Page 119 of Carrie Soto Is Back

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 tohit 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 tothinkabout it. I don’t.

Iknowthis 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.

IknowNicki 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 canseethe 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.

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