The book I brought is an unauthorized biography of Daisy Jones and the Six. I’m only reading to see who slept with who, but I can’t focus.
The phone rings and I wonder for a moment if it’s Bowe.
“Hola, hija.”
“Hola, papá.”
“Tomorrow morning, eight a.m.”
“Yes, ya lo sé.”
“Just reminding you. And, I…Did you see Bowe’s match?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He played beautifully.” He defeated Nate Waterhouse in the round of sixteen.
“Maybe the best I’ve seen him all year.” Bowe’s now headed to the quarterfinals for the first time in a Slam since 1991.
I haven’t spoken to Bowe since our fight. When I hang up with my dad, I keep the phone in my hand. I consider calling Bowe’s hotel. My fingers hover over the buttons. But instead, I put down the receiver and go to bed.
* * *
—
“You’ve beaten Perez before,” my father says in the tunnel, right before I set out onto the court. “Just do it again.”
I turn back to him. “What?”
“You’ve beaten her once already,” he says. “You can do it again.”
“You said Perez,” I say.
“Right. So you play to her backhand, keep the pressure on her, hit hard to compensate for the clay. You got this.”
“I’m playing Odette Moretti,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, closing his eyes for a second and then opening them right back up. “Right, right. Sorry. Sorry. Nicki’s playing Perez. Right, okay, Moretti. She’s got a light arm, keep her at the baseline, she doesn’t have the power to keep them bouncing on clay.”
I look at my dad for a moment.
“It’s time, hija. ?Vos podés!” he says.
I bend down and wipe my shoes clean.
SOTO VS. MORETTI
1995 French Open
Round of Sixteen
Moretti strides onto the court in a white-and-navy-blue tennis dress, waving to the crowd. She blows kisses to the stands. She is sponsored by Nike, so it’s no surprise that she is covered in Swooshes from head to toe. When she turns to look at me, she gives me a big smile.
I nod at her.
She starts strong after winning the toss. But I’m stronger.
15–love becomes 15–all. 30–15 becomes 30–all. Deuces become ad-ins and then back to deuces and ad-outs.
Three hours in, we are now in the third set. 6–6.
The crowd is cheering. I look up at my father, who is sitting elegantly behind a flower box.
It’s now my serve. I need to hold this one and break hers. And then I’m on to the quarterfinals.
I close my eyes. I can do this.
When I open my eyes again, I am looking directly at Moretti. She hovers over the court, her hips swaying side to side as she waits for my serve.
I breathe in and then serve it straight down the middle. She returns it with a groundstroke to the center. I hit it back, deep and to the far-right corner. She runs for it, fast and hard. There’s no way she’s gonna make it.
But then she does. And I can’t return it.
It’s fine. It’s fine. I can feel my knee twinging, but I have plenty more to go.
I look up at my father again in the players’ box. He catches my eye.
I can feel the hum in my bones, the lightness in my belly. I serve it again, this time just at the line. She dives and misses it.
I hold my game and then begin my assault on her serve. I chip away at her, love–15, love–30. By the time I get to match point, she’s exactly where I want her. I set her up so she’s on the far side of the court. I return it to her backhand and that’s it. She’s done.
The crowd roars. I jump up into the air and pump my fist.
Nobody thought I’d last past the round of sixteen, but for the first time in seven years, I have earned my way to the quarterfinals. And as it begins to sink in, I feel myself tearing up.
I keep thinking, I don’t cry on the court. I don’t cry on the court.
But then I think, Maybe it’s a lie that you have to keep doing what you have always done. That you have to be able to draw a straight line from how you acted yesterday to how you’ll act tomorrow. You don’t have to be consistent.
You can change, I think. Just because you want to.
And so, for the first time in decades, I stand in front of a roaring crowd and cry.
I am in the medic room after the match, having my knee iced and my calves massaged. My father is making notes and flipping through the channels, to see if I’ll play Cortez or Antonovich in the semis.