Carrie Soto Is Back(41)

“Oh, fuck off,” I say as I get up from the table. “I was just trying to help you.”

“Telling me what I should have done helps absolutely no one. You know, Carrie, you get a bad rap—but some of it is deserved.”

“Or maybe some little boys are too sensitive.”

Bowe looks up at me, his eyes narrow. “You are—”

“What?” I say, daring him.

“This whole thing, it’s just not worth it,” he says. “At all.”

“All right, fuck you kindly,” I say, and I walk away.

I barely look behind me as my father comes down out of the elevator with my kit. He is scanning the crowd but doesn’t spot me until I walk up to him. He has a huge smile on his face.

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t see you over there. Were you celebrating?”

“Celebrating?” I ask.

His smile grows wider.

“Nicki Chan tore her ankle up against Antonovich. She’s out for the rest of the tournament.”

“No way,” I say.

My father nods.

“I could take this,” I say.

“Yes, you could.”

“I am going to take the whole goddamn tournament!” I say. “While she’s nursing a bum ankle from her bad form, I can set this whole thing back where it belongs.”

“Yes, you can, cari?o,” he says. “But not if you keep standing here bragging about it.”



* * *



—

I am in the entryway, just two steps from the court. I can hear the noise of the crowd. I can see, from my narrow vantage point, a sign in the far back of the arena that reads Take it to the finals, Carrie!

There are three people standing between Ingrid Cortez and me—the guard, my father, and her coach are acting as the buffer between us. I am glad for it.

Yesterday, she told one of the newspapers, “I expect a swift and decisive victory in my favor. But I will try not to make it too embarrassing for Soto.”

I hold my racket in my hand and play with the strings, making sure they are tight. I have seven more in my kit. I bounce a few times on the balls of my feet, wearing my neon pink Break Points and a neon pink sweatband to pull my hair away from my forehead.

My father puts his hand on my shoulder. I can feel the weight of him there, the weight of his belief in me, his excitement.

When I was playing pro the first time around—that decade and a half of clawing my way to the top and staying there for as long as I could—I did not delight enough in the accomplishments. I would win and then move on to the next challenge.

But right now, as I turn back to take another look at the crowd, I know that, in at least one way, I have evolved.

My older self knows that you must stop—in the middle of the chaos—to take in the world around you. To breathe in deeply, smell the sunscreen and the rubber of the ball, let the breeze blow across your neck, feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. In this respect, I love the way the world has aged me.

I inhale and hold the breath; I let it fill my lungs and raise my chest. And then I blow it out, ready to go.

I wipe the tops of my shoes and walk out onto the court.





SOTO VS. CORTEZ


    1995 Australian Open


   Round of Sixteen


I crouch behind the service line, waiting for Ingrid Cortez’s first serve.

She is over six feet tall. Her incisors are long and sharp, and when she smiles, she looks like she is about to bite.

She tosses the ball into the air and serves to the far-right edge of the box. I hit a groundstroke back. We rally for the point, and I take it. Love–15.

Another serve, another rally. My point. Love–30.

I look up at my father and see a small smile on his lips.

Cortez serves again, this time shorter, tighter. I hit it to the baseline. She hits it back soft. I win the point. Love–40. I’m already at break point in the first game.

She underestimated me. And it is a thrill to set her straight.

The sun has begun to burn, slow and hot. The crowd mumbles. I look up in the players’ box to see my father. He is nodding at me, willing me to take the game. Then I look in the next section over, and Bowe is taking a seat.

He has canceled his flight, I guess. And come here, to watch me play Cortez.

My eyes soften as I look at him. Sorry, he mouths. I nod.

I move my eyes back to the court. Cortez serves high, with a topspin and force that make it hard to predict. Still, I manage to get to the ball on the rise and return it deep to the baseline, a full two feet past her backhand.

The announcer says, “Game is Soto’s.” Bowe gives me a fist pump.

Over the next nine games, I take the set.



* * *



—

During the changeover, I look over at Cortez. She has talked such a big game of not being afraid of me, and I’ve pummeled her in the first set. I expect to see some anxiety or concern, a sign that she understands what she’s up against now.

Instead, when she catches my eye, she smiles. As if none of this has worried her in the slightest.

During the second set, Cortez’s groundstrokes become harder and faster. Her serves sting in my arm as I return them. I adjust quickly, reducing my shots just like I did back in the eighties up against Stepanova. I’m pulling out the Soto Slice.