Carrie Soto Is Back(64)

That’s the match, that’s the tournament, that’s my record. Shattered.

Bowe looks at me, but he knows there’s nothing to say. We watch as the officials hand Nicki Chan the cup.

All of the coverage is in French, so I only half understand the commentators. But it’s clear enough when I hear, “Elle a maintenant dépásse Carrie Soto…” She has overtaken Carrie Soto.

Bowe catches my eye. And for a moment, I feel the nearly irresistible urge to flip the table we are sitting at.

“She deserves it,” I say. “She played a brutal match.”

Down the sidewalk, I see my father walking toward me. And I know that I’m supposed to be mad at him, or he’s supposed to be mad at me. But I don’t really care very much at the moment. Rather, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of inevitability: Of course he would come find me.

“Hi,” he says as he makes his way to us on the sidewalk patio. He puts one hand on my shoulder and then the other on Bowe’s. “You both did a great job here in France.”

He looks me in the eye, and I don’t look away. It feels as if the two of us are cycling through decades of moments together, everything that’s led to this. My unparalleled achievement. Now hers.

“I have not made peace with it,” I say. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Ya lo sé, pichona,” he says.

I look up at the television. Nicki is crying, her shoulders heaving, actual tears falling down her face.

“Come sit,” I say.

My father nods and pulls a chair over to join us.

The waitress comes by, and Bowe orders my father a drink. Dad leans over and whispers in my ear, “Nothing will ever diminish what you did and have done.”

I do not want to cry, so I can’t really think too hard about whether I believe him. Instead, I take the moment and pin it to my heart, as if it will wait for me to come back to it later.

I smile, and I pat his hand, and then I change the subject.

Bowe, my father, and I spend the night at that table. We drink club sodas and ginger ales. Bowe laments having to drop out of Wimbledon. My dad tells Bowe that he’ll coach him full-time for the US Open, if Bowe is healed by then.

Bowe reaches his hand out and they shake on it—and I notice how gently my father moves, so as not to hurt Bowe’s ribs.

When it gets late, Bowe pays the check, and my father raises his eyebrows at me—as if to pose the question that I’ve told him a million times not to ask. I nod: the only answer he’ll get. And he looks at me and grins, a simple, bright smile.

For a moment, I’m bowled over by just how old he looks. When did this happen? But he looks a happy old, a satisfied old. He’s had a lot of heartbreak in his life, and yet there is so much he’s gotten right.

Sos mi vida, pichona, my father mouths to me. He taps a finger to his chest, right over his heart.

I smile and rest my head on his shoulder for a split second.

And then we all walk back to the hotel—a walk that feels comfortable and familiar, even though there is so much about it that is new.





The Inevitability of Chan


     By Rachel Berger


    Op-Ed, Sports Section


    California Post


Carrie Soto has made no secret of her intention to prevent Nicki Chan from overtaking her record. So it must have made the cut that much deeper when Chan won last night.

Some have been dismissive of Soto’s attempt at a comeback. But I am among the growing number of those who cannot help but marvel at the attempt.

Many have been quick to forget what Carrie Soto has done for women’s tennis. She set the bar for many of the things we now take for granted: incredibly fast serves, brilliant matches that broke multiple records at a time. And we have all but lost the most exquisite thing she brought to the sport: the grace of the game.

I do not care how hard Nicki Chan can hit a groundstroke or how fast her serve can be—she cannot hold a candle to the beauty with which Carrie Soto has played. Each shot executed to perfection, every dive for the ball as graceful as a ballet. So I join Carrie Soto in mourning her loss.

And yet, we cannot deny that the tide has turned.

Carrie Soto is the past. Nicki Chan is the future.

The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.





I wake up to the hotel phone ringing. Bowe hands it to me, half-asleep.

It’s Gwen.

“Elite Gold is officially pausing the campaign,” she says. “I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.”

I want to scream or throw the phone or bury my head under my pillow, but I don’t. “Okay, I understand.”

“AmEx is exploring buying them out, but they haven’t committed,” she says.

“It’s your job to convince them,” I say.

“Yes, it is. And it’s your job to remember I warned you this could happen. And you told me it was worth the risk.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I did.”

“It will be okay. This will all work out in the end.”

“Yeah,” I say. But neither of us sounds convinced.



* * *



—

A few hours later, I do my best to put it behind me as we all get on the plane back to Los Angeles. I switch seats with my father, who has the one next to Bowe. He does not tease me or raise an eyebrow—which I appreciate. He takes my spot two rows ahead.