My eyes go wide.
“Sorry if that makes you cringe,” he adds, taking my hand.
I thought if this moment ever came I wouldn’t be able to look at him, but it’s easy. It’s terrifying how easy it is. “It’s okay,” I say. “I already knew. My dad told me.”
He laughs. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“No,” I say. “Or maybe. I don’t know. Do you need me to say it back?”
“No,” he says. “I know who you are. And you’re late to warm up.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, hugging him. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay, I’m going. But I do too, you know. What you said.”
“I know,” he says.
“That obvious, huh?” I joke.
“Not really, Carrie,” he says, laughing. “But you have your tells.”
SOTO VS. CORTEZ
1995 US Open
Semifinals
It’s the third set. I’m two games away from clinching this thing.
I’m not tired yet. But Cortez is angry. I can feel it when she starts smacking the tuft off the ball.
She wants to get to the final. She’s probably got a chip on her shoulder about London. She’s used it to push her forward, and I respect that.
I keep thinking about my father’s notebook.
Cortez is irritable and cocky. She does not like losing. She does not like believing someone has bested her. Piss her off and she will start messing up. Very familiar.
I knew he meant me. But as I stand across the net from her now, I can see that Cortez and I are perhaps even more alike than I’d realized. Cutting and relentless, bloodthirsty. Cold but passionate. Needing to win because we cannot bear to lose.
Knock Cortez off her game, make her upset. She’s a confident player; undermine her confidence and you will cut her down.
If my father is right and Cortez’s mental game is like mine, then I know what I need to do.
I need to hit as many aces as possible. I need to not even give her the chance to fight for the point. If I shut her out of my service games completely, she’ll get exasperated and desperate. She’ll start making mistakes.
Yes, I think I know Ingrid Cortez very well. The downside of perfectionism is that you are so used to getting it right, you completely collapse when you get it wrong.
And it will not be me who collapses today.
To serve aces, you have to be bold. You have to risk hitting the net or going wide. You have to play like you’re not afraid. I can do that.
I toss the ball and whip it right into the far corner of the service box. Cortez can’t touch it. 15–love.
I keep at it. Soon, I’ve held the game.
Cortez’s shoulders tense and her hands turn to fists with every point I chip off her. Each time she walks back to the baseline, she shakes her head at herself and looks at her coach.
I hold steady. And soon I’m at match point.
Cortez bounces the ball at her feet, gearing herself up for the toss.
I feel a wash of affection for her. She is so young. She still has so much time to do all the things she wants to do. But going to the final of the ’95 US Open will not be one of them.
She serves a screamer—hard and fast with a quick drop. I run backward, ready for it. I take it on the rise, a forehand cross-court. She returns it with a groundstroke wide to my backhand.
The ball comes at me. I pull my racket back and take it out of the air before the bounce, send it back wide to her forehand.
She runs for it, but it bounces hard and then spins farther off court. She dives, hitting the ground at the same time the ball lands softly out of her reach.
The crowd erupts. Bowe shoots up out of his seat. I see that Gwen is hollering. I fall to my knees, the hard court scraping my skin. I am not proud, as much as I am grateful.
Ahí vamos, papá, I think. A la final.
That evening, Bowe, Gwen, and I sit in my hotel suite, in front of the television. I’m acting calm, but I can feel the stress gathering in my knees. I’m trying to stretch them out.
Bowe’s back is killing him, so he’s watching TV from the floor with his legs up the wall. Gwen’s the only one of us able to sit properly.
Nicki is playing Antonovich in the semis. She’s now serving for the match.
“We want Chan to win,” Gwen says. “Right? I’m just confirming I’m rooting for the right thing here. It’s not an easy one.”
I nod, reaching for my toes. I can feel my hamstrings and the backs of my knees sing. “Yeah, we want Chan.”