Over three decades ago, I was in an elevator of a posh London hotel with my father. There were two men in there. Large men, that’s all I remember. But at that age, everyone was large and too big to look into the eyes. We were all quiet. That endless, awkward silence of elevator rides.
My father bends down to my ear level and gestures towards one of the men.
Do you know who he is?
No. Who?
He is Jimmy Conners. One of the greatest tennis players in the world.”
What is tennis? I asked.

Few years later, we are back in London. By then not only did I know what tennis was, I had made it my life’s mission to beat Steffi Graf by the time I turned eighteen (it’s alright, I told myself. She’d only be 28, she’d till be playing). I had never been able to forgive her for intruding into the world of tennis and even more so for taking the Wimbledon crown from my idol Martina Navratilova.

We, my father and I, were walking down a street–my two steps to his one large stride. He’d say: You see Martina? You see how she walks? You must learn to walk like that if you want to be a tennis player. You must learn to walk like a man.

We passed by a florist. It was around this time of the year. Wimbledon had just begun. Jimmy Connors was by then a “has-been”. I can’t remember where McEnroe was.

I see this pretty little florist shop and I pull at my father. “Can I send Martina flowers?” I whisper.

His response: “Of course. Let’s go.”

Was it his quirkiness that spurred this irrational idea or was he simply being an indulgent father? I’ll never know.

We chose white lilies. I wrote her a little card to go with it. I can’t remember what it said– some nine year old driveling with admiration no doubt. Of course, we had no address to send the flowers to. So, on the envelope, the address I put was:
Martina Navratilova.
Ladies Locker Room
Wimbledon.

Was this okay with the florist?
Yes absolutely, she said. (Was she humoring me also? I suppose I won’t know that either).

I waited many many years for a response but never got any. It was only very very recently (as recently as a few years ago) that I realized I had forgotten one vital fact in my note. My return address.