1. Hi, Serena. So good to see you again.

2. Everyone here is so young and energized. This tournament really has a similar vibe to Miami.

3. I saw Federer out at dinner last night. What a slob.

4. Not only do you get used to it, but after a while the screeching actually becomes pretty enjoyable.

5. The men’s quarters are loaded with Americans.

6. It’s the same old story: Ferrer phones it in and Tomic grinds it out.

7. Come quick! Azarenka and Sharapova are about to lip sync a duet of “Call Me Maybe” in the player’s garden.

8. I love him in the booth, but I really do miss seeing Gimelstob on court.

9. That’s Redfoo. I celebrate the man’s entire music catalog.

10. Totally speculating here, but just giving him the eyeball test, Cilic might be juicing.

11. It seems totally fair to take a ten-minute injury timeout right before your opponent is about to serve for the set.

12. Who hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night and fired four bullets into their bathroom?

Interior of therapist Alexis Castorri’s office in Fort Lauderdale, Fl. The waiting room has large framed pictures of marlins adorning the walls and numerous copies of AARP magazine. Inside Castorri’s private office there is a long, white leather couch that rests on an teal-colored rug. On her large mahogany desk sits a personal computer, a stack of patient files, a Dan Marino bobblehead doll, and leftover Bang-Bang chicken and shrimp from lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. Andy Murray enters the office and takes a seat on the couch. Castorri sits in an upright chair directly across from him. This is their year-end evaluation.

AC: Hello, Andy. I’m so glad we were able to squeeze in this session. I’ve been eager to talk with you about your past season and to look ahead to 2013. How have you been?

AM: Not bad. I think I’ve been at a tolerable level of crabbiness. Maybe even pleasant.

AC: I’m happy to hear it. You have every right to be pleased. Winning the gold at the Olympics and your first Grand Slam title must keep you in a better emotional place. What have those two wins done for you?

AM: Well I don’t ball my fists anymore when I walk into a press conference after a loss. I don’t shoot daggers at Neil Harmon for asking me: “What happened in the second set, Andy?” He’s seen a million tennis matches; he bloody well knows what happened in the second set. Other times, though, I can’t stop losses from getting me frustrated. I want to listen to old Blink-182 and break things.

AC: I realize your career is a results-driven one, but we’ve discussed the pitfalls of relying on wins and losses to determine your worth. What has been bothering you lately?

AM: Let’s see: I blew match points – five of them – against Novak in the finals of Shanghai. I lost to somebody named Jerzy Janowicz in Paris; sounds like a con man on Boardwalk Empire. Then I ended the year losing – again – to Novak and Roger in the Tour Finals. Kind of finishing the season with a whimper.

AC: Andy, you’re a creative and technical genius. But even with all that skill, you have to accept that on occasion you may fail.

AM: That’s kind of you to say, but hitting a drop shot from behind the baseline down double break point isn’t inventive – it’s a cop out. Just because it worked doesn’t make it brilliant.

AC: Sounds like you still need to work on your relaxation techniques. When I worked with Lendl we had him practice yoga and jazzercise.

AM: Those seem a little fruity to me. If Sean Connery heard I was doing them he’d never talk to me again. Pierce Brosnan, maybe, but not Sean. Boxing is what I like to do to release aggression. That, and make jokes about Brad Gilbert. Stupid pocket squares.

AC: Boxing may release some anger, but it’s not going to help you relax when pressure builds during a match. I find it even stokes a person’s aggression. I’ve noticed you still shout things to your friends box when things are tight. What are you thinking about when you look over there?

AM: Lots of things. Nonsense, really. Is Pippa following me? Should my Black Ops online handle be BallsofMurray87? But mostly that my mum needs a new haircut. I mean I don’t know how much longer she can rock the Lois Griffin.

AC: Nothing about Ivan? Do you have trouble relating to him at times? I realize you have very different personalities and playing temperaments?

AM: Why? Because I’m a stubbed toe away from a possible Three Mile meltdown and he can play with sawdust dripping from his eyelashes?

AC: Something like that. How are things progressing with him?

