“I hope that’s true. I don’t know. I need it to be true—let’s say that.”
I stand at the window and watch a Thames riverboat tour float by. My father and I did that tour once, when I was barely a teenager and we were here for my first Junior Wimbledon. I fell asleep, and later he told me all the history about the Tower of London that I’d missed. “Next time, stay awake,” my dad said. “You are getting to see the world, pichona. It’s an opportunity so few people have.” Even then, I didn’t know how to tell him that I was too tired, that sightseeing was a luxury that I didn’t have, never wanted. What we were doing took all of me; there wasn’t anything left over.
“It is true—you’re the best out there. But that’s the problem,” Bowe says. “You need to know it instead of needing to prove it. You need to quiet Self 1 and let Self 2 do its thing.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
“I know you don’t want to take advice from me—” Bowe begins. But I stop him.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “I do want to take advice from you.” I sit down at the window and grab a piece of hotel stationery and a pen to make notes for myself. He is right. I do need to calm down, to listen to my instincts. I need to get the voice in my head to shut up. “Go ahead,” I say. “Tell me more. I’m listening.”
* * *
—
It is the morning of my first match, facing Cami Dryer. I’ve gone for a run and I’m just getting out of the shower when there is a knock at my door.
I wrap myself in my robe and answer. I’m expecting room service with my breakfast, but when I open the door, it’s Gwen. I take it all in—her in front of me in a green velvet suit and a big, bright smile on her face.
“Hi,” she says.
The sight of her makes my shoulders relax. Before I know what I’m doing, I throw myself into her arms.
She squeezes me tight and then lets go. “All right. That’s enough of that, until you get dressed.”
I pull her into my suite.
“You’re here,” I say. “I had no idea you were coming.”
“Ali and I both flew in to surprise you. She’s back at the hotel.”
“Wow,” I say.
“You know I love London. And I love you. And so here I am.”
I suddenly feel my voice quivering, and I get control of myself. “That’s kind of you.”
“Yeah, well, you know I need my yearly strawberries and cream.”
When I come back out after getting dressed, she’s set herself up in my living room, and she’s already on her cellphone, scolding someone. She finishes her call and looks at me. The intensity of her gaze makes me sit straighter.
“How are you?” she says, frowning.
“Well…I feel better than I’ve felt in years.”
Gwen nods. “Great. Good. I love that.”
“But…playing without my dad here…I don’t know.”
Gwen nods.
“It feels like the late eighties all over again. Playing without my dad, when the whole point was to do this with my dad. For us to have one last season together.”
Gwen grabs my hand and squeezes it. “So go win it and bring him back the trophy.”
WIMBLEDON
1995
In the entrance hall at Centre Court at Wimbledon, there is an inscription just above the double doors that lead out to the grass. It is from the poem “If—” by Rudyard Kipling.
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same
It has never resonated with me. Every time I have walked onto the courts at Wimbledon, I have considered triumph to be paramount. And when I have held it in my hands, it has not felt like an impostor at all.
But as Gwen and I walk into the hall this morning, she says, “I’ve always loved that quote.”
“You know,” I say as we head to the clubhouse, “I read the whole poem years ago, to try to understand the inscription better. But it didn’t help. I do remember thinking the first line of the poem made more sense to me than that line. But now I can’t even remember what it is.”
Gwen smiles. “?‘If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you.’?”
I look at her. “Yeah, that’s it. What, were you an English major or something?”
Gwen pulls her head back. “Yes.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yes. I got my BA from Stanford before going to UCLA for my MBA.”
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know that. That’s cool.” I never officially finished high school, never set foot on a college campus. And I am convinced sometimes that, despite all my accomplishments, this lack of sophistication shows in ways I’m unaware of.
“Not sure how cool it is. It doesn’t often come in handy that I know the entirety of ‘If—’ by Rudyard Kipling.”
“Well, I still think it’s impressive,” I say as I head toward the dressing room.
“All right,” Gwen says, “I’m going to make some calls, and I’ll see you in the players’ box.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Good luck, Carolina,” she says.
I cannot help but smile. “Thank you.”
I start to walk away, but then I turn back.
“Hey,” I say, calling to her. “Thank you for being here. And for supporting me in this, from the beginning. The whole year. Even though it’s crazy.”
Gwen smiles. “Do you know what part of ‘If—’ is actually relevant right now? To this moment? ‘If you can make one heap of all your winnings / And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss.’?”
She must be messing with me. Surely she knows she’s just described my greatest fear. But no, I can tell from the look on her face that she sincerely thinks that I’m that brave, that I am doing this because I am okay with losing big. Not because I am terrified of losing at all.
And it stuns me silent, for a moment: just how vast the gap is between who I am and how people see me.
I am so much smaller than the Carrie Soto in Gwen’s head.
SOTO VS. DRYER
Wimbledon 1995
First Round
As I step out onto the court, I feel the sun blazing down. I hear the commotion of the crowds. I look up to see stands full of well-dressed Brits with large hats and fascinators. I am flooded with the comfort of the scent of Wimbledon—fresh-cut grass and Pimm’s and lemon.
I am home.
I bounce on my toes, feeling the grass and dirt beneath my white Break Points.
I look across the court at Cami Dryer. She is young, not even eighteen.
I smile and shake her hand as we come together at the net.
She is adorable—all perky and eager. She shakes my hand with an excitement that reminds me of myself when I was younger. And I feel this sudden contentment deep within my gut.
You could not pay me enough money to go back to being seventeen. When I was seventeen, my talent was all potential and no proof. The world was a giant set of unknowns, barely any past to pull from.
I am so grateful, right now, for every match and every win and every loss and every lesson that I have behind me. It feels so good, right now, to be thirty-seven years old. To have figured at least some things out.
To know the ground underneath my feet.
Poor Cami Dryer doesn’t know what is about to hit her. She wins the coin toss and calls first serve. I get into position and take her in two sets.
Transcript
BBC Sports Radio London
SportsWorld with Brian Cress
And in women’s tennis it’s been nearly a fortnight of stunning wins and crushing losses.
London’s own Nicki Chan has sailed through each of her matches. As have favorites such as Ingrid Cortez and Natasha Antonovich. Meanwhile, it’s been a hair-raiser for firebrand Carrie Soto. She has clawed her way through the five rounds—beating Brits Cami Dryer and Lucy Cameron in the first and second, Swede Celine Nystrom in the third, and the Baltimore Baseliner Carla Perez in the round of sixteen.
She’s now defeated Italian Odette Moretti in the quarterfinals.
Bringing her to the semifinals, where she and Russian phenom Natasha Antonovich will go head-to-head.
Transcript
SportsHour USA
The Mark Hadley Show