Still, even on grass, I’m probably not as fast as Antonovich. So if I do come up against her again, I will have to find another way to offset her speed. But that’s what I’m here to do.
I look down at my yellow sneakers on the green turf. Maybe this whole season has been leading here. Maybe I just needed to come back to Wimbledon.
I stand up, trying to find one of the facility managers to get a ball machine. But when I scan the area, I see Nicki Chan walking past my court.
I pretend not to see her at first, but it soon becomes clear she’s not the type to let me get away with that. Why are people like this? Honestly. Let’s all just walk by each other all day and not stop to small-talk.
“Carrie,” she says, smiling, extending her hand.
“You practice here?” I ask. “I would have thought you’d—”
Nicki shakes her head. “This place is a bit quieter. And I needed some focus. I booked a court out here for the next few weeks until we all head over to Wimbledon Park. You did too, then?”
“Yep.”
Nicki laughs. “We both had the same good idea. All right, well,” she says. “Maybe one of these days we can grab a drink.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I mean, no, I’m probably not going to do that.”
Nicki laughs again. And I find it irritating, that laugh. It feels performative, like some false unflappability. “You know what somebody on the tour told me about you back in the day?” she asks.
“Oh great, here we go.”
“No, no, it’s not bad. Just…she said that you seem tough, you seem cold. But really, you’re one of those players who keep to themselves because you feel conflicted when you have to kick somebody’s ass.”
“I just think it keeps it a lot simpler…to not care too much for anybody.”
Nicki nods. “I understand.”
“You don’t feel that way?” I ask.
Nicki shakes her head. “I’d wreck my best friend in cold blood on national television.”
* * *
—
The next morning, I’m awake at four. I can’t stand to lie here, turning from one side to the other, fluffing the pillow, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Paris.
How I fucked it all up.
Handed Nicki that record.
I get out of bed and go into the living room. Ali put the matches I requested on VHS tapes and sent them over. I shuffle through the box until I find the one I need.
Soto vs. Antonovich.
My chest tightens as I put the tape in the machine and press play.
It’s painful to watch. I hate how helpless I am to prevent what I know will happen onscreen. But it is my only way of ensuring that it does not happen again.
Right from the jump, I’m fast but I’m sloppy. My pace is so hurried, I’m not setting up my angles. I’m running for shots I know I can’t get.
I have to will myself not to turn off the television.
The second set, I’m just plainly making bad choices. Not disguising my shots well. Hitting a groundstroke right to her. Sending a slice way too short. I’m choking. Just choking out there.
All because I’m trying to prove to Antonovich that she’s not faster than me. When I can see it so clearly on the tape.
She is faster than me. That’s exactly what she is.
* * *
—
I head down to the courts hours earlier than I’d planned. There is no one there. I’ve got the place to myself. And so I start hitting against the ball machine.
Part of what I love about a grass surface is how it requires such quick thinking. Other players may be able to run faster from one side of the court to the other. They might even be able to hit the ball so it moves faster across the net. But what I have always been good at, the challenge I have always taken pleasure in rising to, is thinking on my feet on a tennis court.
You have to ask and answer a series of questions in rapid succession: Where is the ball going? What way will it bounce when it hits? How do I want to hit it back? And where do I need to be standing in order to do that?
When I was a child, my father focused on the fundamentals—the stances, the form.
Look at the ball, turn, swing.
Look, turn, swing.
Look, turn, swing.
Look, turn, swing.
With a serve, it was legs bent, arms up, toss, hit, follow through.
Legs, arms, toss, hit, follow.
Legs, arms, toss, hit, follow.
Legs, arms, toss, hit, follow.
Hour after hour, day after day, the same drills. Sometimes not even hitting an actual ball but just doing the motions, feeling the routine of it. My dad would even make me do it in front of a mirror, watching each movement in my body as I flowed through the form.