AM: Fine, I guess. Can’t really complain about the results. Until I started working with him I never realized how much fun it is to crack sitters at your opponents’ sack. Although some of his advice needs freshening up. One of the first things he ever told me was to never play cards for money before a match with my opponents or their entourage, like he used to with Connors. I learned that the hard way years ago playing hearts against Dean Goldfine in Umag.

AC: He’s just trying to protect you from the mistakes that he made. Have you two discussed your goals for 2013.

AM: Wimbledon. Getting to No. 1 would be nice, too, but it’s all about getting one match better than last year. Sure, I’m happy to retire that “best to not to win a Slam” anchor, but the US Open doesn’t cut it back home. Wimbledon is the real prize. Then it’s hello knighthood and a regular role on Downton Abbey. I’m thinking Andrew Greengrass, Earl of  Flushing.

AC: I understand. Ivan felt the same way. It was the only Slam he couldn’t win. Do you ever talk about that with him?

AM: No. We don’t discuss winning Wimbledon. It’s like Chinatown.

AC: Of course. Painful memories of loss can be difficult to dredge up. But at least you lost the final to Federer. There’s no shame in that. He has to live with coming up short to Pat Cash.

AM: I see the pain on him every day. The guy only pays for things with credit cards.

AC: This all sounds like healthy progression to me. I believe in you, Andy. I believe you’ll have another positive year in 2013. (The phone on her desk rings). I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me a moment – my office assistant is out today and I need to take this. (She gets up out of her chair and picks up the phone.) Hello…Yes, this is she…Yes, I’m quite experienced working with athletes recovering from a humiliating loss and a recurring injury. It’s all about regaining their confidence…I appreciate he needs to maintain a low profile, but I can assure you his name won’t leave this office…Great, let me just write that down in my appointment book: N-A-D-A-L…Well, I look forward to meeting him, too. (Looks over at Murray.) Trust me, I can work wonders.

And what’s this Regenokine? Why is everyone telling Rafa he needs to inject it into me? I’m not crazy about needles. Even less so about one full of goo that sounds like something out of a Roger Corman movie. Gasol called Rafa yesterday to relay how Kobe swears by the stuff. Made his knee feel all Lebron-like. (I think Pau’s just giddy that with D12 around he won’t get put on any more posters).  But we’ve got to go to Dusseldorf to get the procedure done. I’ve got bad memories of Dusseldorf. The clay is always thick and damp, like FLo’s hair.

Can’t we just treat this the old fashioned way? Some ice baths, a foam roller, and surfing with Xisca. Maybe rub a little clay on it. Personally, I feel like I’m being made the scapegoat. Sure, I’m a bit sore and creeky, but I’m game for Flushing Meadows. I think Rafa is still licking his wounds from Wimbledon. Lukas Rosol? He’s George Bastl for the Twitterverse. Rafa didn’t lose that match because I was hobbled; he lost because tennis Buster Douglas summoned his inner Soderling. Rafa’s pride deflated more than I swelled.

Now all the experts want Rafa to reduce his schedule. They say he’s got to be smarter when it comes to his commitments. Jim Courier was on TV this past weekend posturing about how we should never play dubs again. Sorry, but I live my life by three simple rules: always say yes to Kinesio tape, barefoot running will be proven stupid, and never trust a ginger. We can still handle some hit and giggle doubles in Palm Springs.

You know what I really want? For everybody to start counting us out. To think this is the beginning of the end. Like Bolt after losing at the Olympic trials or Arnold after nailing his maid. We rehab like crazy and then come January we turn the tables in Melbourne. We rip through the draw and Rafa takes a bite out of his 12^th Grand Slam title. I stand up strong during the spring hard courts and the clay season becomes our personal playground once again. Roland Garros is a mere formality. I feel positively bionic just thinking about it.

But just in case: Anyone got Kobe’s number?

I found this shot online when I heard Jennifer Capriati would be inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame. This was taken during Capriati’s first professional match at The Virginia Slims of Florida in 1990. I was a huge tennis nut growing up and during my freshman year of college I headed down to Boca Raton for spring break.  My family had a place about a 15 minute drive to the Polo Club where the tournament was held.

I went down with six girls and we drove around in a gold Lincoln Town Car. Somehow, I managed to drag two of them with me to catch probably the most hyped match involving a 13 year old of all time.

