This morning at breakfast, I was reading NowThis in an attempt to clear my mind. The front cover was about this pop star who left this rock star, and I wanted to know if it was true she’d been sleeping with this actor. But when I opened up the magazine, it was my face that was staring back at me.
There was a photo of Bowe and me on the court from the week before. They had caught us kissing.
I closed the magazine, almost reflexively. And then I opened it back up.
In the photo, we are both in shorts and T-shirts. He is wearing his navy blue hat. He has his arm around my lower back, pulling me toward him, and I have to look up to meet his lips.
I didn’t know the paparazzi were there. I wouldn’t have kissed him if I had. But instead of feeling horrified to have it printed in the magazine for all the world, all I could see was just how grotesquely happy I look in it.
Bowe walked by and glanced over my shoulder. From the look on his face, I could tell he’d already seen it.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I stared at the photo a moment longer. “We look happy,” I said, finally.
And Bowe smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so too.”
Bowe holds the game; it’s now 4–5. During the changeover, he comes up to the players’ box and winks at me. I smile at him and wink back. I am once again a fool.
Bowe gets back to the baseline. The pressure is on him now. If he does not win this game, it is the last professional match of his career. But you wouldn’t know it looking at him. He’s waving to the crowd, laughing as they cheer for him, lifting his hands up to encourage them all.
Last night, he told me he would like to make it to the final. “This is all I’ve ever wanted out of this year. To do something great like this. I never thought I’d get this far, and now I have,” he said in the quiet of the night. “So why not dream further?”
But today, right before he went into the locker room, he told me the opposite. “I never thought I’d get this far, and now I have,” he said. “So the rest is all icing on the cake.”
Matsuda serves a fast one. It lands at Bowe’s feet, and Bowe jumps backward to return it. It lands just over the net. Matsuda scrambles for it and misses.
Love–15.
Bowe smiles. The crowd cheers. It’s clear that all the cheering annoys Matsuda. And so in between serves, Bowe looks at the crowd, pumping them up to cheer louder. Matsuda shakes his head, sends off another blistering serve.
Bowe lunges for it but hits it into the net.
15–all.
I check my watch again. I have to go.
15–30.
30–all.
30–40.
Deuce.
Advantage Matsuda.
Deuce.
I have to go.
Advantage Bowe.
Deuce.
Advantage Matsuda.
Deuce.
I’m late to warm up.
Advantage Matsuda.
Deuce.
Advantage Matsuda.
Bowe’s tired. I don’t know if Matsuda can tell, if the crowd can tell, but I can. He’s not up as high on his serve. I will him some strength, a burst of energy. Just two points in a row can save this game and maybe take him to the final.
Deuce.
Advantage Matsuda.
Matsuda sends another serve to Bowe’s feet. This time, Bowe runs back as fast as he can. He gets into position, gets his racket on the ball. But then it hits the net.
My heart falls. It’s over.
Bowe stands still on the court and closes his eyes. I watch his chest rise and fall. He nods and opens his eyes.
The crowd is oddly quiet for the end of a match. They wanted it for him. But it is Matsuda who is going to the final.
Bowe Huntley has retired.
I watch his face for signs of distress or grief—though I’m smart enough to know that grief will take various shapes over the next few months, maybe years. Still, his face now shows only a smile and wet eyes. Not a tantrum in sight.
I wish my father were here to see this. To witness what Bowe has done here at the US Open. He would have cheered the loudest.
Bowe waves to the crowd.
Suddenly, the whole stadium is on their feet, including me. They are screaming so loud for him that it pierces my ears. He waves to each section, nodding as he does.
Matsuda shakes his hand and then hangs back. He gives Bowe the moment.
Bowe looks at me and smiles. I smile back. Bowe turns to the crowd and lifts both of his fists above his head. And then waves goodbye.
He comes right to me, and I lean over from the players’ box to talk to him.
“Beautiful run,” I say. “A beautiful end to a stunning career.”
“I love you,” he says.