I had a bunch of different colored hats I wore. When I started wearing a pink one, we won five or six tournaments in a row, so I stuck with it. It started as superstition and now it's tradition—my hideous trademark that I always wear.

Playing against better competition makes you better and more focused, so you can do what you have to, to win.

The first thing I do when I get there—like all of the players on tour—is apply sunscreen. One of the few hazards of the job is the wear-and-tear our skin takes from the sun.

I still get excited just attending a final four, because the process is so long, so arduous, so challenging, that when it finally arrives, the adrenaline can't help but take over. I love the sense of accomplishment and camaraderie that the indoor game can engender.

My dad was a really intense competitor and that rubbed off on me. He was loud and vocal on the court, so I let him do all the talking. But I developed a kind of quiet intensity that I knew I had to have to improve and compete with grown men. It took every ounce of focus.

It's hard to give a career like this up, when I tell my wife I'm going to the office, and it's the beach.

When I was on the U.S. men's indoor team, I was on the road 200 days of the year and sometimes in the worst conditions. We didn't have the food or luxuries we wanted. We didn't have a laundry service. So every night after the match, I soaped up my uniform in the shower. I learned to rely on outside things as little as possible, whether it was music or massage. I just got out of the habit of relying on outside things.