Mark Hadley: And what do we make of this? A shocking upset, a stunning victory for our American, Carrie Soto.
Briggs Lakin: I’m here eating my words, Mark. She pulled out a scorcher of a win.
Gloria Jones: This is what we have seen with Carrie Soto from the beginning of her career. She is relentless. She does not stop. She will not be counted out.
Hadley: And what a match she gave us.
Jones: What a tournament, I say. Not just a match. Look, as tennis fans—certainly as a player who had to play Carrie a few times back in my day—I can tell you that what we all show up for is the beauty of the game. The sheer joy of a great match. And Cortez and Soto gave us that today.
Lakin: Soto, in particular, stunned with that last game. She’s the oldest player to ever win Wimbledon, and it was hours into the match. She had to be tired. And yet, now, you understand why she’s known as the break point champion.
Hadley: She’s given us quite a show this season.
Lakin: If you told me this time last year that Carrie Soto would be winning Wimbledon and Nicki Chan wouldn’t even make the final, I’d have thought you’d lost your mind. But here we are.
Jones: Never underestimate Carrie Soto. And to any other women out there, wondering if they are too old to play tennis, let the Battle Axe be all the evidence you need to get in the game.
Hadley: Uh-oh, Gloria, are you considering a return to the sport?
Jones: [laughs] Absolutely not. You couldn’t pay me to train again, Mark. But that’s what’s all the more impressive, if you ask me. We had a saying back when I was on the tour. “Carrie Soto is human. But she’s superhuman.” And I’d say she’s proven that tonight.
Alone in my hotel suite, I put my gown on. It’s black satin and sleeveless, floor length, though there is a slit cut high to my thigh.
Gwen picked it out for me when we went shopping this afternoon. I can see she made a good choice.
I leave my room and make my way down to the lobby. I’m meeting Gwen here so we can head out to the Wimbledon Champions Ball, at a hotel near Buckingham Palace.
It’s almost midnight, and the party is only just about to begin. We all have been waiting—I have been waiting—for the men’s final to end. The party can’t start until then.
The finalists were Andrew Thomas and Jadran Petrovich, neither one of whom would set a record by winning. We live in a world where exceptional women have to sit around waiting for mediocre men.
Petrovich finally takes the fifth set just after eleven p.m., and apparently now we are all allowed to celebrate.
In the lobby, I see Gwen arrive in a bright red strapless dress, her hair pulled back, her lips crimson red.
“Wow,” I say. “You look good.”
“To you as well,” she says. And then she grabs my arm and escorts me to the ball.
* * *
—
Just as in years past, there is a horde of people here. They are all coming in and out, trying to find me, trying to shake my hand, trying to tell me that all along, they knew I would succeed.
Board members of the ITF are asking me if I will consider continuing on in the sport after the US Open. One of the directors of the WTA asks if I will join the full tour. A head of the All England Club tells me that he knew from the moment I announced my return that I would win Wimbledon.
“Isn’t this nice?” I say to Gwen through gritted teeth. “A whole room full of fair-weather friends.”
Gwen laughs. “That is one thing I have always loved about you,” she says. “You are the rare star who doesn’t like the smell of bullshit.”
Not long after we arrive, I get stuck talking to a woman who is some sort of duchess.
“A rather exceptional win you’ve accomplished,” she says to me, taking a restrained sip of her drink.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m quite proud.”
“Yes,” she says. “And at such an age. It’s impressive. I quite admire your fighting spirit. You have that American virtue, don’t you? That dogged obstinance—even in the face of indignity.”
Gwen can see my face and nods at me slowly, encouraging me not to tell this woman to go fuck herself. “Ah, yes,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Well, it was oh-so tempting to roll over and die once I turned thirty, but somehow my American obstinance persists.”
Suddenly, Gwen’s hand is on my arm, and I’m being dragged away.
“Just smile and nod,” Gwen says. “How hard is that?”
“Very,” I say. “I hate half these people. I hate half of all people.”
Gwen leads me through the room. “You love Wimbledon,” she says.
“I love London and I love winning,” I say. “But I don’t care about any of these idiots who thought I was crazy for trying this in the first place.”
Gwen keeps us moving, and I can see now that she’s ushering me toward Jadran Petrovich—with whom I am going to have to take a photo. I pull her to a stop, ever so briefly.
“The only people who thought I could come back were my father and Bowe,” I say. “That’s whose opinion I care about. And yours, because you have stood by me every single moment.”
Gwen smiles. “Well, I have always admired your American obstinance.”
“Thank you for supporting me. And for being here,” I say. “When my father couldn’t.”
Gwen nods.
“And…I’m sorry about Indian Wells. I was…rude.”
“You mean when I gently asked you about your dating life and you acted like a brat?”
“Yes,” I say. “I know you were just trying to…care about me. And I’m not an easy person to care for.”
Gwen shakes her head. “Yes, you are. You think you’re so tough, but you’re not, Carrie. I can see right through you. To all the raw, scared bits you think you’re hiding.”
I look at her. “I hate you,” I say.
“Anyway,” she says, waving me off. “You were wrong, but you weren’t wrong. Back in Indian Wells.”
I’m not sure what she means.
“Michael and I are getting divorced,” she says finally. Before I can ask her how she is or what happened, she says, “We will talk about it later, but, you know, maybe I was living vicariously through you for a moment there.”
I put my arm on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
She waves me away.
“Well, I did sleep with Bowe,” I say. “So there ya go: There’s the gossip you wanted.”
Gwen laughs abruptly, tossing her head back and delighting in it all with such force and freedom that multiple people turn their heads to look at us.
“Can we leave?” I say.
Gwen nods. “I’m going to go connect with a few sponsors. You go take the photo with Jadran, and then yeah, let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, I’m posing with a smile across my face as Jadran Petrovich and I have our photos taken. Once the flashes stop, I congratulate him on winning.
“Thank you, it is exciting. My first,” he says.
“It’s thrilling,” I say. “I remember my first one.”
“You have won before,” he says.
“Ten times,” I say. “Yes.”
“Hm,” he says. “But it is three sets.”
“Excuse me?”
“The match is best of three in the women’s. We play best of five. The men’s tournament.”
“Right.”
“So it’s not comparable, is it?”
I see Gwen coming to meet me. I look Jadran right in the eye. “I assure you,” I say, all smile—fake or not—gone from my face, “if I played you two out of three or three out of five, I would drag you across the court and murder your—”
“All right, that’s it,” Gwen says as she hooks her arm into mine and hauls me away.
* * *
—
Sometime around three in the morning, Gwen and I are in my hotel suite, opening a second bottle of champagne. Gwen’s thrown her heels off and is sitting in the club chair, pouring. I am lying, still in my fancy dress, across the sofa. She hands me my refilled glass.
“You should have let me tell that fucker off,” I say.
Gwen shakes her head. “If I let you say all the things you wanted to say in public, your career would be over in about two hours.”