Ingrid Cortez is on my television screen, holding up the Daphne Akhurst Memorial Cup. She’s won the goddamn final against Antonovich.
She looks so happy, standing there. Like the young kid she is—so full of joy and life and eagerness. Her face is beaming; her skin is flushed.
When did I lose that? The delight of success? When did winning become something I needed in order to survive? Something I did not enjoy having, so much as panic without?
Before I know what I am doing, I am in shorts and a T-shirt, knocking on my father’s door at eight-thirty in the morning on a rest day.
He opens the door in his robe and slippers, wiping the crust out of his eyes. But when he sees me, he perks right up.
I say, “Let’s play.”
“All right,” he says. “Let me gather my notes on what we need to work on.”
I shake my head. “No. Just me and you. Playing a match. For fun. No drills.”
My father smiles and claps his hands in delight. “？Me encanta el plan!”
He puts his hand up, ready for a high five. I laugh and slap it.
“Dame cinco minutos,” my dad says. “Y después jugamos.”
When he comes out, there is a bounce to his step and a grin on his face. He takes the first serve, and I kick his ass.
FEBRUARY 1995
Three and a half months until Paris
The sun is barely in the sky, and yet I am standing on the court in front of my father, already warmed up.
“This is,” he says, “the beginning of clay season. We put the past behind us. We look forward to Paris. ?Estamos de acuerdo?”
“Sí, está bien,” I say. The loss in Melbourne still burns. The only thing that will cure it is a win at Roland-Garros.
As the reporters so kindly reminded me, I have only won the French Open once. Twelve years ago. The other nineteen of my Slams have been on hard courts or grass. But Roland-Garros is red clay.
Clay surfaces are softer; they absorb more of the power of the ball. Which means everything about them is slower. Players run slower, the ball bounces slower, and the ball bounces higher, too, which gives my opponents more time to react to my shots. Clay cuts into my advantage at almost every juncture. It neutralizes my speed, dulls my accuracy; even my angles don’t have quite the same effect.
Clay is not for quick players. It favors the heavy hitters. It is a game of muscle.
Clay is Nicki’s surface. And I sincerely hope her ankle’s too fucked to play it.
“Are you ready to work?” my father says, holding a tennis ball in his hand.
“Obvio que sí.”
He throws the ball at me. I catch it. Then he begins to walk away, toward the driveway.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He turns back to me, summoning me with his hand. “Today, hija, is an adventure.”
I sigh as I begin to follow.
“You can leave your racket and the tennis balls,” he says.
I look at him sideways. “Do I need my running shoes?”
He bobs his head from side to side. “No, I do not think so.”
“Where are we going?” I ask as he opens the driver’s-side door of the green Range Rover I bought him two years ago.
He says, “There are three and a half months until the French Open.”
I open the passenger-side door and get in. “Yes, I’m aware.”
He turns the ignition. “It’s a clay surface…”
He puts the car in reverse and turns to look behind him. Oh no.
I say, “No. Dad, no. De ninguna manera.”
“Carrie, sí,” he says.
“No, ni lo sue?es, papá.”
“Lo siento, pero ya lo estás haciendo.”
“What am I? Twelve again? No necesito hacer esto.”
“Yes, you do,” he says. “It’s exactly what you need to do.”
I can see a tiny smile erupt on his face as he turns left out of the driveway. To the beach.
* * *
—
I stand there, looking out onto the ocean in Santa Monica, the soft, hot sand under my feet.
“You start here,” my dad says. “I’ll drive up the coast exactly five miles and meet you there.”
I am once again about to run in the fucking sand.
And not wet sand either. Dry, coarse sand that breaks apart under your weight, your feet sinking with each step.
It hurts. Your calves, your hamstrings, your quads, your glutes. All of it.
They make it look way too easy on Baywatch.
I look around and sigh. Behind me, teenagers in oversized T-shirts and ripped jeans are walking on the paved path that follows the beach. A few women in neon bike shorts and sports bras glide by on Rollerblades, listening to Walkmans.