Page 63 of Carrie Soto Is Back

FEBRUARY 1995

Three and a half months until Paris

The sun is barely inthe sky, and yet I am standing on the court in front of my father, already warmed up.

“This is,” he says, “the beginning of clay season. We put the past behind us. We look forward to Paris.¿Estamos de acuerdo?”

“Sí, está bien,” I say. The loss in Melbourne still burns. The only thing that will cure it is a win at Roland-Garros.

As the reporters so kindly reminded me, I have only won the French Open once. Twelve years ago. The other nineteen of my Slams have been on hard courts or grass. But Roland-Garros is red clay.

Clay surfaces are softer; they absorb more of the power of the ball. Which means everything about them is slower. Players run slower, the ball bounces slower, and the ball bounceshigher,too, which gives my opponents more time to react to my shots. Clay cuts into my advantage at almost every juncture. It neutralizes my speed, dulls my accuracy; even my angles don’t have quite the same effect.

Clay is not for quick players. It favors the heavy hitters. It is a game of muscle.

Clay is Nicki’s surface. And I sincerely hope her ankle’s too fucked to play it.

“Are you ready to work?” my father says, holding a tennis ball in his hand.

“Obvio que sí.”

He throws the ball at me. I catch it. Then he begins to walk away, toward the driveway.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

He turns back to me, summoning me with his hand. “Today,hija,is an adventure.”

I sigh as I begin to follow.

“You can leave your racket and the tennis balls,” he says.

I look at him sideways. “Do I need my running shoes?”

He bobs his head from side to side. “No, I do not think so.”

“Where are we going?” I ask as he opens the driver’s-side door of the green Range Rover I bought him two years ago.

He says, “There are three and a half months until the French Open.”

I open the passenger-side door and get in. “Yes, I’m aware.”

He turns the ignition. “It’s a clay surface…”

He puts the car in reverse and turns to look behind him.Oh no.

I say, “No. Dad, no.De ninguna manera.”

“Carrie,sí,” he says.

“No, ni lo sueñes, papá.”

“Lo siento, pero ya lo estás haciendo.”

“What am I? Twelve again?No necesito hacer esto.”

“Yes, you do,” he says. “It’s exactly what you need to do.”

I can see a tiny smile erupt on his face as he turns left out of the driveway. To the beach.

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