Briggs Lakin: I’m here eating my words, Mark. She pulled out a scorcher of a win.
Gloria Jones: This is what we have seen with Carrie Soto from the beginning of her career. She is relentless. She does not stop. She will not be counted out.
Hadley: And what a match she gave us.
Jones: What a tournament, I say. Not just a match. Look, as tennis fans—certainly as a player who had to play Carrie a few times back in my day—I can tell you that what we all show up for is the beauty of the game. The sheer joy of a great match. And Cortez and Soto gave us that today.
Lakin: Soto, in particular, stunned with that last game. She’s the oldest player to ever win Wimbledon, and it was hours into the match. She had to be tired. And yet, now, you understand why she’s known as the break point champion.
Hadley: She’s given us quite a show this season.
Lakin: If you told me this time last year that Carrie Soto would be winning Wimbledon and Nicki Chan wouldn’t even make the final, I’d have thought you’d lost your mind. But here we are.
Jones: Never underestimate Carrie Soto. And to any other women out there, wondering if they are too old to play tennis, let the Battle Axe be all the evidence you need to get in the game.
Hadley: Uh-oh, Gloria, are you considering a return to the sport?
Jones: [laughs] Absolutely not. You couldn’t pay me to train again, Mark. But that’s what’s all the more impressive, if you ask me. We had a saying back when I was on the tour. “Carrie Soto is human. But she’s superhuman.” And I’d say she’s proven that tonight.
Alone in my hotel suite, I put my gown on. It’s black satin and sleeveless, floor length, though there is a slit cut high to my thigh.
Gwen picked it out for me when we went shopping this afternoon. I can see she made a good choice.
I leave my room and make my way down to the lobby. I’m meeting Gwen here so we can head out to the Wimbledon Champions Ball, at a hotel near Buckingham Palace.
It’s almost midnight, and the party is only just about to begin. We all have been waiting—I have been waiting—for the men’s final to end. The party can’t start until then.
The finalists were Andrew Thomas and Jadran Petrovich, neither one of whom would set a record by winning. We live in a world where exceptional women have to sit around waiting for mediocre men.
Petrovich finally takes the fifth set just after eleven p.m., and apparently now we are all allowed to celebrate.
In the lobby, I see Gwen arrive in a bright red strapless dress, her hair pulled back, her lips crimson red.
“Wow,” I say. “You look good.”
“To you as well,” she says. And then she grabs my arm and escorts me to the ball.
* * *
—
Just as in years past, there is a horde of people here. They are all coming in and out, trying to find me, trying to shake my hand, trying to tell me that all along, they knew I would succeed.
Board members of the ITF are asking me if I will consider continuing on in the sport after the US Open. One of the directors of the WTA asks if I will join the full tour. A head of the All England Club tells me that he knew from the moment I announced my return that I would win Wimbledon.
“Isn’t this nice?” I say to Gwen through gritted teeth. “A whole room full of fair-weather friends.”
Gwen laughs. “That is one thing I have always loved about you,” she says. “You are the rare star who doesn’t like the smell of bullshit.”
Not long after we arrive, I get stuck talking to a woman who is some sort of duchess.
“A rather exceptional win you’ve accomplished,” she says to me, taking a restrained sip of her drink.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m quite proud.”
“Yes,” she says. “And at such an age. It’s impressive. I quite admire your fighting spirit. You have that American virtue, don’t you? That dogged obstinance—even in the face of indignity.”
Gwen can see my face and nods at me slowly, encouraging me not to tell this woman to go fuck herself. “Ah, yes,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Well, it was oh-so tempting to roll over and die once I turned thirty, but somehow my American obstinance persists.”
Suddenly, Gwen’s hand is on my arm, and I’m being dragged away.
“Just smile and nod,” Gwen says. “How hard is that?”
“Very,” I say. “I hate half these people. I hate half of all people.”
Gwen leads me through the room. “You love Wimbledon,” she says.