Page 37 of Carrie Soto Is Back

By the second hour of the afternoon these days, I can feel myself begin to tire. My swings are wider and less controlled. My follow-throughs are sloppier. My hits are just a tad softer.

And when that happens, I am quicker to lose my cool. I start missing more shots, growing frustrated, overthinking. It is maddening, working just as hard for a less impressive result. Playing with this body is like trying to cut a steak with a dull blade.

As I stand at the baseline and hit yet another serve over the net, I think about Björn Borg. He was the best male player on the tour in the seventies, but when he came out of retirement three years ago, he couldn’t even win a single set. A world champion, the gold standard. Now look at him.

What the fuck was I thinking?

There is a reason that I will be setting a world record if I win a Slam at my age: because no one has ever been able to do it before.

I hit the carton again. I now have not missed in ten serves.

“¡Excelente!” my father says as he grabs the carton and moves it to a new spot, farther back. “I want to see four or five, smoked right past me into the corner.¡Vamos!”

“Sí, papá.”

I toss the ball up in the air and send it flying across the net, right to the top of the carton. It falls once more. I look to my father, but his attention has shifted. Gwen is parking her Benz in my driveway.

I put my racket down, grab a towel, and drink a sip of water as Gwen walks toward us.

“Gwen!” my dad says, his voice booming as he walks toward her, pulling her in for a hug. What is it with hugging? Why would anyonewant to press themself up against someone’s body to say hello? A wave will do; a handshake is more than enough.

“Javi!” Gwen says, hugging him back.

“You look radiant, as always,” my father says.

“Oh, stop it, Javier,” Gwen says. And then she turns to me. “I come bearing news.”

“Which must be bad, otherwise you would have called,” I say.

“Carrie, you don’t know that,” my dad says.

“No, she’s right. I’m here to hand-hold.”

I sit down on the bench. “What is it?”

“We are having trouble finding you someone to practice with.”

“Seriously?”

Gwen sits next to me. “We called…almost everyone on the WTA.”

“Surely one of the young players wants to learn a thing or two from me,” I say. “Did you point out that the benefits go both ways? What about Ingrid Cortez?”

Gwen’s eyes dance around. “Ingrid feels that because she is the number four player in the world, she does not have anything to gain by hitting with you.”

My father guffaws. “Her backhand is terrible, and she’s giving her opponents opportunities to break serve because of it. She’s a child.”

“And the rest of the tour?” I ask.

“I think, you know, the women who haven’t played you yet are probably a little scared. And the women who have…”

“Hate me,” I say.

“I think some have held on to some hurt feelings, yes.”

“Because I whipped their asses and I’ll do it again?” I ask.

“You know you have a way of…grinding your opponents down. You know people have not always liked your way of winning.”

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