—
“All eyes are going to be on your first serve, to see who you are at thirty-seven. Knock the socks off her from the jump,” my father says to me just outside the locker room. “Scare her, you hear me? Scare everybody out there.”
I nod, staring down at the scuffs on my Break Points. I picked out the white ones with green stripes this morning, to go with my white tank top and tennis skirt.
This moment—my father and me here in the hall, waiting to go out—feels just like it used to. I’m back at war, after years of not knowing how to live during peacetime. This is the only place where I make sense to myself.
I pick up my racket and turn it around in my hand. My whole arm begins throbbing, ready to be used.
I luxuriate, for one moment, in the quiet din of the stadium that filters through the walls. I inhabit the silence of this moment with my father, when we are still asking questions and do not yet have to live with the answers.
“Te quiero mucho, pichona,” he says.
I open up my eyes. “I know. I love you too.”
“Go out there…” He looks me directly in the eye with an intensity I have not seen in years, maybe even since I was a kid. “And show them that the Bitch, the Battle Axe—whatever they want to call you—it doesn’t matter. They cannot stop you. And they don’t get to decide what your name is. Carrie Soto is back.”
I breathe in deep and then wipe the tops of my shoes clean and start walking—one step at a time—onto the court.
SOTO VS. DVO?áKOVá
1995 Australian Open
First Round
It is not deafening, by any means, but as I step into the Rod Laver Arena I can hear it begin. “Car-rie, Car-rie, Car-rie!”
I look up to see signs with my name on them. Welcome back, Carrie! and The Bitch Is Back! I smile at the last one, and I point to the young woman holding it.
I can only imagine what the sportscasters are saying in their booths, what delightful euphemisms they are using to describe just how “too old” or “too cocky” they think I am. It will be a pleasure to make them report my win today. I breathe in deeply, ready to make it happen.
Madlenka Dvo?áková looks so tiny, so far away. Her long blond hair is pulled back into a bun. She is wearing a navy blue tank and matching tennis skirt. She looks guarded and nervous, and though her right hand grips the racket firmly, I can see the fingers quivering on her left hand.
I win the coin toss.
As I make my way to the baseline, my whole chest starts thumping, my heart beating heavy and strong. The crowd cheers, and I look up into the players’ box to see my father taking his seat.
The loudspeaker erupts. “Miss Soto has won the toss and elected to serve first.” I can feel the vibrations of it in my sternum and feel myself turn on, every far edge of my body tingling. I hear the next part in my head before it comes over the loudspeaker, the routine as known to me as my own name.
Linesmen, ready.
“Linesmen, ready.”
Players play.
“Players play.”
I stand on the baseline and hold the ball in my hand. I brush the felt with my thumb, feel the roughness of it in my palm. And then I bounce it, over and over. Until my mind is clear.
I throw the ball up in the air, pull my arm back, and even before I hit the ball I know—I can feel—it is a stunner.
It whistles past Dvo?áková so fast she barely has time to step toward it. First point is mine.
I feel the roar of the crowd underneath my feet, ringing into my bones. I look to my father, who nods.
I hold the first game.
On the second, the crowd grows wild when I get to break point. They scream when I break Dvo?áková’s serve, taking the second game.
I hold the third. It is now three games to none.
In the next, Dvo?áková gets some fire in her, and she holds the fourth. But she and I both know the set is mine. I win the next three.
“Set is Soto’s.”
The crowd cheers, some boo. I try not to pay attention. I stay focused. I cannot let up.
Halfway through the second set, Dvo?áková’s groundstroke is getting weaker, but I am now only getting stronger. Perhaps it is the adrenaline of the fight, or the fact that I’ve been training even harder since my conversation with Bowe, but I have full control of my power. I am not letting up. I come in for the kill time and again.
I start smiling during the changeovers, nearly giddy. I am delighted by all of these sounds I’ve missed—the crowd screaming, the ball girls scrambling on and off the court, the linesmen calling shots.
I am winning this thing.
My last serve in the second set flies right past her. I jump into the air and pump my fist as the ball lands clean inside the lines with Dvo?áková nowhere near it. My first match back, and it’s mine in straight sets.
As the stadium cheers, I catch a glimpse of Dvo?áková’s face. Her jaw is tight, her head down. She looks completely blindsided by the way I have pummeled her. A twenty-two-year-old ranked in the bottom fifty, not a Slam title to her name, and she assumed she’d take me.
“Who’s next?” I call out, racket in hand. I’m not sure anybody in the stands hears me, but it feels so good to scream into the roar of the crowd.
When I walk off the court, my father is standing there in the tunnel, waiting for me.
“?Excelente!” he says. “Absolute perfection. You warrior, you king.”
“The first of many,” I say to him.
My father smiles but says nothing. His smile grows bigger as he turns and guides me toward the locker room, and soon he’s laughing.
“What?” I ask him. “What are you thinking right now?”
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just that…this is the part I missed the most. Me and you, in the tunnel.”
In my next match, I beat an American I’ve never met before, a woman named Josie Flores, in straight sets. When I cinch the match with an ace, I jump into the air and spin. I bounce on both my feet, side to side, and throw my hands up.
In the post-match press conference, I am still jumpy, still pumped. My victories, no matter how early in the tournament, are undeniable. And I feel a near absence of worry.
Months of preparing, months of lying awake at night scared. But now the test is here, and I am killing it.
The first few questions are the usual softballs. “How does it feel to be back on the court?” “Did you expect to win your first two matches?” “What is it like to have your father coaching you again?”
I answer honestly. “It feels great to be back out there.” “I expect to win every single match I play.” “My father and I are both thankful for this opportunity to work together again.”
A man in a sweater-vest speaks up. “Carrie, what do you say in response to players like Ingrid Cortez?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“This morning in her post-match, she said that you should have stayed on the bench.”
This was news to me. I’d seen Ingrid around in the locker rooms—tall and humorless, with white-blond hair and wide shoulders and a lightness in her step that only a teenager can have—but I’d not spoken much to her.
“She says that she had not heard of you, before you came out of retirement,” he adds.
“That’s ridiculous—everyone in tennis has heard of me. Half of the world has heard of me.” I lean away from the microphone, finished speaking. But then I lean back into it. “She can trash-talk however she wants, but let me say this: I’m grateful for every single woman who stood here before me. You don’t see me going around asking who the Original 9 are, do you? No, because I know what I owe them. What about Althea Gibson and Alice Marble and Helen Wills? Suzanne Lenglen? Maria Bueno? I know whose shoulders I’m standing on. If Cortez doesn’t, that’s on her.”
“But,” he follows up, “is there any truth to her statement? Some people are saying this comeback is a stunt. What’s your response?”