Tennis seemed really accessible at that time. We bought tickets right at the gate and were able to head close to the court to watch the match (it was an intimate stadium to say the least). Ushers weren’t as difficult then as they are now.  I remember one year at the tournament walking on the court with my best friend and taking pictures with Mary Joe Fernandez after a late night doubles match. In 1990 we even took the free Virginia Slims cigarettes they handed out and smoked them just outside of the stadium. It was freshman year spring break after all.

When we sat down, we didn’t realize a bunch of Capriati’s school friends were seated behind us and they held up “Go Jennifer” signs pretty much after every point she won. It was annoying but I remember the photographers taking pictures and I thought we might have a chance of ending up in a publication. I shouldn’t be surprised I ended up as a photo editor for Tennis Magazine.

Back then the non-slam events had such an exotic feel to them. Because few early rounds at tournaments were ever televised, I never really had an idea of the atmosphere the smaller events had. Seeing the draws scribbled on the wooden signs was seriously exciting for me. Players walked around the grounds barely recognizable since there wasn’t any internet presence; practice courts weren’t blocked by fans holding up cell phones. It was new and fascinating to me and I often arrived hours before the first match and left only after the last ball was struck just trying to soak up the atmosphere.

Capriati’s first round match was a blur. I went to all of her matches that tournament right up to the final she lost to Gabriela Sabatini. The one match that sticks out in my mind was the quarterfinal against Helena Sukova. I really thought Sukova was going to handle Capriati but she only won a handful of games.  Sukova just didn’t know what to do with the pace and precision Capriati offered up. It really was the end of women’s serve and volley tennis and it was shocking to me.

When we got back to Boston, I bought Sports Illustrated and Newsweek and found the shots of Capriati’s friends in both magazines. I’m under the “R” wearing an extra- large tee-shirt when I was definitely an extra-small. My two friends are to the left, under the “E” and “F” both wearing Ray- Bans. I remember my friend bought a blazer at Cignal on Newbury Street (remember that store?) and we were so excited it made it into the magazines. Shoulder pads were clearly still in style at that point.

Years later I learned my cousins used to babysit Capriati when she lived in Wesley Chapel. They said she was a really sweet kid and her dad used to tell them over and over that she would one day become number one. I thought back to that week in Boca Raton and remembered thinking she was a sweet kid and probably would be number one.

I’m really excited to see Capriati headed into the Hall of Fame. The first year I was credentialed at the US Open, I sat with the photographers during her semifinal match against Justine Henin. It’s definitely a top five tennis moment for me. The energy she produced in Ashe Stadium was just as palpable as the energy she produced in 1990. Funny enough, I’m heading to Rhode Island tomorrow for a family reunion just outside Newport. I’ve never met Capriati, never worked with her and won’t be attending the induction, but I’ll be close enough to almost bookend her career. It’s too bad we didn’t get to see more of Capriati but I’m grateful for the memories she’s provided: of tense matches, spring break, babysitting, cigarettes and shoulder pads. There aren’t too many other players who have given me as much.

Apparently elegance really is an attitude.

A birthday celebration for Stefanie Graf ended in a shocking scene of tears and tantrums last night after Graf had an unprecedented meltdown during her birthday cake presentation and was unable to blow out her 43 candles.

The party was going well until husband Andre Agassi came out with the cake and guests began to serenade the shy birthday girl. The chaos started when some guests reportedly stopped short of singing Graf’s full name, finishing instead with “Happy birthday dear Steffi.” Since retiring from professional tennis, Graf has been adamant about being called Stefanie. When party-goers sang “Steffi,” Graf started mumbling “ANIE” in a whisper but her cries soon escalated to a fever pitch of “It’s Stef-ANIE!” with a rage never seen from Graf, even during her most devastating moments on court.

Confused guests then started re-singing the song, making sure to annunciate “Stefanie” at full volume. The effect created a “rounds” atmosphere with echoes of “Steffi” and “Stefanie” filling the room until Graf fell to the floor, sobbing “Just finish the fucking song, ok! Just finish the fucking song!”

Agassi then pulled out the chalk board, made famous during his International Tennis Hall of Fame induction speech for Graf in 2004. In Agassi’s speech, he mentioned his nightly ritual of filling the board with notes about his love for Graf.

