Page 45 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Of course it’s fine!” Javier says. “Because you know I’m right. You should not be using a pinpoint stance. You do not need power. You need precision, you need to—”

“I’ve used a pinpoint stance my whole life. That’s why I can smoke ’em past fuckers like Randall.”

“Randall quit tennis seven years ago. And you aren’t smoking them past anybody anymore.”

“So what’s your point?” Bowe says, his voice rising.

“My point is, practice a platform stance. You still have power, somehow. But you have lost your accuracy. You’re relying on your second serve way too much. Get your first serve past the net and you will win more.”

Bowe looks at my father. And then at me.

“He’s right,” I say.

“Yeah,” Bowe says, grabbing his things and walking off. “I fucking know he’s right. I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.”

As Bowe drives away, I look at my father.

“Why did you do that?” I say. “You’re not his coach––you don’t even like him.”

My father shakes his head from side to side. “He’s…he’s improving significantly just playing against you. And you…you’re hitting about three to four miles per hour faster on some strokes than just last week. He’s throwing shots at you just like ones we can expect from Nicki and Cortez and maybe Antonovich. And you’re…you’re hitting them better than you have all fall,hija.Do you see that?”

“So this is…it’s working,” I say.

“Yes,” my dad says. “It’s working.”

—

The next morning when Bowe shows up, he will barely look at my father.

But on his first serve, he’s using a platform stance.

My father stands on the sidelines and clocks it. I can see him hold back a smile.

JANUARY 1995

Melbourne

Less than a week before the beginning of the Australian Open

My father and I havebeen in Melbourne for two weeks now. Bowe has been in and out of town, playing in the Hard Court Championships in Adelaide and the Sydney Outdoor.

I feel a sense of missing out as he goes off to the ATP tour. The 1995 tennis season has begun, and it feels wrong not to be a part of it. But I am not the player I was fifteen years ago. My best shot at winning any of these is to stay focused on the Slams.

Every morning, my father and I cross-train until lunch. And then, on the days when Bowe is in town, he and I play a match in the afternoon.

A fan or two have found us some days, watching us rally back and forth. But today the crowd has grown significantly. There must be twenty people hanging around, trying to get a glimpse.

I can’t stop glancing at them. I can’t keep my eye on the court like it should be. I miss a few shots.

“Can we tell them to leave?” I ask my father during a changeover. Bowe is up a set.

“I’ve already asked them to,” my dad says. “I’m not sure what else we can do. Especially because Bowe’s pandering to them.”

I look at Bowe as he waves and then walks over to the crowd. I watch him sign an autograph and take a picture. His smile is big and wide, nearly brilliant under his baseball cap.

These past weeks he’s played a couple great matches in his tournaments. He’s lifted himself a few spots in the rankings. It is obvious to me now that there is an element of Bowe’s game that I haven’t accounted for. When the energy of the crowd is there for him, when eyes are on him, he rises to it.

“C’mon, Soto!” Bowe yells as he makes his way back to the baseline, ready to begin again.

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