Jones: Clay is not where Carrie Soto shines, no. The Battle Axe—which, by the way, is what I have long called her and I believe we all should call her unless we call her by her name—is a grass court player. Not a clay court player.
Briggs Lakin: Gloria, I think you’re alluding to the fact that people are referring to Carrie Soto as “the B word.” You and I were talking earlier—or maybe I should be honest and say disagreeing—about whether that’s appropriate.
Jones: Yes, that’s right. I find it offensive.
Lakin: But to play devil’s advocate here…
Jones: [inaudible]
Lakin: I don’t think it’s much different than calling her “the Battle Axe.” Remember, we all started calling her “the Battle Axe” because she went after Paulina Stepanova’s ankle in the match we still call “the Coldest War” at the US Open in ’76. It was ugly and cruel. And there are countless other examples. So I’m sorry, but Carrie Soto is a “B word.”
And you’re saying that when you call her “the Battle Axe” too. You’re just using a euphemism.
Jones: I think there’s a difference.
Lakin: I know you do. But an athlete’s job is not just to win—it’s also to be someone we can cheer for. Soto puts no effort into courting public opinion at all. I guess I want to know why we all have to walk on eggshells to pretend Carrie Soto isn’t the exact thing she clearly enjoys being?
Hadley: And with that, we’ll be right back.
THE 1995
FRENCH
OPEN
The air of Roland-Garros is like no other court in the world. It is earthy and humid, heavy with the unyielding scent of tobacco. The smoke from the spectators’ pipes has accumulated over the years and lives in the very molecules of this place.
As I walk toward the locker room this morning, preparing for my first match, I am struck by how intense the memories are. Each time I’ve played here comes back to me all at once.
The midseventies, the early eighties. Great wins and crushing losses.
I spent the first five or so years here desperate and frustrated, pushing myself to rise up the ranks. I lost to Stepanova in the semis in ’78. I defeated her in the semis in ’79, only to lose to Gabriella Fornaci. Lost to Mariana Clayton in ’80. Renee Mona in ’81. Bonnie Hayes in ’82. And then in ’83, I finally won the whole thing.
Was I the greatest then—at that very moment? Even though I’d also failed here many times before? Which matters more? The wins or the losses?
Despite how hard I am seeking some unimpeachable label of “greatness,” it doesn’t really exist. I do know that, on some level.
But then I walk into the locker room, full of players—Antonovich and Cortez talking in the corner, Brenda Johns pulling on her shoes, Carla Perez opening a locker—and suddenly, I am pulled out of my head back into the world I know best.
The world of winners and losers.
SOTO VS. ZETOV
1995 French Open
First Round
I walk out onto the court and hear the crowd begin to cheer.
I look over at Petra Zetov. She’s warming up her shoulder, stretching her legs as men in the crowd holler. She’s currently ranked the highest of her career, number eighty-nine. But she has a rabid fan base out of proportion to her ranking.
She’s stunningly beautiful—tall and thin, blond hair, blue eyes. She’s a model for Calvin Klein, does commercials for Diet Coke, and was in a Soul Asylum video.
And she has a burden I have never had. In order to keep getting paid, she has to keep looking beautiful on the court.
I wonder, briefly, if it weighs on her. Or, if, conversely, it frees her from the pressure I live with, the pressure to win.
Either way, it’s a prison. Both her beauty and my ability—they’ve both got an expiration date.
“It is an honor to play you,” she says.
I nod.
This will not be hard. I fully admit that I do not have what she has. But it is equally true that she doesn’t have what I have.
The coin is tossed; Zetov wins. She elects to serve first, her face bright and hopeful, as if she thinks this bodes well for her, as if she has a real chance.
I take the match in straight sets.
I take out Celine Nystrom in the second round. Nicki defeats Avril Martin.
In the third, Nicki takes down Josie Flores. I beat Andressa Machado.
When I get back to the hotel after the match, I take a shower and open up a book.
I try to calm myself. The round of sixteen is tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning, I will practice with my father. So tonight, this quiet, is my respite.