I must be the only player in the world who ever injured himself for a tournament by stepping on a shell on the beach. I don't know what I'm going to do.

The trouble with me is that every match I play against five opponents: umpire, crowd, ball boys, court, and myself.

I just try to play tennis and don't find excuses. You know, I just lost because I lost, not because my arm was sore.

Lately, my mind is like an orchestra. If you don't have the conductor, you don't know what to do. One guy is playing jazz, one guy is playing rock and roll, another classical. It's a big mess.

My tattoo is a cross, a rose and a shark. A cross is a cross, a rose like love and a shark is a pretty tough animal.

If I can't serve on grass, I can maybe help cut the grass, paint the lines and serve some strawberries.

Actually, I tossed it nicely, landed nicely, like airplane. No warning, beautiful. That's the art of throwing racquets.