Guests said Agassi started writing furiously on the board in at attempt to calm Graf. “Stefanie,” “legs,” “slams,” and “Monica wouldn’t have taken over regardless” were scribbled on the board.

One drunk guest noticed the German spelling of “Stefanie” and screamed “Hey Andre, where did you learn to spell? The Agassi Academy?”

According to Chris Evert who was also in attendance, the whole scene just reeked of a spoiled tennis player whose success was paved by her foresisters. According to Evert, Graf shouldn’t have even been celebrating her birthday without first thanking Billie Jean King.

“Steffi, Stefanie – who cares? I’ve been going by Chrissie my entire life,” began Evert. “It doesn’t bother me one bit. Steffi should get her diaper changed and suck it up. Shit, if I had her bank account I’d sing my own birthday song and call myself Martina!”

Until Maria Sharapova completed her grand slam resume last Saturday by winning Roland Garros, the biggest news about her was another title missing from her collection: Twitter handle. Sharapova just couldn’t understand how anyone could or would find anything about her daily life interesting.

But she lied. We were able to track down the overlooked Maria Sharapova twitter feed (handle: OVAKILL). And she’s right: it was boring. But there were a few good nuggets in there. Below find the abridged tweets of Maria Sharapova during her French Open title run.

OVAKILL: OK – How about Already Gone? (I looked up Kelly Clarkson songs) RT@serenawilliams OK – so Stronger by Kelly Clarkson will be my pump-up song b4 my 1^st match!

OVAKILL: @ARadwanska brings her change of clothing into the shower stall. #prude

OVAKILL: This tournament is so boring. I just made up a joke: What’s the worst part of dating American girls? They’re only good for one round! LOL!! #startbraggingwhenyouhaveteninthesecondweek.

OVAKILL: True Confession: I used to think Cole Haan was Asian! And then I thought he was gay. Is he even a man? #flatsobviously

OVAKILL: I love eating pasta #boredyet?

OVAKILL: STOP MAKING NEW PENNIES!

OVAKILL: People say I have an easy draw. How about wildcards? I just looked it up and they are guaranteed $18000 Euro – for not having a ranking!

OVAKILL: Did you know if you hit the ground when falling in a dream it means you’re dead.

OVAKILL: Petra-fied. Petra-fried; Should have KVIT while you were ahead.

OVAKILL: That Errani is so cute! She reminds me of a woodlands critter – in a good way!

OVAKILL: I bet I don’t show from behind when I’m pregnant.

OVAKILL: I think I should be called Chantal. After all, I’m 6’2”. Get it?

OVAKILL: Cedric Pioline touched me. I need a shower.

I get around to all the major sports, but I have a soft spot for tennis. Probably because I don’t exactly fit in. Athletes who wear me tend to exude a primal toughness not generally associated with such a refined pastime. It wasn’t until the 70s when I got my first real break with Borg. Newk and Stan had already introduced a couple of my push broom cousins to the game, and Tiriac sported that wicked horseshoe, but Bjorn went half-Galifianakis. The guy had an angelic face, but when it came to the majors he turned Viking. He wouldn’t shave for the full two weeks, unless he lost first, which wasn’t often. We did our best work at Roland Garros and Wimbledon. What a glorious time it was to be on that man’s face.

After Borg I had a little trouble finding work in tennis. There were always openings in hockey, but the NHL playoffs are interminable and the groupies just didn’t compare. It was like going from touring with The Stones to RUSH. And getting slashed with a flat piece of wood is hell on the follicles. It took some major sunshine blowing, but I did manage a brief stint with Connors. It didn’t last long; the guy was way too intense. Aw hell, he was an asshole. He blamed me for every little problem – low 1^st-serve percentage, leg cramps, a busted flush. Totally unreasonable to work with.

I thought in the early 90s I could strike up a deal with Sampras. The guy was hatched with five-o’clock shadow. Rumor was after three days growth he could tear a towel in half with his chin. But he was just too clean-cut to go the distance. So I pulled a 180 and partnered with Agassi. Andre and I worked well together. The guy lacks coverage on his dome, but his face is pure alpaca. We had a few special runs, the last time back in ’99. I had long conversations with coach Gilbert (plenty hirsute in his own right) before the French that year and I promised magic if I was brought on board. We ruled Paris. Then Agassi found religion (Steffi) and we parted ways.

