1995 French Open
Quarterfinals
Natasha Antonovich is five eleven and extremely thin. Her visor, shirt, and tennis skirt are all bright white. She elects to serve first without a hint of emotion, her face an arid desert where no smile can grow. Like I should talk.
I look up at the stands. My father is staring straight ahead. But next to him is Bowe. He smiles at me.
I look back and crouch down, waiting. Antonovich tosses the ball up into the air.
Her first serve is flat and angry, but it hits just outside the line and I relax. Then the linesman calls it in. I walk up to the line of the service box, ready to fight it. But the dent in the clay shows that it has indeed hit the line, by just a hair.
She’s got an ace.
Fuck.
I realign.
She serves another just like it, but right on the T this time, instead of cross-court. I am stunned as I watch the ball get past me again.
The crowd begins cheering. The hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. I roll my shoulders, trying to calm myself down.
Get it together.
I get my head straight. She runs me all over the court, but I meet her there, and then I run her all over too. There are some games when I’m outpacing her. But still, she takes the first set, 6–4.
During the changeover, I wipe my face and my racket. I tap the clay off my shoes. I look up at the players’ box to see Bowe and my father talking. Bowe nods as my father gesticulates gently, speaking no doubt in a whisper.
I do not know what they are saying, but I know what I need to do.
I need to get more on Antonovich’s level. I need to run as fast as her, take the ball out of the air even quicker.
I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Antonovich stands in front of me, waiting for my serve. I toss the ball in the air and spin it toward her as fast as I can. I can feel the force of it reverberating up my arm, from the elbow to my shoulder. It sneaks past her.
I pump my fist. Here we fucking go.
I do it again, and this time she returns it, but it lands a foot past the baseline. I have got this. I hold the first game in the set.
As the set goes on, both of us are playing at our top levels, and neither one of us can break the other’s serve. It’s 3–3 and then 3–4 and then 4–4. I serve another game, I hold it. We’re at 5–4.
Now it’s her serve.
I do not look at my father. I do not want to see the worry in his eyes. I tell myself: Do not let her win this set. You are either a champion or a fuckup. There is no in-between.
Antonovich sends a screamer right down the T, and I meet it with an inside-out forehand. But it hits the tape at the top of the net. Goddammit.
If she holds this game and then breaks mine, it’s all over. I cannot have all these eyes on me, watching me fail. I cannot be the pathetic bitch they think I am.
But Antonovich just keeps coming. It doesn’t matter if I run her around the court––she just glides into position, nicks the ball with the edge of her racket, puts it where she wants it.
We’re at 5–5. Then 5–6.
Now she’s serving for the match. If I don’t break her serve on this game, it’s over.
I crouch down low. I move the weight back and forth from one foot to the other. She tosses the ball. This is my moment. My moment to take it all back.
She serves one deep into the corner. I run like hell, even though my knee is starting to ache. I return it into the net.
15–love.
30–love.
40–love.
CARRIE! For fuck’s sake, pull it together!
Her serve. Match point.
She sends the ball screaming over. I return it, fast and clean. She hits a groundstroke. I return to her backhand. I can feel the hum in my bones. I can feel this match coming to me—later than I want, but it’s here.
Antonovich takes the ball out of the air early. I reach it, return it cross-court. Before I complete my follow-through, she’s under it, chipping it over the net. I dive, my chest hitting the ground, sliding with my racket outstretched.
The ball hits the clay and I’m still feet away. It’s over.
The crowd erupts for Antonovich. I lie frozen, staring at the dent in the clay where the ball landed.
When I finally get up and dust myself off, I am covered in red clay—my shoes, my knees, my skirt, and tank top are all rust. It is in my hair and in my mouth. It feels like it is in my lungs.
My eye lands on a woman in the crowd a few rows back. She is in her twenties or so, and she’s holding a sign that says Oui, oui, Carrie!
I cannot bear the sight of her.
“I didn’t play my best! So if that’s what you’re about to say, Dad…don’t.”