A more open, inviting format and a peppy, charging style give this an initial edge over other Putnam sports entries. But Haney is mesmerized by the Connors-Everts romance, the rewards of stardom, and Teddy Tingling's on-court fashions. As far as personality goes every opponent Chris meets--Goolagong, Wade, Navratilova--upstages her, and the unidentified photos of Martina may even leave you wondering who's who. Everts' deliberate play requires some effort to appreciate, but in lieu of a knowledgeable critique Haney buries her under fanzine adjectives (""a Florida orange juice girl, sunny but cool"" . . . ""ladylike, golden, feminine""). Simultaneously unflattering to Everts and all unaware that the transformation of tennis stars into glamor girls isn't quite the same thing as feminism, this exudes the purely perverse appeal of unguarded gossip.