Page 58 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I hold my racket in my hand and play with the strings, making sure they are tight. I have seven more in my kit. I bounce a few timeson the balls of my feet, wearing my neon pink Break Points and a neon pink sweatband to pull my hair away from my forehead.

My father puts his hand on my shoulder. I can feel the weight of him there, the weight of his belief in me, his excitement.

When I was playing pro the first time around—that decade and a half of clawing my way to the top and staying there for as long as I could—I did not delight enough in the accomplishments. I would win and then move on to the next challenge.

But right now, as I turn back to take another look at the crowd, I know that, in at least one way, I have evolved.

My older self knows that you must stop—in the middle of the chaos—to take in the world around you. To breathe in deeply, smell the sunscreen and the rubber of the ball, let the breeze blow across your neck, feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. In this respect, I love the way the world has aged me.

I inhale and hold the breath; I let it fill my lungs and raise my chest. And then I blow it out, ready to go.

I wipe the tops of my shoes and walk out onto the court.

SOTO VS. CORTEZ

1995 Australian Open

Round of Sixteen

I crouch behind the serviceline, waiting for Ingrid Cortez’s first serve.

She is over six feet tall. Her incisors are long and sharp, and when she smiles, she looks like she is about to bite.

She tosses the ball into the air and serves to the far-right edge of the box. I hit a groundstroke back. We rally for the point, and I take it.Love–15.

Another serve, another rally. My point.Love–30.

I look up at my father and see a small smile on his lips.

Cortez serves again, this time shorter, tighter. I hit it to the baseline. She hits it back soft. I win the point.Love–40.I’m already at break point in the first game.

She underestimated me. And it is a thrill to set her straight.

The sun has begun to burn, slow and hot. The crowd mumbles. I look up in the players’ box to see my father. He is nodding at me,willing me to take the game. Then I look in the next section over, and Bowe is taking a seat.

He has canceled his flight, I guess. And come here, to watch me play Cortez.

My eyes soften as I look at him.Sorry,he mouths. I nod.

I move my eyes back to the court. Cortez serves high, with a topspin and force that make it hard to predict. Still, I manage to get to the ball on the rise and return it deep to the baseline, a full two feet past her backhand.

The announcer says, “Game is Soto’s.” Bowe gives me a fist pump.

Over the next nine games, I take the set.

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During the changeover, I look over at Cortez. She has talked such a big game of not being afraid of me, and I’ve pummeled her in the first set. I expect to see some anxiety or concern, a sign that she understands what she’s up against now.

Instead, when she catches my eye, she smiles. As if none of this has worried her in the slightest.

During the second set, Cortez’s groundstrokes become harder and faster. Her serves sting in my arm as I return them. I adjust quickly, reducing my shots just like I did back in the eighties up against Stepanova. I’m pulling out the Soto Slice.

It works, but she keeps pressing. She won’t even take her winners where she can. She lobs the ball back over. Our rallies go sometimes as many as fifteen, sixteen shots.

I overshoot a couple groundstrokes, send a few cross-court backhands a hair too wide.Fuck.

The heat bears down on me. I can feel it on my neck and shoulders.

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