Page 70 of Best Year Ever
I nod my head, now a little worried about the tenor of the upcoming press conference. Maybe my original plan of keeping Landon at arm’s length to avoid distractions had some merit after all? I’m going to my first finals of a Grand Slam, and I have to worry about the press discovering details about my personal life.
Thankfully, no one asks about Landon in the press conference, which helps my doubts about our relationship to recede once again.
The press is wild, however—Taylor was completely correct. The media room is absolutely packed with journalists from all over the globe. Lots of questions about Dad, Mom, my injury, Malcolm. All of which I take in stride using Taylor’s advice.
I feel good leaving the press conference. One more victory today.
My Friday practice day goes well. My shoulder has stopped bugging me after a solid night’s sleep, and I’m in the groove with my hitting partner during my drill sessions. Julie lays out a strategy that we like. All in all, a smooth preparation day.
My opponent, Tessa Worthing, had upset Hanna in the semifinals. An eighteen-year-old English upstart, Tessa is exactly the type of player the Wimbledon crowd goes nuts over. To make it worse, she’d be the first English player to win at home in forever. The press is bananas about it.
Her play style is still a little bit of a mystery to me, but Julie watched replays of her last three matches before joining me on the courts Friday.
Apparently, Tessa loves coming to the net, taking shots quickly to cut off your reaction time. There are responses to that approach—called passing shots—that are designed to pass right by your opponent at the net. So we do some extra work on mine.
Otherwise, I try to drown out the external noise. My phone’s absolutely crazy with the messages coming in from anyone and everyone.
“So many people probably have your phone number from over the years,” Maggie says as she sees all the notifications. “And the number got out now that you’refamousfamous.”
I crinkle my nose. “First of all, I’m not famous. Second of all, that sucks.”
“Oh my friend,” Maggie says with a chuckle. “You’re fayyyyy-mousssss.” And she proceeds to pull up a range of mainstream celebrity and sports publications that all feature me alone or Tessa and me on the front.
“They’re still calling you the ‘Comeback Kid’ in the press because of your injury. Like when you made the U.S. Open quarters last year. But now, it’s everywhere. Look, here’s a feature on you in People,” Maggie says, showing me the article on her phone.
“Ah this is too much, Maggie,” I say, mind blown. “Let me focus on this match.”
She gets it, as much as she likes to tease me, and offers to grab me a burner phone for the rest of the trip. When she comes back with it, I text my support team, Dad, and Landon the number, no one else. With Landon, I explain the craziness of everything happening and add in an apology that I’ll not be texting a ton until after the match.
NEW YEARS: I totally understand. Do what you got to do. I’m cheering you on the whole time, babe.
Everything I’ve been working for is right in front of me, ready for the taking. Years in the making. So much sacrifice. I do everything I can to keep my mind from being overwhelmed by what’s happening tomorrow.
Frustratingly, my mindandbody betray me the next day.
I wake up feeling off, with a slight headache, the sniffles, and a wave of exhaustion.
“SHIT,” I say out loud. “No, no, no.” I immediately text Julie, “Are you awake? I think I’m getting sick.”
Within five minutes, she’s knocking on my bedroom door, with Dad in tow. We get me hydrated and filled with vitamins, which helps my energy pick up to near normal levels.
But my mind’s feeling fuzzy too. I’m weirdly unfocused mentally, sluggish emotionally. I’m scared to tell Julie because I should have the mental game down. We’ve practiced for these moments, and I’ve won several smaller tournaments already. There’s no excuse for not being all in mentally.
I’m not, however. I play with all sorts of tricks in the locker room, trying to get my mind sharp and my adrenaline pumping.My favorite music doesn’t work. My affirmations don’t work. Everything’s a littleoff.
Tessa’s also kind of a diva, I find out. In the locker room, she walks over to where I’m getting ready and crosses her arms. The fact that she’s even approaching me in the locker room is unusual, but it’s her words that stand out.
“I’m going to enter the court first,” she says in her posh accent.
Whatever, is all I think.
“The crowd is going to be so excited to see me, since I’m from here,” she says. Her tone is arrogant, not grateful. I’m not impressed.
“Tessa, come have some more water,” her coach Elin, a former Swedish pro, says.
After she marches back to her own prep area, I try to regroup. I figure that once I get on court, and start warm-up drills, I’ll snap out of this mental haze. The movement does help a little, but the crowd does not. As Tessa anticipates, they’re fully behind their homegrown favorite, screaming for everything she does.
This gets even worse when the match starts. Every time I win a point, they sigh in disappointment. Every time I lose a point, they cheer—cheering for her, but it’s a mental blow.
