“Why not? Who else should lecture you? You and I are the same, Bowe. Old and out to prove something. And I’m at least handling it with some dignity.”
“You left!” he says, his voice rising. And then he shakes his head and laughs to himself. “You hurt your knee, you lost a couple matches, and you gave up. That’s what you did. You’re saying we’re the same, but we’re not. I stuck around. I had the guts to try. I have the guts to lose. You, you just run. Well, guess what, Carrie? People who are actually playing the game lose. We all lose. We lose all the time. That is life. So we are not the same, Soto. I have courage. You’re just good at tennis.”
He zips up his kit as I try to get control of my breathing.
“You’re mad at me because I retired?” I ask. “Are you serious? What should I have done instead? Hung around and become a joke? Let everyone see me limping to the finish line?”
Bowe looks at me and closes his eyes slowly. He takes a breath. “You act like you’ve dedicated your life to tennis. But you came back to win, not to play. That’s why they’re all pissed at you for returning. You’ve got no heart.”
Bowe puts his bag over his shoulder and walks away.
“Who is the quitter now?” I call out. “You’re forfeiting this match, you know!”
But Bowe just shakes his head and leaves.
* * *
—
The next morning, Bowe doesn’t show up. So it’s just my father and me hitting.
“He just decides not to come? Not to practice?” my father asks as we rally a bit to warm up.
I send a soft shot back to him. “No lo sé.”
My father frowns. “So you got into a fight, then.”
“He doesn’t like it when he’s told the truth. What do you want me to do?”
My father shakes his head and smiles. “The both of you…”
“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”
My father nods. “I will check up on him later.”
“Do whatever you want.”
We run drills. My father pulls in a hitter last minute. It’s not a vigorous practice. But it keeps me warm. And given how many people are lining up to watch, I realize that if Bowe had come this morning, he’d have gotten the showdown he wanted.
Regardless, I’m putting the ball where I want it. I find myself more and more unbothered by the crowd watching me. They begin growing louder, more engaged, shouting, “Carrie!” and “Nous t’aimons!”
With each perfectly executed groundstroke, I try to let their presence bolster me instead of scare me.
I am good. On any surface you put me on, I am good. This is a level of performance that I can allow everyone to see.
But then I notice my father’s attention turn toward one of the other courts, as fans all over the complex begin to hum. I look over in their direction. Nicki Chan is signing autographs as she walks onto the court with a hitter.
My father turns and looks at me. When he catches my gaze, there is nothing we need to say. I continue to hit for another few minutes.
“Vámonos,” my father says. “That’s enough for today.”
I nod and start to gather my things. My hitter packs up. The crowd groans, disappointed I’m leaving. I think of Bowe for a moment—how he would react. He would call out something witty to them, walk to the crowd lining up at the fence and sign their tennis balls and make them laugh. There’s a woman here with a toddler, and I know that Bowe would give the kid a high five.
But I can’t think of how to do it without seeming disingenuous. I don’t feel grateful for their attention, and I don’t know how to be full of shit. I don’t have the foggiest clue what to say to a toddler.
I wave briefly and head out. We have to pass Nicki’s court in order to leave the facility. And as we do, I stop and watch her.
She is serving balls straight to her hitter, one screamer after the next. My father whistles low.
Her form is untraditional. Because she is left-handed, a lot of players aren’t used to her angles. But she also serves the ball in a stance that breaks most of the rules and in a form that breaks even more. She grunts so loud you can hear her in Brussels. Yet as the ball goes soaring off her racket into the service court, it looks deadly.
And that’s not just a turn of phrase. It seriously looks as if it is heading toward the clay so fast, with so much heat on it, that if it got you in the chest it might kill you.
“Vamos,” my father says.
I nod but I don’t move. I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. I’ve seen her play in person before, but standing right next to her, watching her from maybe fifteen feet away, is…It’s beautiful to see.
When she finishes with the balls she has next to her, her hitter begins collecting them all, and she looks up and spots us. She waves.
“Hi,” she says as she walks toward my father and me. “I tried to catch your eye when you were practicing earlier, but I don’t think you saw me.” I have to actively resist rolling my eyes. I didn’t want a conversation. I just wanted to be a fly on the wall.
“Hi,” I say.
When she finally gets to us, she looks at my father. “You’re Javier.”
“Yes,” my father says. “Indeed I am.”
“Can I tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you? When I was a child, I used to…Well, Carrie, I watched every single one of your matches. I used to have one of your SportsPages covers on my wall. Surely I told you this, back on the tour when we met. But…well, Javier, I was so jealous that Carrie had you as a father. My own dad barely knows a thing about tennis. He tries, but it’s futile. As a kid, I had to find my own coaches. And…” Nicki shakes her head, remembering. “I just thought you were the coolest.”
My father smiles.
“We should let you practice,” I say. “We will see each other soon, I’m sure.”
“Oh, most definitely. We absolutely will. But listen,” Nicki says as she leans farther toward me. I take a step closer to her, bridging the gap, the fence the only thing between us now. “I want to thank you.”
“Thank me?” I ask.
“I don’t think I would have worked so hard on my recovery without knowing I had you to compete against. Knowing I’d have to defend my titles.”
I don’t like how joyful her face looks, how sincere it all seems.
“All right, well,” I say. “You know why I’m here. You know what I’m out to do. I’d imagine your intent is the same. So…may the best woman win.”
Nicki nods. “Until then, Carrie.”
Transcript
SportsHour USA
The Mark Hadley Show
Mark Hadley: The French Open starts tomorrow. Gloria, walk us through the women’s singles.
Gloria Jones: Well, obviously, we are looking to Nicki Chan—clay is a good surface for her. I think Natasha Antonovich has also shown herself to be very adroit at adapting to a clay surface.
Hadley: The ads for the tournament feature a lot of old clips of Carrie Soto, but let’s call it now: Carrie doesn’t really have a chance.
Jones: Clay is not where Carrie Soto shines, no. The Battle Axe—which, by the way, is what I have long called her and I believe we all should call her unless we call her by her name—is a grass court player. Not a clay court player.
Briggs Lakin: Gloria, I think you’re alluding to the fact that people are referring to Carrie Soto as “the B word.” You and I were talking earlier—or maybe I should be honest and say disagreeing—about whether that’s appropriate.
Jones: Yes, that’s right. I find it offensive.
Lakin: But to play devil’s advocate here…
Jones: [inaudible]
Lakin: I don’t think it’s much different than calling her “the Battle Axe.” Remember, we all started calling her “the Battle Axe” because she went after Paulina Stepanova’s ankle in the match we still call “the Coldest War” at the US Open in ’76. It was ugly and cruel. And there are countless other examples. So I’m sorry, but Carrie Soto is a “B word.”
And you’re saying that when you call her “the Battle Axe” too. You’re just using a euphemism.