I watch Nystrom vs. Antonovich. I notice the way Antonovich’s serve is accurate to the inch. I watch Moretti vs. Machado. I see the sheer power behind Moretti’s groundstrokes. Her forehand is stunning, but her two-handed backhand leaves her open.
When the match is over, I look down at the schedule and let my eye wander to the men’s tournaments. Bowe is playing O’Hara again. Now. And so, instead of checking in on Perez vs. Cortez, I head over to another court.
Bowe is wearing navy blue shorts and a white polo. His hair looks a bit shaggy under his navy baseball cap. He is tied two sets to two against O’Hara and up in the fifth. I am surprised, but perhaps I shouldn’t be. I can’t help but feel some pride in him.
O’Hara is so blond that his hair is almost white, with eyebrows the same. He is a frustrating and uninteresting player, often a moonballer. He plays percentage tennis to an absurd degree. It’s well known that there are big rifts between O’Hara and his coach, Henry Bouchard, for that exact reason. There’s no passion in O’Hara’s game, no personality.
That’s what made Bowe such a compelling player his whole career—whether he won or lost. Back in the eighties, even when he was yelling at the umpire—maybe especially when he was—you knew you were watching a man throw his heart onto the court, a human being with flaws that threatened to do him in. You knew you were watching someone fighting, willing to risk everything.
I have always admired that about him.
Bowe holds the current game. He’s up 6–5 in the fifth set. If he breaks O’Hara’s serve, he’s got the match.
I want it for him—the whole arena wants it for him. You can hear it in the way the crowd quiets. All eyes glued to the court.
For a moment, I smile at the idea that Bowe has no idea I am watching him. It feels vaguely sneaky, oddly intimate.
O’Hara scores. 15–love.
Then, 15–all.
30–15.
30–all.
Bowe wipes his brow with his shirtsleeve, fiddles a lot with his hat, bounces a little too fast as he crouches, waiting for the serve. He’s wired up and nervous. But I suspect no one else is noticing those things right now. Because Bowe is returning beautifully. I cannot help but beam.
40–30.
Then deuce.
Bowe scores again; it’s ad-out. This is break point—it’s match point. Bowe has this. It is so close. One more and he wins the match.
O’Hara serves the ball wide and high. Bowe returns it swiftly, hitting the sideline. It’s in! I stand up as people begin to cheer all around me.
Then the umpire calls it out.
O’Hara looks shocked. I turn to look at Bowe, who has already ripped his hat off his head. He slams it down on the ground. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Bowe screams as he marches toward the umpire. “YOU CROOK!”
I can’t make out what the umpire is saying.
“YOU’RE A COMPLETE LIAR! YOU DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE ART OF THIS GAME.”
Multiple officials come onto the court as Bowe starts walking back to the baseline. “YOU DON’T NEED TO CONTROL ME,” Bowe yells. “CONTROL THAT ASSHOLE.”
O’Hara is laughing at him.
Bowe is throwing his hands up in the air.
I scan the crowd for a moment, unable to look at Bowe as he’s being reprimanded by the official. He’s going to get a point penalty for the swearing alone. Oh, Bowe. C’mon. He’ll be that much further from winning now.
There are some young teenage fans in the row in front of me, watching Bowe with rapt attention. I can’t decide if I think Bowe is a good influence, standing up against an umpire biased for the opposition, or a terrible influence, a grown man throwing a temper tantrum when things don’t go his way. But of course there are no absolute morals or lessons. Only perspectives. One man’s bitch is another woman’s hero.
As I look through the stands, my eyes land on a woman in a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap, four rows ahead of me. My heart leaps into my throat.
It’s Nicki Chan.
I look at her, trying to convince myself that I’m crazy. But it’s clearly her.
Her long, broad body is unmistakable. Her strong, muscular arms. Her wide shoulders. Her long black hair. Nobody ever talks about it much—which is telling—but Nicki Chan is gorgeous. Showstoppingly gorgeous. A round face with high cheekbones, full lips.
Other women in tennis—blond women with big boobs and long legs—often get modeling contracts at age seventeen. They show up on the cover of men’s magazines within a year or so of hitting the court for the first time.
But not thicker women, like me. Or dark-skinned women like Carla Perez or Suze Carter. Not women who are British Chinese, like Nicki, or downright scary in their intensity like her either. Not the women who aren’t skinny and white and smiling.
And yet, no matter what type of woman you are, we all still have one thing in common: Once we are deemed too old, it doesn’t matter who we used to be.
I watch Nicki for a second too long, wondering why she’s here. But the thought pops out of my head the moment she turns her gaze and meets my eye. She looks just as surprised to see me as I am to see her. But she smiles, just a bit. And waves.
There’s something sweet about it, unnervingly pure. I try to smile as I wave back.
Then both of us turn to watch what I know, in my gut, is about to happen.
Bowe has lost his point and then some. It’s now ad-in. O’Hara only needs one more point to hold the game and destroy Bowe’s lead.
He serves the ball—it flies past Bowe at a clip. An ace.
It is now 6–6.
I can’t stand to watch him lose this match, so I get up and make my way home.
I am already in the car and turning the ignition on when I realize Nicki is probably at Indian Wells for the same reason I am. Scouting the competition to prepare for the French Open. She could beat my record before I’ve even taken it back.
I put my head down on the car horn and let it sing through the parking garage.
Motherfucker.
* * *
—
When I get back to the rental house, my father is sitting out by the pool, drinking what appears to be a classic daiquiri. He’s making notes in his notebook but looks up when he sees me.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks.
I throw the car keys on the table and sit next to him, keeping my sunglasses on, slumping into the chair.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I do not want to tell him I watched Bowe throw a tantrum on the court. And I cannot bring myself to tell him about Nicki.
I cannot bear to tell him just how impossible the task ahead of us feels right now.
Gwen comes out to the pool in a tailored blue dress and heels.
“Wow,” I say. “You look great.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I have an early dinner with the execs from American Express. To see if maybe they want to pick up your contract with Elite Gold, among other things.”
“Good God,” I say. “Are we already there?”
“No,” she says, grabbing her purse. “We’re not there at all. But I told you I’m going to make this comeback work. And I’m not taking any chances.” She looks me in the eye. “You will be in a credit card commercial this year, come hell or high water.”
My father looks at me, raises his eyebrows. And then I look at Gwen.
I’m embarrassed that I’m about to cry because it is so silly. It’s just the stupidest goddamn thing under the sun.
“Okay,” I say, trying to hold it all in. I turn back around to the pool. “Have fun.”
APRIL 1995
Two months before Paris
By April, after training a couple more months, my serve is now regularly clocking in at 122 miles per hour.
My feet feel light on the court. My knee feels all right. I feel nimble but mighty, exactly what I need to be for Paris.
“Unbelievable!” “?Increíble!” “?Brillante!” my father says at the end of each session lately, with a brightness in his eyes.