Page 36 of Carrie Soto Is Back

My father has been readingtoo many sports pages and watching too much news.

“Absurd,” my father says, sitting at my breakfast table. “The way they are implying you cannot win.”

I sip my smoothie. The coverage bothers me, but I know there’s nothing I can do about it. When I decided to play professional tennis, I apparently signed a contract to let people talk shit about me for the rest of my life.

My father continues to read the paper. “I just think they should remember who they are talking about,” he says.

“My sentiments exactly,” I say.

He turns toward the TV, which is on mute. “Wait,” he says, getting up and turning the volume up. “They are talking about you onMorning in America.”

I look over at the kitchen TV.

News anchor Greg Phillips speaks directly into the camera with an image of me at Wimbledon over his shoulder. I cannot stand him. He’s interviewed me at least a dozen times over the years and constantly asks about my skirt lengths. We once got into a spat, back in the eighties, when he said I held the record for most Grand Slam trophies in women’s tennis. I corrected him on air, pointing out that I held the most trophies out ofanyonein tennis.

“You thought she was gone!” Greg says. “But American tennis champion Carrie Soto is returning to women’s tennis in order to defend her Grand Slam record. Soto has been retired for over five years and, at the age of thirty-seven, will be theoldesttennis player on the circuit. Still, she has made the bold claim that she will win at least one tournament this year, a feat that, should she do it, would make her the first woman in the Open Era to win a Slam title in her late thirties. Regardless of how things go for her, it should prove for a wild year in women’s tennis now that the Battle Axe is back!”

I move to turn off the TV as Greg announces a commercial break and the show’s logo appears. Then, just as my hand touches the dial, we can hear Greg’s voice, plain as day, saying to someone, “C’mon, ‘The Battle Axe is back’? We should just say, ‘The bitch is back.’ That’s what she is.”

Then comes the sound of a woman gasping, jarring feedback, and dead air as the station cuts away from the hot mic. A second later, the screen changes to a commercial of a teenage boy riffling through the refrigerator, pushing away the “purple stuff” because he wants Sunny D.

I turn off the TV and look at my dad. He looks right back at me, his eyes wide.

Finally, I speak. “Did Greg Phillips just call me a bitch on national television?”

My father’s face is flushed; his neck is growing redder by the second.

“He did, didn’t he?” I say, frozen in place. “He just called me a bitch.”

My father gets up from the table and throws away the newspaper.

“I mean…” I say. “I knew they thought it. I just…I didn’t think they said it out loud.”

My father puts one of his hands on each of my shoulders. “Pichona,” he says, his voice pleading. “Listen to me carefully.”

“It shouldn’t surprise me. But…it does. Why does it feel different than anything else they’ve called me?”

“Because it’s disrespectful,” he says. “And you have earned the right of their respect. But listen closely,hija.I am serious.”

“Bueno,” I say, looking him in the eye.

“Fuck ’em,” he says. “You go win every goddamn match and you show them that you don’t care what they think, you are not going anywhere.”

EARLY NOVEMBER

Two and a half months until Melbourne

My father and I areon my home court, working on my first serve.

“De nuevo,” he calls out, standing there in his tracksuit on the other side of the net. “Necesitás ser mucho más rápida, hija.”

He has put a shopping cart full of tennis balls to my right. I pull one out, ready to serve again. We will be here all day, just like when I was a child. I will aim for that milk carton until my father is satisfied.

Over the month that I have been training, my game has come back to me. I can feel my muscles coming to attention. My speed is picking up; my power is increasing by the day. My serve is fast—sometimes clocking in at over 120 miles per hour. My control and accuracy are excellent. My dad is having a harder and harder time calling out where my serves will land.

But still.

I am not in the same body I was in at age twenty-nine. I am notrunning as fast. I am tiring more quickly. I am slower to pivot. I can feel the cartilage of my knee sometimes as I bounce. When I’m hitting against a ball machine, I’m not always getting my racket back fast enough. And even when I succeed—it is harder. It is taking more effort to do all of it.

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