Carrie Soto Is Back(56)

Lakin: I know you do. But an athlete’s job is not just to win—it’s also to be someone we can cheer for. Soto puts no effort into courting public opinion at all. I guess I want to know why we all have to walk on eggshells to pretend Carrie Soto isn’t the exact thing she clearly enjoys being?

Hadley: And with that, we’ll be right back.





THE 1995


   FRENCH


   OPEN





The air of Roland-Garros is like no other court in the world. It is earthy and humid, heavy with the unyielding scent of tobacco. The smoke from the spectators’ pipes has accumulated over the years and lives in the very molecules of this place.

As I walk toward the locker room this morning, preparing for my first match, I am struck by how intense the memories are. Each time I’ve played here comes back to me all at once.

The midseventies, the early eighties. Great wins and crushing losses.

I spent the first five or so years here desperate and frustrated, pushing myself to rise up the ranks. I lost to Stepanova in the semis in ’78. I defeated her in the semis in ’79, only to lose to Gabriella Fornaci. Lost to Mariana Clayton in ’80. Renee Mona in ’81. Bonnie Hayes in ’82. And then in ’83, I finally won the whole thing.

Was I the greatest then—at that very moment? Even though I’d also failed here many times before? Which matters more? The wins or the losses?

Despite how hard I am seeking some unimpeachable label of “greatness,” it doesn’t really exist. I do know that, on some level.

But then I walk into the locker room, full of players—Antonovich and Cortez talking in the corner, Brenda Johns pulling on her shoes, Carla Perez opening a locker—and suddenly, I am pulled out of my head back into the world I know best.

The world of winners and losers.





SOTO VS. ZETOV


    1995 French Open


   First Round


I walk out onto the court and hear the crowd begin to cheer.

I look over at Petra Zetov. She’s warming up her shoulder, stretching her legs as men in the crowd holler. She’s currently ranked the highest of her career, number eighty-nine. But she has a rabid fan base out of proportion to her ranking.

She’s stunningly beautiful—tall and thin, blond hair, blue eyes. She’s a model for Calvin Klein, does commercials for Diet Coke, and was in a Soul Asylum video.

And she has a burden I have never had. In order to keep getting paid, she has to keep looking beautiful on the court.

I wonder, briefly, if it weighs on her. Or, if, conversely, it frees her from the pressure I live with, the pressure to win.

Either way, it’s a prison. Both her beauty and my ability—they’ve both got an expiration date.

“It is an honor to play you,” she says.

I nod.

This will not be hard. I fully admit that I do not have what she has. But it is equally true that she doesn’t have what I have.

The coin is tossed; Zetov wins. She elects to serve first, her face bright and hopeful, as if she thinks this bodes well for her, as if she has a real chance.

I take the match in straight sets.





I take out Celine Nystrom in the second round. Nicki defeats Avril Martin.

In the third, Nicki takes down Josie Flores. I beat Andressa Machado.

When I get back to the hotel after the match, I take a shower and open up a book.

I try to calm myself. The round of sixteen is tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning, I will practice with my father. So tonight, this quiet, is my respite.

The book I brought is an unauthorized biography of Daisy Jones and the Six. I’m only reading to see who slept with who, but I can’t focus.

The phone rings and I wonder for a moment if it’s Bowe.

“Hola, hija.”

“Hola, papá.”

“Tomorrow morning, eight a.m.”

“Yes, ya lo sé.”

“Just reminding you. And, I…Did you see Bowe’s match?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He played beautifully.” He defeated Nate Waterhouse in the round of sixteen.

“Maybe the best I’ve seen him all year.” Bowe’s now headed to the quarterfinals for the first time in a Slam since 1991.

I haven’t spoken to Bowe since our fight. When I hang up with my dad, I keep the phone in my hand. I consider calling Bowe’s hotel. My fingers hover over the buttons. But instead, I put down the receiver and go to bed.



* * *



—

“You’ve beaten Perez before,” my father says in the tunnel, right before I set out onto the court. “Just do it again.”

I turn back to him. “What?”

“You’ve beaten her once already,” he says. “You can do it again.”

“You said Perez,” I say.

“Right. So you play to her backhand, keep the pressure on her, hit hard to compensate for the clay. You got this.”

“I’m playing Odette Moretti,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, closing his eyes for a second and then opening them right back up. “Right, right. Sorry. Sorry. Nicki’s playing Perez. Right, okay, Moretti. She’s got a light arm, keep her at the baseline, she doesn’t have the power to keep them bouncing on clay.”