I don’t bother to smile at Cortez, to even give her the satisfaction of my satisfaction. I show nothing, as if this is nothing. Beating her is nothing to me.
But the truth is, I can feel the hum beginning in my bones.
I take the set.
* * *
—
At the end of the second set, we go to a tiebreaker.
The championship and the record are in the palm of my hand.
But I can feel myself tightening up as victory gets closer; the hum starts to fade into the background.
Cortez takes the tiebreaker.
* * *
—
Third set, 5–4. I’m up, but it’s Cortez’s serve next.
For a moment, as Cortez begins her toss, I have this flash of wanting it all to be over, wanting to see how it all ends.
Will I do it?
If I win, do I feel at peace knowing Nicki and I are tied again? Does elation run through me as I look around and understand that at age thirty-seven, I am now the oldest woman to ever win Wimbledon? That I have set a new record for the most titles here? Does it fill some sort of hole in my heart? Does it make it all worth it?
Or.
Or do I lose my shot at taking my record back this year?
Is this match the one in which Ingrid Cortez cements her own type of domination in women’s tennis, winning in Melbourne and London in the same year—just as I did for the first time back in ’81?
Is this Cortez’s day or is it mine? I just want to know.
But as she starts to serve, I remember that if I want to win, I have to hit the fucking ball.
It comes speeding across the court. I close my eyes for the briefest of seconds and let my body take over. I can’t help but let a smile break out on my face as I feel the sheer, undying, intoxicating thrill of pulling my arm back and then smashing my racket into the ball.
It hits the sideline just where I placed it and bounces off the court.
“Point is Soto’s.”
Cortez is smart and she is agile. She can put herself in position to make whatever shot she wants. But the ball surprised her on that point. And that is because she has not played Wimbledon as often as I have. She may know intellectually that the grass changes over the course of the match, but she doesn’t understand it like I do.
She has to think about it. I don’t.
I know this court. I know the bad bounces. I know the wind. I know the stickiness under my feet in this humidity.
After all, this is my grass.
And it is time for Ingrid Cortez to get off my lawn.
She serves it, I return, she hits it into the net. Love–30.
I aim straight for a pale spot where the grass is worn away, just beyond the net. It bounces fast and straight sideways. Cortez dives to return it, but her angle is desperate. It doesn’t make it over the net.
And here we are. Championship point.
My father is watching. Bowe is with him. Gwen and Ali are here. And I wonder, for a brief second, if my mom is seeing this. Wherever she is. If she’s proud of me.
I know Nicki Chan is watching. It’s probably killing her.
I shake them all out of my head and breathe.
Cortez serves the ball, and it flashes, yellow, as it barrels across the court. I watch it curve—the seams spinning so fast they blur—over the net and into the service box. I pull my arm back, ready to strike.
And now, I do not want to fast-forward through the next moment at all. I want to experience every second of this.
I hit the ball cross-court; she returns it down the line. I take it right out of the air with a backhand drive volley, and I move up to the net.
The ball bounces just at her feet. She chips it over. I hit a drop shot, aiming for a spot of dirt. It lands flat, bouncing low and to the side.
Cortez dives for it, but it’s too late. The ball bounces again.
Cortez gasps. Her mouth goes wide; her hands go up to her face in disbelief.
For one stunning moment, I can see the crowd screaming for me before I can hear them. And then the thunderous roar kicks in and overtakes me. I fall onto my butt and then onto my back as I drop my racket and look up at the sky. I lie there and I can feel the ground vibrating underneath me.
My tenth Wimbledon.
My twenty-first Slam.
The crowd continues to scream. I stand up as the announcers declare me the winner of the 109th annual Wimbledon Championships. I feel as if I can hear my father cheering. I can hear Bowe clapping. The whole stadium is going wild.
But I cannot hear anything as clearly as the sound of my own voice, begging me: Let this be enough.
Transcript
SportsHour USA
The Mark Hadley Show
Mark Hadley: And what do we make of this? A shocking upset, a stunning victory for our American, Carrie Soto.