Carrie Soto Is Back(57)
I look at my dad for a moment.
“It’s time, hija. ?Vos podés!” he says.
I bend down and wipe my shoes clean.
SOTO VS. MORETTI
1995 French Open
Round of Sixteen
Moretti strides onto the court in a white-and-navy-blue tennis dress, waving to the crowd. She blows kisses to the stands. She is sponsored by Nike, so it’s no surprise that she is covered in Swooshes from head to toe. When she turns to look at me, she gives me a big smile.
I nod at her.
She starts strong after winning the toss. But I’m stronger.
15–love becomes 15–all. 30–15 becomes 30–all. Deuces become ad-ins and then back to deuces and ad-outs.
Three hours in, we are now in the third set. 6–6.
The crowd is cheering. I look up at my father, who is sitting elegantly behind a flower box.
It’s now my serve. I need to hold this one and break hers. And then I’m on to the quarterfinals.
I close my eyes. I can do this.
When I open my eyes again, I am looking directly at Moretti. She hovers over the court, her hips swaying side to side as she waits for my serve.
I breathe in and then serve it straight down the middle. She returns it with a groundstroke to the center. I hit it back, deep and to the far-right corner. She runs for it, fast and hard. There’s no way she’s gonna make it.
But then she does. And I can’t return it.
It’s fine. It’s fine. I can feel my knee twinging, but I have plenty more to go.
I look up at my father again in the players’ box. He catches my eye.
I can feel the hum in my bones, the lightness in my belly. I serve it again, this time just at the line. She dives and misses it.
I hold my game and then begin my assault on her serve. I chip away at her, love–15, love–30. By the time I get to match point, she’s exactly where I want her. I set her up so she’s on the far side of the court. I return it to her backhand and that’s it. She’s done.
The crowd roars. I jump up into the air and pump my fist.
Nobody thought I’d last past the round of sixteen, but for the first time in seven years, I have earned my way to the quarterfinals. And as it begins to sink in, I feel myself tearing up.
I keep thinking, I don’t cry on the court. I don’t cry on the court.
But then I think, Maybe it’s a lie that you have to keep doing what you have always done. That you have to be able to draw a straight line from how you acted yesterday to how you’ll act tomorrow. You don’t have to be consistent.
You can change, I think. Just because you want to.
And so, for the first time in decades, I stand in front of a roaring crowd and cry.
I am in the medic room after the match, having my knee iced and my calves massaged. My father is making notes and flipping through the channels, to see if I’ll play Cortez or Antonovich in the semis.
But then Bowe appears on the screen. He’s live in the press room, sitting slightly hunched over, a baseball cap over his barely dry hair. He has on a blue T-shirt. And the second I catch sight of him, I know he is in physical pain.
“Can you walk us through what happened?” a male reporter asks. “Out on the court today?”
Bowe leans into the microphone. “I tore the cartilage between my ribs during the second set. It was hurting this morning before the match even started, but I ignored it, and now here we are.” He winces as he sits back.
“How does it feel to lose today, because of an injury, when you were doing so well?” a woman asks him.
“It feels really great, Patty,” Bowe says. “Best day of my life.”
My father laughs and I look at him, surprised. “He’s grown on me,” he says. “He’s funny.”
“What if he’s really hurt?” I say.
My father nods. “Maybe it’s a small tear. With a little bit of time…he can get back in fighting shape.”
“For Wimbledon?”
“No,” my dad says. “But maybe by the US Open. If he’s still in this thing.”
“He won’t give up,” I say. The trainer comes around and starts massaging my other calf. “He’d rather lose than give up.”
My father looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, he does have that sense of honor about him.”
“So, will you be going home?” a reporter asks Bowe. “You are still currently scheduled to play Queen’s Club next month. Will you pull out?”
“I’m pulling out of all my events next month. Focusing on recovery. But…I’m not going home. I’m going to stick around and watch Carrie Soto,” he says. “I think what she’s doing here is remarkable. And I want to be able to say I saw it happen.”
* * *
—
That night, after I go back to my hotel room, I lie down on the sofa and try to read the French gossip magazines that Gwen sent over to my hotel. They have some good tidbits about Pam and Tommy Lee, but other than that, it’s too difficult trying to piece together, in another language, who all the French celebrities are. I throw the magazine back down onto the coffee table and stare up at the ceiling.
Then I stand up, grab my room key, and walk to the elevator.