I am good. On any surface you put me on, I am good. This is a level of performance that I can allow everyone to see.
But then I notice my father’s attention turn toward one of the other courts, as fans all over the complex begin to hum. I look over in their direction. Nicki Chan is signing autographs as she walks onto the court with a hitter.
My father turns and looks at me. When he catches my gaze, there is nothing we need to say. I continue to hit for another few minutes.
“Vámonos,” my father says. “That’s enough for today.”
I nod and start to gather my things. My hitter packs up. The crowd groans, disappointed I’m leaving. I think of Bowe for a moment—how he would react. He would call out something witty to them, walk to the crowd lining up at the fence and sign their tennis balls and make them laugh. There’s a woman here with a toddler, and I know that Bowe would give the kid a high five.
But I can’t think of how to do it without seeming disingenuous. I don’t feel grateful for their attention, and I don’t know how to be full of shit. I don’t have the foggiest clue what to say to a toddler.
I wave briefly and head out. We have to pass Nicki’s court in order to leave the facility. And as we do, I stop and watch her.
She is serving balls straight to her hitter, one screamer after the next. My father whistles low.
Her form is untraditional. Because she is left-handed, a lot of players aren’t used to her angles. But she also serves the ball in a stance that breaks most of the rules and in a form that breaks even more. She grunts so loud you can hear her in Brussels. Yet as the ball goes soaring off her racket into the service court, it looks deadly.
And that’s not just a turn of phrase. It seriously looks as if it is heading toward the clay so fast, with so much heat on it, that if it got you in the chest it might kill you.
“Vamos,” my father says.
I nod but I don’t move. I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. I’ve seen her play in person before, but standing right next to her, watching her from maybe fifteen feet away, is…It’s beautiful to see.
When she finishes with the balls she has next to her, her hitter begins collecting them all, and she looks up and spots us. She waves.
“Hi,” she says as she walks toward my father and me. “I tried to catch your eye when you were practicing earlier, but I don’t think you saw me.” I have to actively resist rolling my eyes. I didn’t want a conversation. I just wanted to be a fly on the wall.
“Hi,” I say.
When she finally gets to us, she looks at my father. “You’re Javier.”
“Yes,” my father says. “Indeed I am.”
“Can I tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you? When I was a child, I used to…Well, Carrie, I watched every single one of your matches. I used to have one of your SportsPages covers on my wall. Surely I told you this, back on the tour when we met. But…well, Javier, I was so jealous that Carrie had you as a father. My own dad barely knows a thing about tennis. He tries, but it’s futile. As a kid, I had to find my own coaches. And…” Nicki shakes her head, remembering. “I just thought you were the coolest.”
My father smiles.
“We should let you practice,” I say. “We will see each other soon, I’m sure.”
“Oh, most definitely. We absolutely will. But listen,” Nicki says as she leans farther toward me. I take a step closer to her, bridging the gap, the fence the only thing between us now. “I want to thank you.”
“Thank me?” I ask.
“I don’t think I would have worked so hard on my recovery without knowing I had you to compete against. Knowing I’d have to defend my titles.”
I don’t like how joyful her face looks, how sincere it all seems.
“All right, well,” I say. “You know why I’m here. You know what I’m out to do. I’d imagine your intent is the same. So…may the best woman win.”
Nicki nods. “Until then, Carrie.”
Transcript
SportsHour USA
The Mark Hadley Show
Mark Hadley: The French Open starts tomorrow. Gloria, walk us through the women’s singles.
Gloria Jones: Well, obviously, we are looking to Nicki Chan—clay is a good surface for her. I think Natasha Antonovich has also shown herself to be very adroit at adapting to a clay surface.
Hadley: The ads for the tournament feature a lot of old clips of Carrie Soto, but let’s call it now: Carrie doesn’t really have a chance.