They pop popcorn and watch the movies in our home theater, pausing every few minutes to talk about historical references to World War I or II or Vietnam. And I normally sit in the lounger in the same room, only half paying attention.
I’ve never realized until now that my dad is into war movies. But in hindsight, it’s painfully obvious that he would be drawn to them.
One Sunday, the two of them catch me tearing up at the very end of the movie, when the sergeant salutes his captain.
AUGUST 1995
Two weeks before the US Open
I am running sprints across the court, training harder than ever.
“？De nuevo!” my father says as I stop short at his feet.
“Sí, papá.”
Bowe has a wild card for the US Open. But I do not need a wild card or to qualify, because I am now ranked twelfth in the world.
Twelfth. A delicious, enticing number, with the capacity to carry a boatload of fuck-yous.
When I am done with another sprint, I look at my father for what to do next. But instead of sending me to the baseline, he pats the spot on the bench beside him.
“？Qué pasa?” I say, sitting down.
“I see a change in you that I can’t quite describe, since Wimbledon. You’re…freer.”
“I’m less afraid,” I say. “Of losing.”
“Because you’ve made your peace with it?” he asks.
“Because it’s unlikely.”
My father laughs. “Well, then you need to keep that with you, heading into New York. Especially up against Chan. New York is her best court.”
I nod.
“And I think we both know that I can’t go with you.”
We’ve spoken around it for weeks—that he is not yet healthy enough to travel. “I know.”
“I will be watching,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you take that record back. Probably right out of her hands.”
I breathe in deeply, trying to push down the grief that is blooming in my chest.
“I’ll just be doing it from here,” he says. “Instead of in the stands.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
“You will go and win the US Open, and then you can retire again and come home, and we can throw a party,” he says.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is not easy,” he says. “But you will do it.”
“And if I don’t?”
My father looks at me and narrows his eyes, trying to gauge my reaction.
“I don’t need you to guess what I want to hear,” I say. “I just want the truth. If I don’t win, then what?”
“Well, if you don’t win the US Open, I don’t care. That’s the truth.”
I erupt in laughter. “Unreal.”
“You said you wanted the truth. It will be no different to me if you win or you lose. It won’t affect me at all.”
“I mean, it matters a little,” I say.
“To you, maybe. But to me? It was never the point.”
I put my head on his shoulder and absorb what he’s saying. I look up at the bright, unending L.A. sky, palm trees swaying in the breeze.
“He’s in love with you,” my father finally says.
I don’t pull away. I don’t even flinch.
“And he knows you’re a better player than he is,” my dad says. “I was always worried about that with you. Because the only person who could ever understand you would be another player. But how many players would be okay knowing they were second place? He takes to it well, though. Which is about the highest compliment I can think of. I’m not sure there is a greater strength.”
“Playing second to a woman?” I ask.
My father winks at me. “Feeling secure, even knowing you are not the best.”
I feel both sides of that sword, the compliment and the sharp edge meant for me.
“He is a good guy,” I say.
My father nods. “Even if he is sneaking into your house every night like some sort of pirata.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s on me,” I say. “I’m not…I don’t know if there’s any future there, and I don’t want to make it too much of a thing.”
“So you push it away, because it’s easier to pretend you don’t want it,” my dad says.
I look at him.
“Please,” he says, pulling me under his shoulder. “Open your heart the tiniest bit, pichona. Being married to your mother changed my life. She made me feel joy. She gave me purpose. We became a family. Tennis is nothing compared to that.”