Carrie Soto Is Back(44)

Gloria Jones: I think it was an excellent showing.

Briggs Lakin: It was what we all knew it would be, which was a failed attempt at a comeback.

Jones: I mean, yes. Ultimately, if she’s going to be a contender to win a Slam this year, you’d want to see her get past the round of sixteen.

Lakin: If she can’t make it to the final in Melbourne when Nicki Chan’s gone home with a bum ankle, she has no shot at a Slam title this year. Especially once the Beast comes back. And you all know I’m no big fan of Chan. I can’t get over the grunting. But she is the best player in the world right now. So this was Soto’s chance to take a title, and it’s over.

Jones: Yes, that last part, I agree with.

Hadley: Look at that! For once, we all agree.

Lakin: Turning to the quarterfinals, I think Cortez can take this thing to the end.

Jones: Absolutely not. Antonovich is going to stop her.

Hadley: Well, Chan’s no spring chicken. Who takes the reins after the Beast is done? This could be Cortez’s or Antonovich’s moment. To take a Slam while she’s out. To show us what the future of tennis looks like.





On the flight home to Los Angeles, my father wants to go over what went wrong, how I can do better next time.

“Sí, pero, I played poorly, Dad,” I say. “I got cocky. I assumed I was back to my old level of playing, and I wasn’t. Cortez got the best of me. And now, anyone who saw that match knows that they can run me down.”

“Sí y…” my father says, gesturing his hand toward me to encourage me to keep talking.

“So…I need to work on it.”

My father smiles. “We need to work on it. We need to think through multiple strategies with each player and react more quickly once we understand what they are up to. And we need to get your volley game to the best it’s ever been, so you don’t have to rely on the groundstrokes, if you feel yourself starting to lose your power.” There is a buoyancy to his voice—an excitement—that irritates me.

“Yes, but please stop smiling about it.”

“I cannot!” he says, throwing his hands up in the air. “This is an exciting time. It is phase two. We have learned where we can improve, and now we will. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the world is ours.”

We are however many thousand miles up in the air. It is night and there are no birds up here. Only defeat and jet lag in a pressurized cabin.

“Yeah, está bien,” I say. “Está bien.”



* * *



—

We land and make our way home, where I sleep for twelve hours. I had planned to spend the next day alone in my room with the curtains drawn, ordering expensive pizza. But when I open my eyes, I make myself get up and turn on the television. I want to confirm what I already suspect.

Ingrid Cortez is on my television screen, holding up the Daphne Akhurst Memorial Cup. She’s won the goddamn final against Antonovich.

She looks so happy, standing there. Like the young kid she is—so full of joy and life and eagerness. Her face is beaming; her skin is flushed.

When did I lose that? The delight of success? When did winning become something I needed in order to survive? Something I did not enjoy having, so much as panic without?

Before I know what I am doing, I am in shorts and a T-shirt, knocking on my father’s door at eight-thirty in the morning on a rest day.

He opens the door in his robe and slippers, wiping the crust out of his eyes. But when he sees me, he perks right up.

I say, “Let’s play.”

“All right,” he says. “Let me gather my notes on what we need to work on.”

I shake my head. “No. Just me and you. Playing a match. For fun. No drills.”

My father smiles and claps his hands in delight. “?Me encanta el plan!”

He puts his hand up, ready for a high five. I laugh and slap it.

“Dame cinco minutos,” my dad says. “Y después jugamos.”

When he comes out, there is a bounce to his step and a grin on his face. He takes the first serve, and I kick his ass.





FEBRUARY 1995


    Three and a half months until Paris


The sun is barely in the sky, and yet I am standing on the court in front of my father, already warmed up.

“This is,” he says, “the beginning of clay season. We put the past behind us. We look forward to Paris. ?Estamos de acuerdo?”

“Sí, está bien,” I say. The loss in Melbourne still burns. The only thing that will cure it is a win at Roland-Garros.

As the reporters so kindly reminded me, I have only won the French Open once. Twelve years ago. The other nineteen of my Slams have been on hard courts or grass. But Roland-Garros is red clay.

Clay surfaces are softer; they absorb more of the power of the ball. Which means everything about them is slower. Players run slower, the ball bounces slower, and the ball bounces higher, too, which gives my opponents more time to react to my shots. Clay cuts into my advantage at almost every juncture. It neutralizes my speed, dulls my accuracy; even my angles don’t have quite the same effect.

Clay is not for quick players. It favors the heavy hitters. It is a game of muscle.

Clay is Nicki’s surface. And I sincerely hope her ankle’s too fucked to play it.