Other women in tennis—blond women with big boobs and long legs—often get modeling contracts at age seventeen. They show up on the cover of men’s magazines within a year or so of hitting the court for the first time.
But not thicker women, like me. Or dark-skinned women like Carla Perez or Suze Carter. Not women who are British Chinese, like Nicki, or downright scary in their intensity like her either. Not the women who aren’t skinny and white and smiling.
And yet, no matter what type of woman you are, we all still have one thing in common: Once we are deemed too old, it doesn’t matter who we used to be.
I watch Nicki for a second too long, wondering why she’s here. But the thought pops out of my head the moment she turns her gaze and meets my eye. She looks just as surprised to see me as I am to see her. But she smiles, just a bit. And waves.
There’s something sweet about it, unnervingly pure. I try to smile as I wave back.
Then both of us turn to watch what I know, in my gut, is about to happen.
Bowe has lost his point and then some. It’s now ad-in. O’Hara only needs one more point to hold the game and destroy Bowe’s lead.
He serves the ball—it flies past Bowe at a clip. An ace.
It is now 6–6.
I can’t stand to watch him lose this match, so I get up and make my way home.
I am already in the car and turning the ignition on when I realize Nicki is probably at Indian Wells for the same reason I am. Scouting the competition to prepare for the French Open. She could beat my record before I’ve even taken it back.
I put my head down on the car horn and let it sing through the parking garage.
Motherfucker.
* * *
—
When I get back to the rental house, my father is sitting out by the pool, drinking what appears to be a classic daiquiri. He’s making notes in his notebook but looks up when he sees me.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks.
I throw the car keys on the table and sit next to him, keeping my sunglasses on, slumping into the chair.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I do not want to tell him I watched Bowe throw a tantrum on the court. And I cannot bring myself to tell him about Nicki.
I cannot bear to tell him just how impossible the task ahead of us feels right now.
Gwen comes out to the pool in a tailored blue dress and heels.
“Wow,” I say. “You look great.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I have an early dinner with the execs from American Express. To see if maybe they want to pick up your contract with Elite Gold, among other things.”
“Good God,” I say. “Are we already there?”
“No,” she says, grabbing her purse. “We’re not there at all. But I told you I’m going to make this comeback work. And I’m not taking any chances.” She looks me in the eye. “You will be in a credit card commercial this year, come hell or high water.”
My father looks at me, raises his eyebrows. And then I look at Gwen.
I’m embarrassed that I’m about to cry because it is so silly. It’s just the stupidest goddamn thing under the sun.
“Okay,” I say, trying to hold it all in. I turn back around to the pool. “Have fun.”
APRIL 1995
Two months before Paris
By April, after training a couple more months, my serve is now regularly clocking in at 122 miles per hour.
My feet feel light on the court. My knee feels all right. I feel nimble but mighty, exactly what I need to be for Paris.
“Unbelievable!” “？Increíble!” “？Brillante!” my father says at the end of each session lately, with a brightness in his eyes.
There are entire weeks of the spring when it seems like the craziest thing in the world that I could have doubted myself. I can do this. This is what I do.
One evening in early April, my father and I are eating dinner in my kitchen. We have spent the day working on my second serve. It is one of the first days in a long time when I am not exhausted, when hitting at the very best of my abilities did not take everything out of me. I remember this feeling from my twenties—this sense of sheer accomplishment without the weight of the cost. It has eluded me all year, but I finally have it back.
My father and I are eating his grilled chicken.
“It’s bone dry,” I say. “Why didn’t you make chimichurri? Or a white wine sauce? Something?”
“I’d like to see you make dinner,” he says.
“I don’t cook,” I say. “I order takeout. Because if I made chicken, it would taste like this.”