Her Grunts Elicit Groans From Opponents
She strolled into the hoity-toity Beverly Hills Hotel looking very much as though she belonged. Hip-hugging black dress, at least 10 inches above the knee. Shoulder-length gold earrings, seven intertwined loops per side. Very Valley girlish. Very California.
She was strictly a tourist, though. Monica Seles spent her first morning in Los Angeles doing pretty much what one might expect a sweet 16-year-old from Yugoslavia to do. She went straight to the sidewalk outside the Chinese Theater in Hollywood and plopped her palms into Marilyn Monroe’s handprints.
“Oh, and I saw Zsa Zsa Gabor, too,” Seles said.
We forgot to ask if she meant the real Zsa Zsa or a block of cement, assuming there’s a means of telling the difference.
Anyhow, Seles made herself at home in a hurry. The third-ranked player in women’s tennis, and one of the hottest newcomers to come along in years, Seles took one look at California and liked what she saw. On the spot, she decided that she wanted to leave her home in Sarasota, Fla., and live here.
“Florida weather is unbearable,” Seles said, with her usual giggle. “You could get a heart attack playing tennis there, even if you’re 16.
“And it’s more relaxed here. I’ve only been in Los Angeles one day and I love it! Everybody seems so--what’s the word?--easy-going. I get the feeling you can do anything you want out here and nobody will care.”
A relaxed Los Angeles wise guy asked, “What do you want to do?”
“Never mind!” Seles said, giggle, giggle.
Besides, there’s that fast lane you’ve all heard so much about.
“Nobody in Florida drives over 40!” Seles said, giggle, giggle.
This kid adds giggles to the end of sentences the way writers add periods. Monica Seles has a naturally giggly personality. She could giggle while she gargles.
Once again, we forgot to ask the important follow-up question, whether Seles meant nobody in Florida drives over 40 years old or 40 m.p.h. It must have been because we already figured that one out.
See, this is the schoolgirl whose fondest desire upon turning 16 was a Lamborghini, which happens to have a factory-sticker list price that would bring a lump to the throat of Ivana Trump.
Considering the fact, however, that Monica Seles has earned $1,042,757 in prize money, while still having her high school homework Federal Expressed to her, what the heck. Imagine what model car she might order once she gets rid of her learner’s permit and gets her license.
Seles gets kidded a lot about this, but she kids right back. She has just about the sweetest disposition you ever did see, laughing and joking her way through every conversation. Seles makes Pam Shriver look like the Church Lady. She is upbeat 24 hours a day. Among tennis players, she’s the Anti-Lendl.
Laughter is one of her trademarks. So is an unflattering hairstyle that juts out stiffly in back, giving her too much of a Woody Woodpecker look at times, yet practical, we suppose. Lately, while posing for magazine glamour photos, Seles has finally taken to wearing her hair down.
Her single most talked-about trademark, however, is “the Grunt.”
Everybody wants to know about the grunt. What makes Monica grunt? It has become the interview question of her nightmares. Why does Seles grunt so loudly with every swing of her racket? When will she stop sounding like the puree speed of a blender? How long before airplane pilots will request new routes because of the noise emitting from that tennis player down below?
“I was watching German TV one day, you know?” Seles said. “And this man comes on to promote the tennis tournament and he says: ‘Come watch Monica Seles, the Grunting Person, play tennis.’ All of a sudden, that’s me--Monica Seles, the famous grunter!”
Somebody asked if she knew that during Wimbledon one of the London newspapers ran a daily Grunt-o-Meter.
“I believe it!” Seles said, giggle, giggle. “One of the umpires came up to me and said, ‘Ms. Seles, could you please keep it down?’ ”
And?
“I’m working on it,” she said, giggle, giggle. “I still don’t know what the big deal is. Jimmy Connors grunted just as loud as I did, and a lot longer. But if it’s going to bother everybody so much, OK, I’ll work on it!”
Monica Seles, a 5-foot-9, left-handed ball of fire out of Novi Sad, Yugoslavia, might be the best thing to come along in this sport since yellow tennis balls. She gives Steffi Graf fits. Along with Jennifer Capriati, she practically guarantees women’s tennis a ton of fun, right up to the 21st Century. Her presence at the Virginia Slims of Los Angeles Aug. 13-19 has made for some happy, happy promoters.
“I might be the No. 1 player in the world soon, or some kid from some other country will come along and beat all of us,” Seles said, giggle, giggle. “I don’t care. Sports is not the end of the world. I’m more worried about passing geometry right now than I am about how my tennis career turns out.
“I never wanted to be a tennis player anyway. I wanted to be a basketball player. I’m a lot better at basketball than I am at tennis.”
What, no giggle?
“No, I’m serious!” Seles said. “No, really!”