“It is not a setup,” my father says.
“We discussed it prior to today,” Bowe says. “If that’s what you’re saying.”
My father rolls his eyes at Bowe. “Don’t give up information that hasn’t been directly requested.”
“Okay,” Bowe says. And then he looks at me and mouths, Sorry.
“You agree with me that she needs to go to London to train,” my father says to Bowe.
And to that, Bowe’s answer is clear and appears perfectly honest. “There’s no doubt about it. You know damn well you need to go to London.”
I hate that they are right.
* * *
—
That Saturday, I’m in a black town car, headed to the hospital to visit my father one last time before my flight. There’s a ticket from LAX to Heathrow in my bag. I can barely believe I’m doing this.
When we pull up to the front entrance, the driver drops me off and tells me he’ll be waiting in the hospital parking garage.
None of this feels right.
“You’ll practice with a hitter every day and then call me each night to talk about the strategy for the next day,” my father says after I give him a hug. “We have this under control.”
“Don’t worry about all of that right now, Dad,” I say. I take his hand. “You have one job right now and that is to get healthy.”
My father nods. “Ya lo sé, pero no es el trabajo que quería.”
“I know.”
I rub the back of my father’s hand. I can see that the years have gained on him. His skin is papery, his knuckles swollen. The hair on his wrists is nearly fully gray.
“Be well,” I say to him. “Do everything the doctors tell you. Be the best patient they have. I’ll be home in a little more than a month.”
In this moment, it feels absolutely impossible that I could leave. For a moment, I wonder if maybe I never really planned on getting on that plane this afternoon. I’ve just been going through the motions so we’d both feel better.
Of course I can’t go. Of course I’m staying.
“I don’t know about this, Dad.”
“Go play Wimbledon, cari?o.”
I frown.
“Please,” he says. “What would make me happiest is to watch you do something you love. So please, go play tennis. Play it like you used to. Play it like you love it, please. Hacelo por mí, por mí corazón.”
“Bowe is coming to the hospital this evening,” I say, looking at my watch. “In about an hour. So he can get you anything you need.”
“Okay. You’re going to be late. So go ahead.”
I breathe in deeply. And I kiss him on the head.
“Try to enjoy it, pichona,” my father says. “That’s the one thing you have forgotten.”
JUNE 1995
Three weeks until Wimbledon
As I get off the plane at Heathrow, two teenage girls are standing with their mother and staring at me. I do not know what comes over me but instead of ignoring them, I wave. Their eyes go wide and they each wave back, their mouths agape. I laugh.
When I get into my car at the airport, I ask the driver to take me to my hotel by way of Wimbledon. He gives me a nod. And something about the way his eyes pass over me in the rearview mirror, the way he holds back a smile on his face, I can tell he is excited to do it.
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.