“And now I’m going to shoot an arrow right into your heel so I can say I was the one who finally took down Achilles.”
And that I instantly have the words for: “I’d like to see you fucking try.”
* * *
—
The tiebreaker begins.
A point for Nicki, a point for me.
For Nicki. For Nicki.
For me. For me. For Nicki.
Around and around in circles. It is the most fun I’ve had in years.
This will be the last tournament that I will ever play. And I can’t help but enjoy it.
I did not pick up a racket to grow tense and weary and afraid of failing. I picked it up to feel the joy of smashing a ball as hard as I can. I picked it up to spend time with my dad.
This is it. My last moment of what he and I started together. This match. This tiebreaker. I could live in it forever.
Me. Then Nicki.
Then me. Then Nicki.
Then me. Then Nicki. Then me.
I serve my sharpest, most deadly serve, trying to get an ace off her. But she returns it just as fast. And I can’t match her power now. Her point.
Nicki serves maybe the fastest serve I’ve ever seen in my life. But I gear up and return it. She hits a smash so high I have to leap into the air despite my knees. But I jump higher than I think I’ve ever jumped before, and I manage to graze the ball with my racket, somehow landing it where she can’t reach. My knee is killing me now, but it’s my point.
I serve it, and she returns with a groundstroke. I hit a cross-court backhand and watch as it bounces in. But she’s too far from it. No one can get across the court in the time she has, certainly not with her ankle. I watch as the ball flies over the net. Nicki is running too fast. I can tell. She’s going to overshoot. But the ball bounces lower than I think it’s going to.
It shouldn’t have bounced that low. It’s a fresh ball, and I sent it over hard. But sometimes you get a bad bounce, and the ball doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. And usually, in those moments, the returner misses the shot.
But not Nicki. Not now. Somehow she saw it happening before it happened. She meets the ball outside the line and skids across the court as she drops low to her knees. She leans back, overextended, and gets under the ball just as it’s flying past her, her shin already bleeding from the skid.
She turns ever so slightly and returns it with a shot I can’t touch.
Her point. It’s now 16–15.
And for the first time, I know something as terrifying as it is freeing.
Nicki Chan might just understand the ball better than I do.
She serves the ball again, whipping it at me. I return it so deep it hits at the baseline and then bounces high off the court. Nicki jumps into the air and returns it with a lob.
It glides, slowly, above us. I watch it as gravity brings it back toward the ground. I move two steps to the right, one step back. I hedge my footing, staying on my toes, ready to run whenever it lands. My left knee feels like steel grinding against steel. The pain rings through me, reverberating, absorbing into every part of my body.
I do not care.
The ball descends toward the court. I have to decide whether to hit it before the bounce or get it on the rise. I cycle through my options, all my shots. And then, instead of choosing, I just let my arms fly.
I take it out of the air, quick—send it careening back. Nicki starts running.
I might beat her today. If that ball is in and she misses it, I can beat her today.
But that will not change the fact that she is incomparable. And she will win another Slam in ’96. And then probably another, if she goes easier on her ankle.
And what am I going to do? Keep coming back to try to take it from her? Keep holding on for dear life to what I should have let go of long ago? Is that what I want my life to be? Trying to deny what Nicki Chan is?
Where is the beauty in that?
My shot arches toward her, over the net. Nicki’s running deep. The ball goes past her. She’s not going to get it.
I can feel myself winning this thing and then letting go of it all. Letting her take the rest from here on out. I am ready for that. I am ready to give it to her. To let her have it. Finally.
But as I watch, the ball lands one centimeter past the baseline.
The linesman calls it out.
I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Nicki screams into the sky, both arms outstretched. The crowd is up on their feet, cheering.
I just lost the tiebreak. I just lost the match.
I can barely catch my breath.
I don’t slam down my racket. I don’t scream. I don’t bury my face in my hands. I just look at Bowe.