Mark Hadley: And wow, Carrie Soto.
Gloria Jones: Carrie is headed to the semifinals! At this point, the fact that she is still a force of nature is undeniable. Briggs, call her whatever you want, but you have to admit this is fun to watch. This is a player giving audiences a rip-roaring good show as she fights her way to the finish.
Briggs Lakin: Look, I am the first to admit when I’m wrong. I said earlier this year that Carrie wouldn’t make it to Wimbledon, and I stand corrected. But in hindsight, it seems obvious, doesn’t it? Of course this was Soto’s move. Of course Wimbledon would be her only real shot at a title this year.
Hadley: And can she do it? Gloria?
Jones: I think it’s going to be hard. She now has the three best players in the game ahead of her. She will go up against Antonovich next. This is Carrie’s best surface, but this is also Antonovich’s.
Lakin: In some ways, it’s an interesting match, these two. Natasha Antonovich, her style of play—the quick pace, the great volleys—owes a lot to Carrie Soto. We saw that back in Paris. I said, “Natasha is the new Carrie.” It’s almost as if this is Carrie’s chance to play her old self on her best surface.
Jones: If Carrie wants to prove there is only one Carrie Soto, well, this is the chance.
I am sitting in the locker room with my eyes closed, listening to the waves of my breath. I pick up my cellphone and dial my dad.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Don’t think about strategy now,” he says. “The time for that is over. This is the time for instinct.”
“I know,” I say, taking in a deep breath. “I know.”
“You are prepared. Trust your preparation.”
“I know.”
“Don’t listen to Self 1,” he says.
I laugh without opening my eyes. “You’ve been listening to Bowe.”
“Be Self 2.”
“Don’t think,” I say. “Just act.”
“Don’t think,” my father says. “Just play.”
SOTO VS. ANTONOVICH
Wimbledon 1995
Semifinals
Natasha Antonovich hovers on the other side of the court, adjusting her visor. She’s steady now, both feet firmly on the baseline. But we both know the second she wants to, she’ll go flying across this court.
She hits a kick serve. It bounces high, and I hit it back over the net. I watch her dive, but it bounces too low for her to get it.
Love–15.
I smile up at Gwen and Ali in the players’ box as I walk back to the baseline.
I know my father is watching. I know Bowe is with him. I know they are cheering for me, even if I can’t hear them.
* * *
—
Less than an hour later, I’m at break point on the first set. I’m up six games to five. It’s her serve.
She sends a fast flat one my way, and I race to it. I notice she hasn’t moved toward the center of the court. She’s anticipating a cross-court forehand.
I take the ball out of the air quick, sending it right down the line. She dives hard for it, slides across the grass. She can’t return it.
The first set is mine.
I see Gwen applauding, Ali hollering. I wonder if Bowe is cheering in front of the television.
But I do not need to imagine my father’s reaction. I know he is clapping and smiling ear to ear, for once unworried that the cameras will get an unflattering picture of him.
* * *
—
Antonovich catches up faster than I’d like. She’s starting to read my serve. I need to do a better job of disguising my ball toss.
And I need to do it quick, because I’m not getting any more aces off her. I can see her gaining confidence as she starts returning more and more of my junk shots too.
We are now tied 6–6 in the second set.
She’s serving for the set. She sends three kick serves in a row, and each one bounces differently. It knocks me out of my flow.
The second set is hers.
* * *
—
It’s the final set, 4–4.
I’m sweating down my back, across my forehead, on the backs of my knees. There’s a flutter—an unrest—in my stomach. I can barely hear the crowd. The dominating sound is the propulsive and angry whoosh of my pulse in my own ears.
My knee is burning.
My strategy is shot. I had hoped to run Antonovich down, but the games are happening too fast. We have such short rallies that I can’t wear her out.
During the changeover, I sit down to drink my water. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes. I have to rethink my strategy here. Antonovich has settled into the game. She is anticipating better. She is moving smarter.
I need a way to get her on the run again, to unnerve her.
When I stand up, I find myself looking into the players’ box to meet my father’s eye. But of course he isn’t there. Instead, Gwen and Ali are smiling at me.
What would he say? I give myself the briefest of seconds before I walk back onto the court.
Slow the game down.
I walk out onto the court and get into position, my own voice churning through my head. Do not let this slip through your fingers, Soto. You’re so goddamn close. And if you fuck this one up, you’ll be zero and three.
My hand tenses around the racket.
I am afraid.
I am afraid of losing. I am afraid of how it will look to the world. I’m afraid of this match being the last match my father ever sees me play. I am afraid of ending this all on a loss. I am afraid of so much.
I loosen my grip on the racket. I clear my mind. I let go. I have to.
Instead of racing to serve the next one, I take a moment on the baseline. I imagine myself serving the ball. I imagine how it will feel in my calves to get up high on my toes, I imagine the swing of my arm, the way my ribs will follow the line of my shoulder.
My body knows what to do. Now I just have to let it do it.
When I open my eyes, I see her crouched in place, waiting. My eye goes right to her feet. I’m going to piss her off. I toss the ball in the air and serve the first shot of the game so that it will bounce straight to her toes. She has to jump out of the way, and she misses it.
Ace. 15–love.
She walks back to position, shaking her head.
It’s working. This time, I wait as long as I can to serve the next one. I bounce the ball over and over, not indicating when I might finally toss it. Then I hit the exact same serve again. She gets in position better, but she still can’t return it.
30–love.
She bites her bottom lip, clenches her fist, crouches down. I wait again, hold off on serving until the last second. I serve it short, so that it bounces just over the net. She dives for it and misses. 40–love.
On the next serve, I hit the net. As I set up for the second serve, I see her visibly relax, assuming my second serve will be safer.
Instead, I angle it to the corner. She returns it, but then I hit it back down the opposite line and it goes whistling right past her.
Game is mine. Now we’re 5–4. If I break her serve on this one, I win the match.
I watch her crack her knuckles as she goes back to the baseline. Maybe up against another player she’d be less nervous. It is her serve, after all.
But I am Carrie Soto. Break points are my moment. The evidence of it is branded all over my feet.
I can tell Antonovich’s muscles are tight. She did not think she would be here—the match this close, a loss to me threatening her 1995 season.
Her first serve is fast and hot. It has more fire on it than anything she’s hit so far. Still, I take the point. Love–15.
She stomps back to the baseline. And then hits her racket against the ground before catching herself.
I smile. She’s mad. She’s so mad.
On the next serve, she footfaults. Then nets it. Love–30.
I wink at her. Her face grows tighter.
On the next one, we rally and then she lobs it too high and the ball lands behind the baseline.
Match point.
I can do this. I am doing this. I just have to trust myself.
She hits a high kick serve. I get it on the rise. She returns it fast, exactly like I hoped. Here it is. I take it out of the air early and quick—a drop shot, right over the net.
It lands with such a beautiful, sweet, delicious thud.