“Yes, it does.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s still true.”
“Okay,” he says. “That’s…thank you.”
“I’m not done. You’re way too lazy out there. You should be running down more balls. I can squeak any ball past you just by going wider than you feel like running. Everyone playing you knows you’re old. They know your back gives you trouble. The first thing they’re gonna do is hit it wide every time. You have to conserve energy, and I get that. But if you actually want to win something, you have to be willing to die to get to the ball, Huntley. And you’re not willing to do that. So you’re not gonna win any match that matters.”
Bowe’s jaw clenches; his lips are tight. He looks like he’s about to get up from the table. I feel a flash of disappointment, because like most men, he can dish it out but he can’t take it.
“It’s not my fault if you can’t handle the criticism,” I say.
Bowe looks down at the table. He stares at the water ring his drink has made on the cardboard coaster advertising a beer he can’t drink.
“Thank you,” he says, finally, when he looks up at me. “Sincerely. Thank you.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay, well…yeah, you’re welcome.”
Bowe leans into the table and keeps his voice low. He says, “I want to fucking win, Carrie. I want the crowd screaming my name. I want to know that for one moment, I am the best in the world. One last time.”
I can’t help but smile. “You are taking the words right out of my mouth.”
Transcript
Sports Australia
SportsLine with Stephen Mastiff
Stephen Mastiff: Pivoting to women’s singles for a moment, who are we keeping an eye on here, mate?
Harrison Trawley, editor of SportsPages Australia: Well, Nicki Chan, obviously. Everyone is expecting her in the final. But also, I’m looking at Ingrid Cortez, I’m looking at Natasha Antonovich. I’m excited to see some quick, daring moves from her. And I think power hitters like Odette Moretti out of Italy will have a good showing.
Mastiff: I notice you’re not mentioning Soto.
Trawley: [laughs] No, nobody’s looking at Soto for this. But if we want to talk about Americans, I think perhaps Carla Perez could seize the moment.
MID-JANUARY
The night before the Australian Open
My father and I are sitting on the patio of my hotel suite, looking out over the city, discussing the draw, which was announced earlier today. I’m in section 7. In my first match I’ll be playing a twenty-two-year-old Czech serve-and-volley player named Madlenka Dvo?áková. We are playing day 1 at Rod Laver Arena, the highest-profile court.
“It is not an accident,” my father says. “That they have you center court against a low-ranked player. You’re unseeded, but they are behind you.”
I shake my head. “They just know it will make them money. To keep me in the tournament as long as they can.”
I look out over the small slice of Melbourne that we can see from my hotel, including the Yarra River as it crosses through the city. I have sat outside looking at this river so many times in my life—as a rookie, as a challenger, as a champion. Now it’s as a comeback. I am both stunned to find myself here again and positively sure I’ve never left.
“You’ll go out there tomorrow,” my father says, “and you’ll beat her, no le vas a dar tiempo ni de pensar.”
I inhale sharply—imagining the opposite of what my father is describing. What if tomorrow I lose in the first round? What if this whole thing is over before it’s even begun? The idea of it is so humiliating, I feel nauseated.
The phone rings, and the clang of it startles me. I walk into the bedroom to answer it. “Hello?”
“Good luck tomorrow,” Bowe says.
“You too.”
“Fucking crush her. Make her bleed.”
“Will do,” I say. “You too.”
“We can do this,” Bowe says. “At least, you can. I know it.”
“Thank you,” I say, almost choking on the words. I am suddenly embarrassed at how transparent the emotion in my voice is. “I guess this is it. No turning back now.”
“No, I suppose not,” he says. “But you wouldn’t turn back even if you could, Soto.”
THE 1995
AUSTRALIAN
OPEN
When I wake up in the morning, I feel a hum in my bones that I have not felt in years. It is startling, the buzz of unexpected joy.