Page 87 of Carrie Soto Is Back

At the end of the day, as I’m coming off the court, my father raises his eyebrows at me and I shine. I can tell he’s impressed, maybe even a little surprised.

“I don’t think Antonovich’s speed is going to be a problem,” I say.

“Bien, pichona,” he says.

“It’s so close, Dad.”

My father pulls me into him, putting his arm around my shoulders and kissing the top of my head. “Go out there tomorrow and take it,” he says.

SOTO VS. ANTONOVICH

1995 French Open

Quarterfinals

Natasha Antonovich is five elevenand extremely thin. Her visor, shirt, and tennis skirt are all bright white. She elects to serve first without a hint of emotion, her face an arid desert where no smile can grow.Like I should talk.

I look up at the stands. My father is staring straight ahead. But next to him is Bowe. He smiles at me.

I look back and crouch down, waiting. Antonovich tosses the ball up into the air.

Her first serve is flat and angry, but it hits just outside the line and I relax. Then the linesman calls it in. I walk up to the line of the service box, ready to fight it. But the dent in the clay shows that it has indeed hit the line, by just a hair.

She’s got an ace.

Fuck.

I realign.

She serves another just like it, but right on the T this time, instead of cross-court. I am stunned as I watch the ball get past me again.

The crowd begins cheering. The hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. I roll my shoulders, trying to calm myself down.

Get it together.

I get my head straight. She runs me all over the court, but I meet her there, and then I run her all over too. There are some games when I’m outpacing her. But still, she takes the first set, 6–4.

During the changeover, I wipe my face and my racket. I tap the clay off my shoes. I look up at the players’ box to see Bowe and my father talking. Bowe nods as my father gesticulates gently, speaking no doubt in a whisper.

I do not know what they are saying, but I know what I need to do.

I need to get more on Antonovich’s level. I need to run as fast as her, take the ball out of the air even quicker.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Antonovich stands in front of me, waiting for my serve. I toss the ball in the air and spin it toward her as fast as I can. I can feel the force of it reverberating up my arm, from the elbow to my shoulder. It sneaks past her.

I pump my fist.Here we fucking go.

I do it again, and this time she returns it, but it lands a foot past the baseline. I have got this. I hold the first game in the set.

As the set goes on, both of us are playing at our top levels, and neither one of us can break the other’s serve. It’s 3–3 and then 3–4 and then 4–4. I serve another game, I hold it. We’re at 5–4.

Now it’s her serve.

I do not look at my father. I do not want to see the worry in his eyes. I tell myself:Do not let her win this set. You are either a champion or a fuckup. There is no in-between.

Antonovich sends a screamer right down the T, and I meet itwith an inside-out forehand. But it hits the tape at the top of the net.Goddammit.

If she holds this game and then breaks mine, it’s all over. I cannot have all these eyes on me, watching me fail. I cannot be the pathetic bitch they think I am.

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