“You asked the question.”
“Go ahead,” I say.
“Your mental game sucks.”
“Excuse me? My mental game is great. My shot selection is just as good as it’s ever been. I’m still planning winners out three, four shots ahead. And you’re barely keeping up with them.”
Bowe nods. “Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Back in the eighties, you were so unflappable. You knew you deserved that trophy. You were unafraid.”
“That…is not true.”
“Well, you faked it better. Have you read The Inner Game of Tennis?”
“I could write The Inner Game of Tennis.”
“So that’s a no. Because if you had read it, you’d know that you, of all people, could never write it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When you’re out there—I mean, I’m not in your head so maybe I’m wrong—but with each mistake you make, it looks like you’re getting angrier and angrier. You’ve got so much on the line. If I can get you off-balance early, I can upset you for the rest of the match.”
“I—” I start to disagree with him, but I can’t decide which argument to make. That I don’t do that or that everyone does that.
Bowe leans forward on the table and moves his drink out of the way. “This guy, the Inner Game of Tennis guy, he talks about two selves. Self 1 and Self 2. Self 1 says, ‘C’mon, Huntley! Get it together!’ Self 2 is the Huntley who’s supposed to be doing the getting it together.”
I say, “I get you so far.”
“Self 2 is doing all the work, right? Self 2 is going to win you the game. Self 2 is the hero. Self 1 just yells and gets frustrated and gets in the way.”
“I see,” I say.
“Look, Soto,” Bowe says. His voice softens as he leans toward me. “You’re a better player, physically, than me right now. You’re a phenomenal player; that has not changed.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“But you do have weaknesses that you haven’t faced before,” he says. “We are older. Our bodies are different. You can’t ignore that just because it’s inconvenient.”
“But if we both are struggling with that, I should be able to beat you, being the better player.”
“The difference is that I’ve made peace with my limitations and you haven’t. I can feel it. I can feel the struggle. I can see it on your face. And because of that, you’re easy to manipulate. If I can mess with your head, if I can get you mad at yourself for not being the Carrie Soto you think you should be—I will beat you every time,” he says. “And that means Nicki will slaughter you.”
I take a sip of my iced tea. But then I can’t bring myself to pull the glass away from my mouth. I down the rest in one gulp. And then I glance up.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you for your advice. I appreciate it.”
Bowe leans back with his hands up in surrender. “Don’t ask if you don’t want the answer—”
“I said thank you, didn’t I? Fuck.”
Bowe laughs. “Yes, you did.” He slaps his hand on the table. “All right, I’ll bite. Do me now.”
“It doesn’t have to be tit for tat,” I say.
“No, I want to know. I want a win, Carrie,” he says. “I want a big one. I want to do something this season. I want to…” He looks me in the eye but then immediately looks away. “I want to prove I was right to stay in the game this long. If I do something great this season, everyone will say, ‘Thank God he stuck around,’ instead of…what they say now.”
“？‘Why hasn’t he given up?’？”
“Yes, thank you,” Bowe says.
I think about it and then chew a piece of ice left in the bottom of my glass. “You take too long to warm up. If you play somebody like O’Hara or Garcia who comes out of the gate hot, you’re gonna be down a set before you know it.”
Bowe nods. “I know,” he says. “You’re right.”
“Your serve is better now that you’re using the platform stance. But you don’t disguise your shots enough. I can always tell where you’re going.”
“How?” Bowe asks.
“Your right foot turns in or out depending on how wide you’re going.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he says, blinking and shaking his head.