Carrie Soto Is Back(46)

“That was abysmal,” my father says as I finally approach where he is standing on the beach. “It should have been at least ten minutes faster. We come back again ma?ana.”

I can barely breathe. “Bueno,” I gasp. “Ma?ana.”



* * *



—

My life becomes:

Five miles in the sand every other morning.

Forty-yard sprints on the days off.

Hitting against a machine spitting balls at me that are as fast as 80 miles per hour.

Playing against hitters for hours on end.

My father clocking my serves with a radar gun and shaking his head until I hit at least 120 miles per hour.

And then, when the sun begins to set and evening takes hold, watching tape.

My father and I watch my matches in Melbourne to figure out what I could have done better. We watch Cortez, Perez, Odette Moretti, Natasha Antonovich, Suze Carter, Celine Nystrom, Petra Zetov, and Andressa Machado at the IGA Classic in Oklahoma City.

My father’s jaw tenses as we watch Natasha Antonovich dominate in the final against Moretti. He doesn’t have to say anything—I already know his concern.

Antonovich plays like I used to. She’s fast, with a full arsenal of shots. It will not be easy for me to go up against her in Paris, if I have to.

“I think we should go to Indian Wells,” my father says as we turn off the TV one night. “See these players up close again, look for their weak spots. Train to defeat them.”

“All right,” I say. “Sure.”

My father stands up to go to his house. “Did you see Bowe got to the quarters in Milan?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding.

“We gotta get you two back on the court. The better he gets, the better you’ll play. Until one day, you will play the greatest tennis you’ve ever played in your life, pichona.”

“No lo sé, papá,” I say.

“I’m telling you, hija, the greatest match of your career is ahead of you.”

It is such a kind thing for him to say—exactly the sort of thing a father like him would tell a daughter like me. Full of heart and love and belief, and maybe a little bit untrue.





MARCH 1995


    Three months until Paris


My father, Gwen, and I pack our suitcases into Gwen’s SUV and head west for Indian Wells.

Gwen is driving, and I am in the passenger seat. TLC is playing on the radio, and Gwen’s stereo system makes me feel like they are right here in the car.

My father is in the back seat and falls asleep five minutes after we get onto the 10.

Gwen turns the radio down. “Look,” she says, her voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay…” I say as we drive through downtown L.A.

“Elite Gold wants to pause on the photo shoot and commercials, for now.”

I turn to Gwen. “But I made it to the round of sixteen.”

She checks her mirrors and moves into the fast lane—which is almost at a standstill. “They were impressed with your showing in Melbourne. But they said clay is your worst surface and they don’t want to run a bunch of commercials about what a legend you are off of two…”

“Failures.”

“They used the word defeats.”

“I haven’t lost the French Open yet, and they are already counting me out?”

“I told them they were making a mistake. I said, ‘You have a contract with the most talked-about athlete of the year. You want to shoot her now so that when she wins this summer you have the campaign of the decade.’?”

“But they didn’t buy it.”

“They would rather wait and see.”

I kick her car door, and Gwen glares at me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Sorry.”

“Look, you and I both know Melbourne was the beginning. You will win one by the end of the year.”

“Do you really believe that?” I ask her.

“I believe in you. I think if you say something can be done, it will be done.”

I close my eyes for a moment and wonder how to tell her how much I needed to hear that. But I cannot find the words.

“So, Bowe,” Gwen says, looking at me for a split second before looking back at the road. “How did that all go? He said he got a lot out of it. Was it good? Did it help?”

“It was great, actually,” I say. “It was really helpful to have a sparring partner at that level.”

Gwen raises her eyebrow. “And that’s all?”

I look at her. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“I saw a photo of you two out to dinner in Melbourne. And people are saying he came to your matches. I was wondering if…”

I shake my head. “Mind your own business.”

“Oh, c’mon!” she says. “I could tell that Bowe maybe still had a thing for you. I could tell.”

I turn to face the passenger-side window and watch us crawl through traffic. We are passing through the industrial side of Los Angeles at a snail’s pace. “You’re creating a soap opera in your head.”

“I really think you two would be good together. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s such a good person—just like someone else I know.”