Carrie Soto Is Back(93)

    Knock Cortez off her game, make her upset. She’s a confident player; undermine her confidence and you will cut her down.



If my father is right and Cortez’s mental game is like mine, then I know what I need to do.

I need to hit as many aces as possible. I need to not even give her the chance to fight for the point. If I shut her out of my service games completely, she’ll get exasperated and desperate. She’ll start making mistakes.

Yes, I think I know Ingrid Cortez very well. The downside of perfectionism is that you are so used to getting it right, you completely collapse when you get it wrong.

And it will not be me who collapses today.

To serve aces, you have to be bold. You have to risk hitting the net or going wide. You have to play like you’re not afraid. I can do that.

I toss the ball and whip it right into the far corner of the service box. Cortez can’t touch it. 15–love.

I keep at it. Soon, I’ve held the game.

Cortez’s shoulders tense and her hands turn to fists with every point I chip off her. Each time she walks back to the baseline, she shakes her head at herself and looks at her coach.

I hold steady. And soon I’m at match point.

Cortez bounces the ball at her feet, gearing herself up for the toss.

I feel a wash of affection for her. She is so young. She still has so much time to do all the things she wants to do. But going to the final of the ’95 US Open will not be one of them.

She serves a screamer—hard and fast with a quick drop. I run backward, ready for it. I take it on the rise, a forehand cross-court. She returns it with a groundstroke wide to my backhand.

The ball comes at me. I pull my racket back and take it out of the air before the bounce, send it back wide to her forehand.

She runs for it, but it bounces hard and then spins farther off court. She dives, hitting the ground at the same time the ball lands softly out of her reach.

The crowd erupts. Bowe shoots up out of his seat. I see that Gwen is hollering. I fall to my knees, the hard court scraping my skin. I am not proud, as much as I am grateful.

Ahí vamos, papá, I think. A la final.





That evening, Bowe, Gwen, and I sit in my hotel suite, in front of the television. I’m acting calm, but I can feel the stress gathering in my knees. I’m trying to stretch them out.

Bowe’s back is killing him, so he’s watching TV from the floor with his legs up the wall. Gwen’s the only one of us able to sit properly.

Nicki is playing Antonovich in the semis. She’s now serving for the match.

“We want Chan to win,” Gwen says. “Right? I’m just confirming I’m rooting for the right thing here. It’s not an easy one.”

I nod, reaching for my toes. I can feel my hamstrings and the backs of my knees sing. “Yeah, we want Chan.”

Nicki serves a kick serve. Antonovich returns. Nicki hits a groundstroke, bouncing just at the baseline and then into the stands. Nicki can anticipate the ball better than almost anyone I know.

“Fuck, she’s good,” I say.

Bowe nods. “She is.”

“And she’s got no coach,” I say. “She doesn’t have that magic in her back pocket, like I’ve had all these years. She’s doing this all herself.”

Nicki serves another, fast and ugly, like she’s dropping a bomb.

“Nicki’s gonna take it,” I say.

Nicki serves, jumping big and landing hard on the court as she follows it through. I’m not sure Antonovich can reach it. But then somehow Antonovich gets high up and manages to smash it back before she falls onto the court.

Bowe sits up. Gwen is leaning toward the TV. I get to my feet.

Nicki’s head looks up as the ball arches across the net. She’s running backward watching it. Antonovich, still on the court, is staring at it.

The ball soars through the air and careens down as Nicki rushes for it. It hits inches past the sideline. It’s out.

Natasha Antonovich pounds her arms on the court.

Nicki jumps into the air.

So here it is. Soto vs. Chan.





I wake up the next morning. The sun is shining; the air is cool. It is a perfect day to win the US Open.

Bowe is already up, despite the early hour. And when I come out into the living area, he is reading the paper. Beside him is a blueberry smoothie and a jar of unsalted almonds.

“Good morning, record breaker,” he says.

“You know better than to say shit like that before I’ve actually broken a record.”

Bowe shakes his head. “No, look,” he says. He shows me the paper he’s reading. The headline says Soto vs. Chan Guaranteed to Break Multiple Records.

I pick up the paper and read through the article. Among other facts of tonight’s match, I learn that between Nicki and me, one of us will be the oldest to win the US Open in the Open Era. Nicki, at almost thirty-two, will beat out Margaret Court by nine months. If I take it, I’ll beat Margaret Court by almost seven years.

I am officially the oldest player to make the women’s singles final of the US Open. I also stand to break the record for most aces in a tournament, and it is looking like Soto vs. Chan will create a new record for viewership numbers.

One record they don’t know about yet: Gwen called me last night to tell me AmEx has offered to buy out my contract with Elite Gold. And since Elite Gold now wants to keep my contract, AmEx is offering me the largest endorsement fee for any tennis player—male or female—in history.