My father nods. “It’s not good.”
I stand up. “But she’s not going to win the French Open.”
“No, she’s not. You’re going to win the French Open.”
“Because I am the greatest tennis player of all time.”
My dad walks up to me and puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “You are the greatest warrior the world has ever seen.”
Transcript
SportsHour USA
The Mark Hadley Show
Mark Hadley: And now that Nicki Chan has announced she will be playing in the French Open—how does that change everyone’s prospects?
Gloria Jones: Well, we don’t know what sort of player we are going to see. A lot of people are saying she’s coming back too soon after her injury. There are rumors she’s intent on taking another Slam title to break the tie between her and Soto and she’s rushed her return in order to do it.
Briggs Lakin: I have to say, Gloria, I’m hearing the opposite. I’m hearing the Beast is playing the best she’s ever played. Meanwhile, Soto’s only chance at a Slam was one where she wouldn’t have to face Nicki. That was Melbourne. I think it’s safe to say, for the Battle Axe, it’s all over.
END OF APRIL
One month until the French Open
We meet Bowe on the practice court at eight a.m. There’s not another soul around. He is wearing gym shorts and a white T-shirt, tapping his racket against his shoes. Bright white, they stand out in stark contrast to the burnt orange clay.
“Even with your back bothering you, you’ve been kicking ass,” I say as I make my way onto the court. My father walks just two steps behind me.
“Thank you,” Bowe says. “Though I suspect you’re fighting at peak level right now. I’m a little scared.”
“You should be,” I say.
“All right, kids, shall we?” my father says.
Bowe shakes my hand. “May the best player win,” he says.
“Don’t worry, I will.”
“Best of three or five?” my father asks.
I really want to earn it. I really want to run myself into the ground and see what I’m made of. “Five,” I say.
He nods. “Here we go.”
I serve first, and it’s a stunner. Sharp, fast, with a high bounce. “Fuck,” Bowe says after he misses it.
“Get used to it.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure I will,” Bowe says, and I can’t help but laugh.
I keep it up but then find myself pulling back, going for the safe shots, worried that I’ll run out of steam too quickly. Bowe gets the edge on me and wins the first set, 7–5.
I need to find balance in my game, some ability to go hard and keep going, some power to draw on that will not deplete me. I look over at my father for guidance, but he’s making notes in his notebook.
I already know the answer, though. I need better shot selection. I need to go bigger on some shots—really take some risks. And I need to put more of the pressure on Bowe’s side of the court. I start lobbing more frequently, constructing longer points.
I take the second set, 6–3. “Uh-oh,” I say. “She’s coming for ya.”
“I’m not worried.”
I take the next.
“Ohhhh,” I say, teasing him as we stand by the net. “Now it’s starting to sting, right? Starting to feel a little pinch?”
“It’s out of five, Soto,” he says. “I know you’re used to two sets giving you the match, but you’re playing a man’s game now.”
“Kindly fuck off.”
My father shakes his head.
Bowe takes the fourth. I’m getting tired. My serve is softening.
“Oh shit,” Bowe says. “It’s anybody’s game now, Battle Axe.”
“You’re both terrible in the fifth set of any match,” my father calls out. “So let’s not trash-talk until one of you gets results.”
Our fifth set goes to a tiebreak. Match point is on Bowe’s serve, which lands right on the T. I return it with a backhand down the line. It bounces high, and he can’t reach it.
“Yes!” I say, pumping my fist. “How do you like that?”
Bowe shakes his head, visibly pissed at himself for handing me that serve.
“You win,” he says. “You win this one.”
My father nods at me. “I’m going inside for a drink,” he says. “See you in ten to talk about what we can do better. I have a lot of notes. For both of you.”
Bowe grabs the ball on his side of the net and then meets me over by the bench. I take a long sip of water just as he takes one himself. But we catch each other’s gaze.