“Would you cut it out?” I say.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “All right, go to bed. Glad I could help.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“No, Bowe, I’m serious. Thank you.”
“Sleep well, Carrie. You have this.”
When I get back in bed, I watch the moon as it hangs over the river. I stare at the gentle sway of the curtains. I do my best not to think about Cortez in Melbourne. Not to think of the moment I lost the match. The drop in my stomach. The sheer shame of it.
Instead, I close my eyes and think of the sound of a tennis ball. The thunk of a good bounce. The pop of a drive volley. The tap of a drop shot. The honest-to-God exquisite soundtrack of a great rally. Pop, thunk, pop.
All I can do, I understand for one startlingly clear second, is play my grass game and be okay with the outcome.
Impossible.
Transcript
BBC Sports Radio London
SportsWorld with Brian Cress
All eyes are watching as Carrie Soto and Ingrid Cortez go head-to-head in the championship final at Wimbledon today. Both players have shown incredible resolve here in London. Carrie Soto, thirty-seven, has shocked everyone by making it to the final. And Ingrid Cortez, at the age of eighteen, defeated powerhouse Nicki Chan in the semis this week in order to earn her spot up against the Battle Axe.
Soto lost to Cortez in Melbourne earlier this season. But she has been gaining momentum all year and has won Wimbledon nine times previously. Still, betting odds are putting Cortez ahead by 3 to 2.
It will be, no doubt, a rousing event—the Rookie vs. the Comeback.
When asked, Carrie Soto said, quote, “I am eager to get on the court and show Ingrid Cortez why I’ve long dominated at Wimbledon,” unquote. Ingrid Cortez said this morning, quote, “I beat her in Melbourne. I’ll beat her again today,” unquote. Oof. Harsh words for such ladies. Watch out, gents.
In just a few hours, we will know the victor.
SOTO VS. CORTEZ
Wimbledon 1995
Final
I am standing at Centre Court. The grass, which just two short weeks ago was a lively green, is now pale and bone dry. I inhale and take in the distinct and glorious sight of the Wimbledon final court. I hold back the smile on my face.
Ingrid Cortez is standing on the opposite side of the net, fixing her sweatband. Her golden hair shines in the sun; her long limbs hover delicately at the baseline.
She smiles at me. It’s not so much a friendly gesture as a baring of teeth.
I adjust my visor. I close my eyes.
Then I toss the ball into the air and open up the court with a flat first serve that fires right over the net, wide to her backhand.
We rally for the point until I hit a slice that she can’t return.
First point mine.
I look up to the stands at Gwen and Ali. And then, in the royal box, I see Princess Diana.
Once my eye lands on her, it is hard to look away. She is wearing a pale yellow dress and blazer, and she is, as always, the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen.
I know that so many people across the world feel a kinship with her. But right now, mine feels especially sharp. I want to win, today, with her here. I want to say to her, They can’t make us go away just because they are done with us.
I refocus as I set for my next serve.
I take a breath. Before I even know what I am doing, my left arm tosses the ball as my right arm comes up to meet it. The ball goes screaming past Cortez’s racket and bounces just inside the sideline. An ace.
I don’t bother to smile at Cortez, to even give her the satisfaction of my satisfaction. I show nothing, as if this is nothing. Beating her is nothing to me.
But the truth is, I can feel the hum beginning in my bones.
I take the set.
* * *
—
At the end of the second set, we go to a tiebreaker.
The championship and the record are in the palm of my hand.
But I can feel myself tightening up as victory gets closer; the hum starts to fade into the background.
Cortez takes the tiebreaker.
* * *
—
Third set, 5–4. I’m up, but it’s Cortez’s serve next.
For a moment, as Cortez begins her toss, I have this flash of wanting it all to be over, wanting to see how it all ends.
Will I do it?
If I win, do I feel at peace knowing Nicki and I are tied again? Does elation run through me as I look around and understand that at age thirty-seven, I am now the oldest woman to ever win Wimbledon? That I have set a new record for the most titles here? Does it fill some sort of hole in my heart? Does it make it all worth it?
Or.
Or do I lose my shot at taking my record back this year?
Is this match the one in which Ingrid Cortez cements her own type of domination in women’s tennis, winning in Melbourne and London in the same year—just as I did for the first time back in ’81?
Is this Cortez’s day or is it mine? I just want to know.
But as she starts to serve, I remember that if I want to win, I have to hit the fucking ball.
It comes speeding across the court. I close my eyes for the briefest of seconds and let my body take over. I can’t help but let a smile break out on my face as I feel the sheer, undying, intoxicating thrill of pulling my arm back and then smashing my racket into the ball.
It hits the sideline just where I placed it and bounces off the court.
“Point is Soto’s.”
Cortez is smart and she is agile. She can put herself in position to make whatever shot she wants. But the ball surprised her on that point. And that is because she has not played Wimbledon as often as I have. She may know intellectually that the grass changes over the course of the match, but she doesn’t understand it like I do.
She has to think about it. I don’t.
I know this court. I know the bad bounces. I know the wind. I know the stickiness under my feet in this humidity.
After all, this is my grass.
And it is time for Ingrid Cortez to get off my lawn.
She serves it, I return, she hits it into the net. Love–30.
I aim straight for a pale spot where the grass is worn away, just beyond the net. It bounces fast and straight sideways. Cortez dives to return it, but her angle is desperate. It doesn’t make it over the net.
And here we are. Championship point.
My father is watching. Bowe is with him. Gwen and Ali are here. And I wonder, for a brief second, if my mom is seeing this. Wherever she is. If she’s proud of me.
I know Nicki Chan is watching. It’s probably killing her.
I shake them all out of my head and breathe.
Cortez serves the ball, and it flashes, yellow, as it barrels across the court. I watch it curve—the seams spinning so fast they blur—over the net and into the service box. I pull my arm back, ready to strike.
And now, I do not want to fast-forward through the next moment at all. I want to experience every second of this.
I hit the ball cross-court; she returns it down the line. I take it right out of the air with a backhand drive volley, and I move up to the net.
The ball bounces just at her feet. She chips it over. I hit a drop shot, aiming for a spot of dirt. It lands flat, bouncing low and to the side.
Cortez dives for it, but it’s too late. The ball bounces again.
Cortez gasps. Her mouth goes wide; her hands go up to her face in disbelief.
For one stunning moment, I can see the crowd screaming for me before I can hear them. And then the thunderous roar kicks in and overtakes me. I fall onto my butt and then onto my back as I drop my racket and look up at the sky. I lie there and I can feel the ground vibrating underneath me.
My tenth Wimbledon.
My twenty-first Slam.
The crowd continues to scream. I stand up as the announcers declare me the winner of the 109th annual Wimbledon Championships. I feel as if I can hear my father cheering. I can hear Bowe clapping. The whole stadium is going wild.
But I cannot hear anything as clearly as the sound of my own voice, begging me: Let this be enough.
Transcript
SportsHour USA
The Mark Hadley Show