Free You Let Some Girl Beat You? by Ann Meyers Drysdale Page A

studies had shown that HCG helped the athletes perform better. It was whispered that many of these Soviet basketball players had become mothers for the same reason.
    Whether that was true or not, there was no doubt these ladies had something extra. Their front line averaged 6’6”, and their Latvian player, Uļjana Semjonova, was 7’2”. Semjonova’s upper thigh was the size of my waist. Our tallest player was 6’3”. Even so, I’d never entered any competition expecting to lose, and I wasn’t about to. I reminded myself that David was 6’8”, and I’d played against him thousands of times. Semjonova doesn’t scare me .
    The game had a good crowd, and it was televised. I received some attention right off the bat because John Wooden’s UCLA team had recently won the NCAA tournament, with David helping lead the way. Many speculated he would be a future NBA top pick, so the Meyers name was already out there.
    Being the only player still in high school and the youngest on the team, I was a substitute guard and didn’t start. But I did play, and well enough to be named Player of the Game. I brought the same energy and passion to the court that David did and played every point like it was our last. As hard as we played, we lost by three points. But in coming so close, we caused the Soviet Union’s national pride to suffer a terrible beating. After the game, Brent Musburger interviewed me, and all I remember saying was, “Yep.”
    All I remember thinking was, The Russians aren’t all that great .
    The following games in California, Iowa, and New Mexico would prove otherwise. We were in California, about to play a game at Cal State Fullerton and sharing a pre-game meal with the Soviet Ladies at a small restaurant on campus. I was seated across from the towering Semjonova. To my right was my roommate and team captain, Juliene Brazinski Simpson. Jules was from Jersey and an outgoing point guard in her early twenties, with a big personality who was as quick with a clever reply as she was with a bounce pass. Across from Jules, was Tatyana Ovechkin, the captain of the Russian team (her son, Alexander Ovechkin, is #8 on the NHL’s Washington Capitals).
    Semjonova was so tall that her knees wouldn’t fit under the table, and her hands were so large and her arms so long that I imagined she could easily wrap them around a thick oak. With mitts larger than any man’s I’d ever seen, I figured a basketball must have felt to her like a soccer ball felt to me. It was our understanding they spoke no English, so I exposed the palm of my hand and motioned for her to do the same.
    â€œYour hands are very large,” I said slowly, to which Semjonova just nodded. I may have been the youngest one there by several years, but I sensed right away that our Russian dinner partners knew more English than they let on.
    â€œYou’re married?” Jules asked the team captain, pointing to her wedding band. Ovechkin looked at her hand and nodded. Semjonova was also wearing a ring.
    â€œI’m married too.” Jules held up her ring finger, then took off her band and motioned for the other two women to do the same so they could compare sizes. Semjonova’s ring was large enough to fit a fifty cent piece inside and still have room around the edges.
    The captain said something in Russian and both women laughed.
    â€œThat’s what I’m saying!” Juliene joked loudly. “You’ve got really huge hands! I’ll bet you have big Bozo feet too.” Juliene snickered at the thought that she could be so rude and get away with it. I wasn’t so sure.
    Juliene had played on several USA Teams and was more often than not the captain. At 5’6 she was one of our shorter players, and we called her The Tank for her impenetrable blocking. Her commanding presence and confident strut were partly because she’d grown up in Jersey. She was the