In the summer of 1975, the stars aligned for a perfect opportunity for me to finally win my country’s championship at the US Open.
Coming to New York that season, I was already a three-time major champion—the year before at the French Open and Wimbledon, and again in Paris in the spring—while not yet 21 years old. After four heartbreaking semifinal losses in my first four trips to New York, I so badly wanted to break through at my home major.
I was thrilled when the US Open made the move to clay courts that year–and remained that way in 1976 and 1977. I knew it was my best surface, and in the summer of 1975, I was in the middle of a 125-match winning streak on clay. That fact alone had me standing a little taller every time I walked on court. The competitor in me will tell you it was also wonderful to beat one of my rivals, Evonne Goolagong, in a come-from-behind, three-set final at Forest Hills. But when reflecting on that memorable run now, 50 years later, my biggest takeaway from it is looking up at my mother right after I won and seeing her sobbing. I realized how much it meant to her. As I think about it now, I want to cry. It was very emotional for me to see her care so much about her daughter’s US Open victory.