“Good,” I say. “The win will be sweeter.”
Nicki shakes her head. “I read an interview with you years ago, when I was still a kid,” she says. “Where you said your father called you ‘Achilles.’？”
“Yeah,” I say. “The greatest of the Greeks.”
“I was always jealous of that. That sense of destiny you seemed to have. Do you remember what Achilles said to Hector after Hector killed Patroclus?”
It has been a long time since I’ve actually read The Iliad. I shake my head.
She smiles. “He says, ‘There can be no pacts between men and lions. I will make you pay in full for the grief you have caused me.’？”
SOTO VS. CHAN
1995 US Open
Final
Too many people, possibly even Nicki, believe that Nicki is new tennis. That my Carrie is old tennis. They don’t realize I taught Carrie to play any tennis. So Carrie should start wild and powerful, start with a splash. Make it clear, from the beginning, that whatever version of Carrie Nicki prepared for, she didn’t prepare for this.
I win the toss and elect to serve first.
Nicki’s forehand is brutal, so everyone serves to her backhand. Not me. My first serve is low, short, fast, and wide to her forehand. She has to scramble to meet the ball. She returns it just past the net. I chip it back. She doesn’t get under it in time. 15–love.
Nicki looks at me and nods calmly.
I hold the first game.
* * *
—
Her first serve comes at me like it was shot from a gun—exactly as I knew it would. I return it right to her backhand. She returns it deep. I send it back with a drive volley, pulling her up closer to the net.
Nicki succeeds by getting people to play her type of tennis. Carrie can meet her at that level, but Nicki cannot meet Carrie at hers. Carrie should lure Nicki into Carrie’s kind of tennis—the kind of tennis where a centimeter matters. I believe the best Carrie will beat the best Nicki. And that means GET HER TO THE NET.
Nicki runs up to meet my shot and makes it just in time. But her return is too long. The first point in her service game is mine. Love–15.
Still, she holds the game.
* * *
—
We each hold our games—neither able to break the other. 1–1 becomes 2–2. 2–2 becomes 3–3, 4–4, 5–5.
* * *
—
At 6–6, we move to a tiebreaker.
Nicki clobbers me with her serves. On my serves, she hammers her returns. The tiebreak quickly gets to 0–4, Nicki’s favor. I have to adjust.
I try cutting off the pace of the ball, hitting slices, stopping her short. It works quickly, and I am unyielding until she gets the hang of it.
Now we’re 4–4.
5–5.
6–6 in the tiebreaker.
The crowd is beginning to rumble.
Nicki hits a winner past me, bringing her to 6–7. But she’s got to win by two.
It’s my serve, and I send a fast shot right at her heels. She misses it. 7–7.
Minutes later, Nicki is up 12–11. It’s her serve.
I stare at her, watching her toss, trying to guess where it’s going. By now I can see that she does have a small tell. She holds her shoulder ever so slightly lower when she’s going cross-court.
I watch her, see her shoulder high. I know she’s sending it down the line, to my forehand.
It whistles through the air so fast it’s gone by the time I hear it. I reach wide, but I can’t snag it. Fuck. The crowd screams.
At 13–11 in the tiebreak, the first set is hers.
* * *
—
I haven’t been looking at anyone during the changeovers. Not Gwen, not Bowe, not Ali. Not the crowd. I keep my head down. I focus on drinking water, drying my face, keeping my father in my head. I only want to hear his voice right now.
If Nicki wins the first set, Carrie has a better chance of winning the second. We can use Nicki’s confidence—her arrogance???—against her here. And we should. Stay the course. Keep at it. Don’t change it up. If we don’t take the first set, we can win the second.
The second set begins. I move her up to the net. I hit the balls low and soft so she can’t get as much power off them.
We trade games. 1–1. 2–2. 3–3.
But soon, Nicki starts getting the hang of it. She is staying closer to the net, hitting with more control. Our rallies go ten, twelve, sometimes fifteen times back and forth.
Nobody breaking anyone’s serve.
It begins to feel like a perfect rhythm—the ball back and forth, the two of us meeting it. No unforced errors, no mistakes. Perfect execution. Just a dance.