“Hi,” I say.
“Oh,” he says. “Hello.”
I say, “I can’t sleep,” just as he says, “You should be sleeping.”
Bowe doesn’t say anything else for a moment, but the silence between us feels easy.
“Do you often find it hard to sleep before a big match?” Bowe asks.
“No,” I say. “Almost never.”
“Not even against Stepanova in ’83?”
“No, I slept like a baby that night. I’d worn my body down with so much training, I could barely stay awake.”
Bowe is quiet again. “So which self is keeping you awake?” he asks, finally.
It clicks right into place. “Okay,” I say. “I get it.”
“Let your thoughts go,” he says.
“All right, I’ll try.”
“What did Coach say?”
I laugh. “I didn’t call him.”
Bowe whistles like a cowboy. “Wow, you called me instead?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think maybe I needed you to tell me that. I knew that you would.”
“Or,” he says, “and I’m just taking a stab here, maybe you also have a thing for me.”
“Would you cut it out?” I say.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “All right, go to bed. Glad I could help.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“No, Bowe, I’m serious. Thank you.”
“Sleep well, Carrie. You have this.”
When I get back in bed, I watch the moon as it hangs over the river. I stare at the gentle sway of the curtains. I do my best not to think about Cortez in Melbourne. Not to think of the moment I lost the match. The drop in my stomach. The sheer shame of it.
Instead, I close my eyes and think of the sound of a tennis ball. The thunk of a good bounce. The pop of a drive volley. The tap of a drop shot. The honest-to-God exquisite soundtrack of a great rally. Pop, thunk, pop.
All I can do, I understand for one startlingly clear second, is play my grass game and be okay with the outcome.
Impossible.
Transcript
BBC Sports Radio London
SportsWorld with Brian Cress
All eyes are watching as Carrie Soto and Ingrid Cortez go head-to-head in the championship final at Wimbledon today. Both players have shown incredible resolve here in London. Carrie Soto, thirty-seven, has shocked everyone by making it to the final. And Ingrid Cortez, at the age of eighteen, defeated powerhouse Nicki Chan in the semis this week in order to earn her spot up against the Battle Axe.
Soto lost to Cortez in Melbourne earlier this season. But she has been gaining momentum all year and has won Wimbledon nine times previously. Still, betting odds are putting Cortez ahead by 3 to 2.
It will be, no doubt, a rousing event—the Rookie vs. the Comeback.
When asked, Carrie Soto said, quote, “I am eager to get on the court and show Ingrid Cortez why I’ve long dominated at Wimbledon,” unquote. Ingrid Cortez said this morning, quote, “I beat her in Melbourne. I’ll beat her again today,” unquote. Oof. Harsh words for such ladies. Watch out, gents.
In just a few hours, we will know the victor.
SOTO VS. CORTEZ
Wimbledon 1995
Final
I am standing at Centre Court. The grass, which just two short weeks ago was a lively green, is now pale and bone dry. I inhale and take in the distinct and glorious sight of the Wimbledon final court. I hold back the smile on my face.
Ingrid Cortez is standing on the opposite side of the net, fixing her sweatband. Her golden hair shines in the sun; her long limbs hover delicately at the baseline.
She smiles at me. It’s not so much a friendly gesture as a baring of teeth.
I adjust my visor. I close my eyes.
Then I toss the ball into the air and open up the court with a flat first serve that fires right over the net, wide to her backhand.
We rally for the point until I hit a slice that she can’t return.
First point mine.
I look up to the stands at Gwen and Ali. And then, in the royal box, I see Princess Diana.
Once my eye lands on her, it is hard to look away. She is wearing a pale yellow dress and blazer, and she is, as always, the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen.
I know that so many people across the world feel a kinship with her. But right now, mine feels especially sharp. I want to win, today, with her here. I want to say to her, They can’t make us go away just because they are done with us.
I refocus as I set for my next serve.
I take a breath. Before I even know what I am doing, my left arm tosses the ball as my right arm comes up to meet it. The ball goes screaming past Cortez’s racket and bounces just inside the sideline. An ace.