“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”
“Who’s next?”
I look at the chart. “Uh, hard to say,” I tell him. I look out the window at the river. “Could be Antonovich, though.”
My father is quiet for a moment.
I turn my attention back to the phone. “But I have a plan for Antonovich.”
“What’s your plan?”
“She’s faster than me, and she’s good on grass,” I say.
He pauses and then says, “Okay.”
“So I follow your advice from Paris. I don’t try to match her speed. I won’t win that game. If anything, I slow the game down.”
“Sí, es un buen plan…”
“But I’ve played on Wimbledon grass my whole life, so I know better than anyone where that ball is going.”
“That’s right.”
“So I disguise my shots, don’t let her figure out where I’m going. I aim for brown spots in the grass, I watch for bad bounces. If I can get her to three sets, I will win. Because by that point, I’ll have run far less than her.”
My father takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “Yes, I like it.”
“Is it what you would have said?”
“I’d add this: She’s going to anticipate that you have something to prove after last time. She’ll be expecting that you’re coming in hot. So hold back, and make it seem like you’re giving it your best, until she realizes you’re only getting started.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yes. That will work.”
It is what Cortez did to me in Melbourne.
“And then?” my dad asks. “Who’s next?”
“Chan.”
“No Cortez?”
“Chan will defeat Cortez in the semis when I’m up against Antonovich.”
“All right, so assuming I’ve called these correctly—which is absolutely impossible…”
I laugh.
“In two weeks, you’re standing there holding a tenth silver plate.”
“That easy, huh?”
“Not easy at all, pichona,” he says. “But if anyone can do it, you can. And I’ll be watching it all from right here.”
“Gracias, papá.”
“Bowe wants to talk to you,” he says. “He’s taking the phone from me—he’s literally taking it out of my hands.”
“Hi,” Bowe says. His voice is warm, and I wish he were here with me instead of thousands of miles away.
“Hi,” I say. “How are your ribs?”
“Fine,” Bowe says. “Better. Your father and I are a real pair over here.”
“Thank you for what you’re doing. I don’t think I could stand to be here if you weren’t there.”
“Don’t mention it, honestly,” he says. “But, hey, listen, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay…” I’m worried he’s going to ask me if I want him to visit or how things will be between us when I get back. And I don’t want to have to think about that right now.
“Have you given any thought to the Self 1, Self 2 thing?” he asks.
“What?”
“All that strategy you and your dad were talking about…”
“Yeah?”
“Look, you’re a better player than almost anyone on the court. And I don’t just mean over the course of your career. I mean right now.”
“I hope that’s true. I don’t know. I need it to be true—let’s say that.”
I stand at the window and watch a Thames riverboat tour float by. My father and I did that tour once, when I was barely a teenager and we were here for my first Junior Wimbledon. I fell asleep, and later he told me all the history about the Tower of London that I’d missed. “Next time, stay awake,” my dad said. “You are getting to see the world, pichona. It’s an opportunity so few people have.” Even then, I didn’t know how to tell him that I was too tired, that sightseeing was a luxury that I didn’t have, never wanted. What we were doing took all of me; there wasn’t anything left over.
“It is true—you’re the best out there. But that’s the problem,” Bowe says. “You need to know it instead of needing to prove it. You need to quiet Self 1 and let Self 2 do its thing.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
“I know you don’t want to take advice from me—” Bowe begins. But I stop him.