What We Do Know

What we don't know is how Cynthia Cartwright, queen of the red clay court, lost at the French Open last year.

We know she had a lover who lived above a pie shop in Paris, and his apartment smelled of baking even in the middle of night when Cynthia visited.

We do know she never tried to learn to speak French, but stuck to rudimentary phrases like, "Baguette" or "Croissant."

We know she liked to carbo-load and that she was allergic to green grapes. She never drank white wine.

We know she told white lies and black ones, and made many promises she didn't keep.

We know her lucky green racquet with gold trim went strangely missing the night before the semi-final match.

We know she growled like a lion when she was losing, and she yipped like a puppy when she won.

We know she was the best in the world for five years running and nobody--not even Rena LaPena who wore her country's colors, red and magenta, at all times--could beat Cynthia.

Some people say she got sick from the musty, sweaty odor of Paris. But no, she knew the scent of her lover's briefs. Some think she ate a green grape before the match, or was tricked into it. Maybe a black cat crossed her path, or the grounds crew forgot to water the red clay and she forgot to notice. Or it was that she lost the green and gold racquet. Maybe the screams of so many years of accumulated fans was too much, finally.

I think she simply never, ever wanted to leave Paris in the summertime when the sky is blue and the flowers are blooming sweet.