I sit down next to him. “You’re saying play smarter.”
“I’m saying control the court. When it’s your serve, don’t try to prove you can hit as fast. Set up the shots to benefit a slower game, not a quicker one. Because you know you’re not the quicker player this time. And be economical in your movements, anticipate where the ball is going. Conserve your energy and let her tire herself out. Antonovich is the rare bird that if this goes three sets, you will probably beat her. Just stay still and slow her down. At every juncture. Even at the changeovers, stretch the time limit. Make her frustrated, make her wait. Don’t play for speed. It’s not how you win this one.”
I am not sure he’s right. I’m not sure muscle memory and shot selection is going to bridge the gap between Antonovich’s speed and mine. Only me running as fast as possible can do that.
“I…I don’t know, Dad.”
“Carrie, listen to me. I have gone over this in my head a thousand times.”
“Dad, I need to get through Antonovich to get to Chan. I have to. I can’t fail this time.”
“I know you feel that way,” he says. “Trust me, I know that. That’s why I’ve been up the past two nights, going over old tape in my hotel room. I’m desperate for you. You have to know how much…”
I wait for him to finish his sentence, but he seems to have given up on finding the words.
“How much what?”
He sighs. “How much I worry,” he says, resting his back against the bench. “I worry about how you will feel if you do not win this match, or the semifinals. Or the final.”
I nod.
“I do not want to see the look on your face if it were to come to pass that Chan wins. If she takes your record. I do not think I could bear to see it.”
“I know, me neither.”
“No, I’m saying I don’t think I could bear to see what it would do to you,” he says. “My feelings won’t change one way or another if you win, hija. But…”
He looks down and then back up at me. “Sometimes I think you don’t understand the heartache I feel when I see you lose,” he says, catching my eye and not letting go. “Knowing how badly you want it, knowing how much your soul needs it. Sometimes I think it is enough to break me.”
“Dad…” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I will be okay.”
“Is that true?” he asks.
I close my eyes and let my shoulders fall.
There have been so many times in my life when I’ve lost and it was not okay. Times when I paced in my hotel room for more than twenty-four hours straight; times I didn’t sleep or eat for days. After I lost at Wimbledon in ’88, I flew home and shut myself in my bedroom and didn’t come out for two and a half weeks.
“It is my responsibility to take care of myself,” I tell him. “Whether I win or lose. That’s on me.”
My father shakes his head with a smile. “It will never matter,” he says, “whose responsibility is what. My heart hurts when you hurt because you are my heart.”
I inhale sharply.
“So please, listen to me, and let’s work on your first serve, let’s work on your shot selection, let’s construct some points here, hypothetically, against her.”
I nod. I get what he’s saying, and he is right about some of it. “Yeah, okay,” I say. But I also do need to meet her speed. And if I’m not there yet, I need to spend as much of today as I can getting there. “I’ll do your thing, but also, I do need to work on my speed. So let’s do both.”
My father frowns slightly. “All right.”
“Can we get a second ball machine? Having them both coming at me? I’m gonna rise to the occasion. Watch me.”
My father nods, and within twenty minutes, I’m hitting balls hurtling at me from both machines. I spend a couple hours at it. Forehand to backhand, up to the net, back at the baseline. I meet the ball time and again.
At the end of the day, as I’m coming off the court, my father raises his eyebrows at me and I shine. I can tell he’s impressed, maybe even a little surprised.
“I don’t think Antonovich’s speed is going to be a problem,” I say.
“Bien, pichona,” he says.
“It’s so close, Dad.”
My father pulls me into him, putting his arm around my shoulders and kissing the top of my head. “Go out there tomorrow and take it,” he says.
SOTO VS. ANTONOVICH