“Yeah,” Bowe says, grabbing his things and walking off. “I fucking know he’s right. I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.”
As Bowe drives away, I look at my father.
“Why did you do that?” I say. “You’re not his coach––you don’t even like him.”
My father shakes his head from side to side. “He’s…he’s improving significantly just playing against you. And you…you’re hitting about three to four miles per hour faster on some strokes than just last week. He’s throwing shots at you just like ones we can expect from Nicki and Cortez and maybe Antonovich. And you’re…you’re hitting them better than you have all fall, hija. Do you see that?”
“So this is…it’s working,” I say.
“Yes,” my dad says. “It’s working.”
* * *
—
The next morning when Bowe shows up, he will barely look at my father.
But on his first serve, he’s using a platform stance.
My father stands on the sidelines and clocks it. I can see him hold back a smile.
JANUARY 1995
Melbourne
Less than a week before the beginning of the Australian Open
My father and I have been in Melbourne for two weeks now. Bowe has been in and out of town, playing in the Hard Court Championships in Adelaide and the Sydney Outdoor.
I feel a sense of missing out as he goes off to the ATP tour. The 1995 tennis season has begun, and it feels wrong not to be a part of it. But I am not the player I was fifteen years ago. My best shot at winning any of these is to stay focused on the Slams.
Every morning, my father and I cross-train until lunch. And then, on the days when Bowe is in town, he and I play a match in the afternoon.
A fan or two have found us some days, watching us rally back and forth. But today the crowd has grown significantly. There must be twenty people hanging around, trying to get a glimpse.
I can’t stop glancing at them. I can’t keep my eye on the court like it should be. I miss a few shots.
“Can we tell them to leave?” I ask my father during a changeover. Bowe is up a set.
“I’ve already asked them to,” my dad says. “I’m not sure what else we can do. Especially because Bowe’s pandering to them.”
I look at Bowe as he waves and then walks over to the crowd. I watch him sign an autograph and take a picture. His smile is big and wide, nearly brilliant under his baseball cap.
These past weeks he’s played a couple great matches in his tournaments. He’s lifted himself a few spots in the rankings. It is obvious to me now that there is an element of Bowe’s game that I haven’t accounted for. When the energy of the crowd is there for him, when eyes are on him, he rises to it.
“C’mon, Soto!” Bowe yells as he makes his way back to the baseline, ready to begin again.
I get in position, and he serves it to me—fast, deadly. An ace.
I look to my father and see that his face is completely blank. I feel my shoulders tense.
So much of my game is coming back, as if my muscles have a long and generous memory. But sometimes I lose control of my swing, or I choose the wrong shots. And that is not a sign of a player who is ready for a Slam.
Bowe hits two more aces past me over the course of three games. When he sends a groundstroke down the center and I mis-hit, I nearly throw my racket. I glance at my father, whose face has grown tighter.
Bowe takes the next game, making it 4–1 in the second set. I want to stop the match. I do not want all these spectators watching me—it’s their first sight of me after five years and I am tanking. I want to jump out of my skin. On my next serve, I double-fault twice in a row. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
My father pulls me aside. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of these people.”
“When you get out there, in the first round next week, everyone is going to be watching you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Get. It. Together,” he says. “You did not work this hard for the past four months to choke now.”
“I know that!” I say.
“Hija, you can either beat the other players out there or you can’t. This is when you will find out. But I have never known you to be afraid of the truth.”
I take a deep breath. The truth was always in my favor before.
“Let’s go!” Bowe yells. “No coaching during a match.”
“It’s not a real match, Huntley!”