Page 100 of Carrie Soto Is Back

When I get into my car at the airport, I ask the driver to take me to my hotel by way of Wimbledon. He gives me a nod. And something about the way his eyes pass over me in the rearview mirror, the way he holds back a smile on his face, I can tell he is excited to do it.

I look out the window as we begin to drive. I watch the buildings and British billboards pass, until we finally reach the outskirts of the All England Lawn Tennis Club.

“Did you want to stop?” he says.

“No, thank you,” I say. I just enjoy the sight of it—seeing the park and the courts fly by my window. I like gazing up at the ivy growing over the building at the front entrance. I feel the most like myself just outside that arena. As if I fully embody my own promise.

It is an unparalleled pleasure to be as good at something as I have been at playing Wimbledon.

I miss my father.

“You hold the record,” my driver says as he catches my eye in the rearview mirror again. “Don’t you now?”

“Which one?” I ask.

“Most Wimbledon wins. Men’s or women’s.”

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

He nods and puts his eyes back on the road. “Good on ya.”

—

I check in to my hotel and unpack. I open the curtains and look out over the Thames and the Waterloo Bridge. The city is busy with cars and people—it is, after all—fourp.m.in London. But I need to get some rest.

Ali has booked me courts to practice double sessions for the next three weeks. I requested different hitters each time. I need to be able to practice with all types of players.

I watch red double-decker buses cross the bridge, and I consider the biggest hurdle to my game: I need to get my mind right.

I take a shower. Scalding hot, so scorching it reddens the skin of my chest and legs. And then I call my father’s room at the hospital.

Bowe answers.

“Hi,” I say. “How is he?”

Bowe whispers his response. “He’s sleeping now. But he’s good. How are you?”

“I’m all right.” I look at myself in the mirror of the bathroom as we talk. My hair is wet and pulled back; the white robe around me is bulky and warm. All I can focus on are the bags under my eyes—like two soft bruises. I can blame jet lag and age but also: When I’m alone, I cry.

“It feels weird being here without him,” I say. “Or without you, to be honest.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“I’m worried I won’t find anyone to hit off of who is as good as you.”

“Oh,” Bowe says. And then he laughs.

“What?”

“No, nothing. Listen, your dad made these notes, and he’ll be pissed if I don’t relay them.”

“Okay.”

“He said, ‘Spend tomorrow remembering the joy of grass. Do not play to win or to find perfection. Play to observe yourself and the ball.’ ”

“That’s good advice,” I say.

“He is, unfortunately, quite good at this,” Bowe says.

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