Since Agassi I’ve been mostly a non-factor. Maybe what I hear about today’s players is true: they’re a little soft. They opt for the pretty boy, metro image. GQ over SI. James Blake and I did some damage about five years ago, but we never got to the promised land. Tipsarevic and Tursunov will check in from time to time. Good guys with plenty of quirk, but my stubble barely reaches irritable before they’re stamping their passports. Just to be around the game I slummed with that talentless caveman and Billie Jean on the Geico commercials. Total waste of my skills. I felt like DeNiro doing Little Fockers, or Mariano shagging fly balls.

I’ve approached Annacone about working with Federer, but there’s a lot of hesitation of their end. Something about how I would dull the pronounced contours of his face. Whatever. Old-timer is probably worried I’ll come in gray. Nadal? Wouldn’t even return my calls. Total control freak anyway. If playing on a blue clay court can “destabilize” his preparations for Roland Garros, one stray whisker would have him scribbling tantrums in his journal. Murray wants to work with me, but I’ve seen fuller facial hair on the New York Liberty. Lendl hates me anyway. Still blames me for collapsing against Borg in the ’81 final, but it’s misplaced rage; I was working with Stallone on Nighthawks at that time. It took Lendl a couple more years, but he finally sprouted hair where he needed it most.

I haven’t given up though. I’ve got a juicy three episode walk-on for Game of Thrones on the table, but I’m not ready to accept. Not until I hear back from Marian. His charge looks like a born bearder. He’s never won Roland Garros and Nadal seems to have turned the tables on the dirt as of late. Novak could use a thick piece of facial luck to make some history. I think it’s time to try his coach again and double-down on my offer.

“Hello, Marian…Yeah, it’s me. I’m checking back with you about my proposal…What’s the hurry? When I know something’s right I want to make sure it happens…No, he’ll look great. Nothing like Vlade Divac…Too disheveled? Not a chance. Besides, I hear he’s wearing Uniqlo now; he could use a few rough edges…I understand you don’t want to shuffle a winning hand, but here’s the thing: I think this kid can win it all and I want to put my money where his face is. He’ll be the Chuck Norris of Roland Garros. What do you say?”

Not ready to commit. Wants me to check back in with him after the first round. But I can’t wait around until then. I’ve got Lannisters to kill. Novak’s on his own. If he comes up short again, he should look no further than his smooth cheeks for blame.

“I aint ever been a loser and I’m always on top – roofer.”

We may have just lost MCA, but Serena is here to widen the void.

"It's halftime at the USTA. We're getting ready for a big comeback. Just don't expect any of us to drive a Chrysler."

Several weeks ago, Wayne Bryan – tennis coach, dad, and cheerleader – sent a lengthy, critical open letter to the USTA. He essentially characterized the organization’s player development program as being a rudderless money pit. The attention Bryan’s attack drew in the tennis blogosphere caused other notables to chime in. Former USTA coach and Top 10 player, Tim Mayotte, backed Bryan’s disappointment with a post on Johan Kriek’s Facebook page (the natural spot for such a missive). It got so Patrick McEnroe, GM of player development, felt the need to fire back. Below are some the highlights of McEnroe’s rebuttal, with added interpretation.

“It’s easy—and frankly, it’s long been fashionable—to cast a blanket indictment against the USTA. That’s neither new nor notable. I think all of us at the USTA would agree that a lot of past criticism has been deserved, but Mr. Bryan’s scattershot attack is so full of holes, hearsay, and half-truths that I feel compelled to address it.”

If you’re going to say we suck, at least do us the courtesy of being accurate as to why we suck.

“As General Manager of Player Development, my specific charge is to help produce more Top 100 players with the goal that we have more of them competing into the second week of the majors.”

This is the Moneyball approach, people. If we start getting players on base, maybe a few will actually score.

“Let’s face it, in a rapidly-changing global environment, if we’re not changing and moving forward, we’re essentially going backward.”

I’m pretty sure I stole that from Steve Jobs. Or maybe it was a Sprint commercial. No wait, it came with my dumplings from Schezuan Village.

