round and lost to Olga Morozova in the second. It was there, at the U.S. Open, in 1973, that I turned pro.
In the summer of 1974, I went to Los Angeles, Calif., and rented an apartment with Barbara Downs, a tour player. Bob Sassano knew Pancho Segura so he arranged for me to take lessons with him once a week. At that time, like now, there was a plethora of great female players who lived there. We knew each other from the tour and juniors. We would all get together once a week at Kathy May’s house and have a phenomenal workout on the court. The leader—and we were blessed to have her—was Billie Jen King. She taught me so much, not just about technique, but how to practice and how to think. Billie was great to me. I still remember the drill where we had to hit all the overheads in the air and the lines didn’t count. Even if the ball was coming down from the sky and you were nearing the fence you had to hit it on the fly. Of course, the next lob would be up near the net. Exhaustion and ecstasy.
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