Carrie Soto Is Back(68)

I look out the window as we begin to drive. I watch the buildings and British billboards pass, until we finally reach the outskirts of the All England Lawn Tennis Club.

“Did you want to stop?” he says.

“No, thank you,” I say. I just enjoy the sight of it—seeing the park and the courts fly by my window. I like gazing up at the ivy growing over the building at the front entrance. I feel the most like myself just outside that arena. As if I fully embody my own promise.

It is an unparalleled pleasure to be as good at something as I have been at playing Wimbledon.

I miss my father.

“You hold the record,” my driver says as he catches my eye in the rearview mirror again. “Don’t you now?”

“Which one?” I ask.

“Most Wimbledon wins. Men’s or women’s.”

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

He nods and puts his eyes back on the road. “Good on ya.”



* * *



—

I check in to my hotel and unpack. I open the curtains and look out over the Thames and the Waterloo Bridge. The city is busy with cars and people—it is, after all—four p.m. in London. But I need to get some rest.

Ali has booked me courts to practice double sessions for the next three weeks. I requested different hitters each time. I need to be able to practice with all types of players.

I watch red double-decker buses cross the bridge, and I consider the biggest hurdle to my game: I need to get my mind right.

I take a shower. Scalding hot, so scorching it reddens the skin of my chest and legs. And then I call my father’s room at the hospital.

Bowe answers.

“Hi,” I say. “How is he?”

Bowe whispers his response. “He’s sleeping now. But he’s good. How are you?”

“I’m all right.” I look at myself in the mirror of the bathroom as we talk. My hair is wet and pulled back; the white robe around me is bulky and warm. All I can focus on are the bags under my eyes—like two soft bruises. I can blame jet lag and age but also: When I’m alone, I cry.

“It feels weird being here without him,” I say. “Or without you, to be honest.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“I’m worried I won’t find anyone to hit off of who is as good as you.”

“Oh,” Bowe says. And then he laughs.

“What?”

“No, nothing. Listen, your dad made these notes, and he’ll be pissed if I don’t relay them.”

“Okay.”

“He said, ‘Spend tomorrow remembering the joy of grass. Do not play to win or to find perfection. Play to observe yourself and the ball.’?”

“That’s good advice,” I say.

“He is, unfortunately, quite good at this,” Bowe says.

And now I laugh. “Yes, I suppose he is.”

We hang up the phone; I pull the curtains closed and put my eye mask on. I lie down on the gigantic bed.

The windows are thick, and the walls are thick too. My room is about as private and expansive as it gets in central London. And so, despite it being afternoon in a bustling city, things are eerily quiet.

I keep imagining my father coming over from the next room, knocking on my door to tell me he just had a brilliant idea. Or him bothering me to complain about a photo of him printed in the newspaper. Or some other thing that I would be annoyed by, as I tell him I want to go to sleep.

But he is not here.

I don’t know when I finally doze off. But when I wake the next morning, I am rested.

I brush my teeth, put on my sweats, grab my kit. The hum is in my bones.

I head out to the courts. Alone.



* * *



—

My father was absolutely right. I have needed to feel the specific crispness of grass.

The hitter I’m playing this morning is named Bridget. She’s fast but not terribly powerful. And yet, still, I feel a thrill as I run from sideline to sideline, up and back from the net to the baseline. It is such a joy to play on grass. I relish the snap, the speed, the low bounces, the unpredictability, the strategy. It is an entirely different game—lawn tennis.

And I fucking love it.

At the end of the session, Bridget says, “I fear I did not give you much of a run for your money.” I have sweat on my forehead and upper lip. She’s drenched through her tank top.

“That’s all right,” I say. “You did your best.”

Her face tightens, and then she makes her way out. I sit down on the bench and drink some water. I begin running through what I want to work on with the ball machine—which shots I’ll start with. My slice, in particular, needs some sharpening.

I take stock of my grass game. My footwork feels good. My serves are sharp. I’m putting the ball where I want it. I’ve come such a long way since Melbourne.

Still, even on grass, I’m probably not as fast as Antonovich. So if I do come up against her again, I will have to find another way to offset her speed. But that’s what I’m here to do.

I look down at my yellow sneakers on the green turf. Maybe this whole season has been leading here. Maybe I just needed to come back to Wimbledon.

I stand up, trying to find one of the facility managers to get a ball machine. But when I scan the area, I see Nicki Chan walking past my court.