“It’s true that Americans don’t dominate tennis the way they once did, but the truth is that because of globalization, Americans don’t dominate any sport the way they once did.”

When’s the last time we won a World Cup?

“Tennis has often been criticized for being too expensive and inaccessible. Those criticisms have truth to them; they are challenges that all of us involved in the sport face.”

But I think we can all agree it’s nice to keep the “undesirables” away if you know what I mean.

“The idea that the more-talented or more-accomplished kids are somehow being held back or hampered by the rule changes that include shorter courts, properly-sized racquets and slower-bouncing balls is absurd.”

That’s clearly the fault of USTA coaching. Duh.

“Mr. Bryan says he can produce, “all kinds of kids around the country at 8, 9, 10 who can flat out nail the ball.” I’m sure that’s true, and in fact, I’ve seen plenty of them at our Regional Training Centers and our three USTA training centers.”

And by “seen” them I mean I’ve seen clips of them playing on YouTube. My broadcast schedule is a bitch.

“It’s equally important to note that the ability to “flat-out nail the ball” doesn’t exactly translate into a bright future as a player.”

It might even lead to a meth habit.

“Jose Higueras, USTA Player Development’s outstanding Director of Coaching, often has said that this country has produced plenty of players who can hit the ball, but far fewer who understand how to play tennis.”

Even far fewer who understand what the hell he’s saying half the time.

“Mr. Bryan likes to point out that the USTA has never developed a Top 10 player. I would ask him, “Who has, from start-to-finish?””

Seriously. Help me out. Bollettieri? Lansdorp? Who? Throw me a bone.

“Whatever the scenario, whatever the need, we’re there to lend our support to both the coach and the player so that the player can progress.”

And, of course, share in some of the credit. (Wildcards don’t just fall from the sky).

“Mr. Bryan suggests that the USTA’s thrust is to “get rid of the influence of parents and local coaches.” Again, that’s absolutely absurd.”

We very much need these people to give players transportation to our tournaments and pay their membership dues.

“Indeed, the amount of time that we spend annually meeting with and exchanging ideas with private coaches is off the charts.”

In all my written correspondence I always give a tip of the cap to Casey Kasem. Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars? Pure inspiration.

“Just last year, USTA Player Development conducted 57 camps at our Regional Training Centers, where we were able to touch thousands of kids, parents and coaches.”

No racquets. No balls. Just lots of hugging and sharing feelings.

“As in most criticism aimed at the USTA, Mr. Bryan is fond of citing the “massive staff expenditures” of this association. Yes, we’re extremely fortunate to have the revenues generated by the US Open to help us fund our programs and hire talented people, but to hear Mr. Bryan tell it, you’d think our water coolers were filled with Dom Perignon.”

That would be idiotic; the bubbly would go flat as Tang. No, our coolers are stocked with wine from the USTA’s private vineyard. (Good luck finding that on our 990).

“I make a very nice living—I don’t apologize for that either.”

But I do thank my brother like crazy. If not for him, I’d be Jay Berger.

“But the truth is that a lot of my very talented staff take less money to work for USTA Player Development than they could make if they took their talents elsewhere.”

Like the PR lacky who wrote this letter for me in between taking my kids to school and buying my wife a Valentine’s Day gift. Hey, it’s not my fault Ketchum isn’t hiring.

“Mr. Bryan bemoans the fact that I’ve hired some foreign coaches; he decries the fact that none of my coaches have children that are champion players. Frankly, I’m offended by the former and amused by the latter.”

It really is hilarious how bad our coaches’ kids are. Bunch of spazzes.

“I still recall the best coaching advice my father ever gave me as a junior—after splitting the first two sets of my match, he told me prior to the third set to, “do what you did in the set that you won.””

I rolled a bagel in the third. I can’t tell you how many times I used that one with Roddick in Davis Cup.

“I understand a lot of the criticism and I’m happy to take most of it—where it’s constructive and where it’s deserved. The buck stops here. Certainly, when Americans don’t fare well on our sport’s biggest stages, nobody is calling the local pros—they’re calling the USTA. And they should.”

Ask for Lorraine. We’re paying her $600k to field complaints. But only Tuesdays and Thursdays.