Page 59 of Carrie Soto Is Back

Out of the first five games in the second set, Cortez takes four.

At the changeover, I do not look into the players’ box at my father or at Bowe. I bury my head in my towel and think. The momentum has shifted.

Grab control of the court. Don’t slow down now.

I go back out there. Cortez gets more intense by the second. I’m trying to hit them back with as much fire as she has. I’m throwing my entire weight into my shoulder, my elbow heavy with the strain of it all. When I return one of her forehands, my racquet cracks in half.

The crowd screams.

As I get a new racket, I breathe out.If she takes the set, she can take the match back. Don’t let her take the match back. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

Cortez takes the second set.

I am breathless, drenched in sweat. My elbow is killing me. My knee has started to twinge. I pour half of the bottle of water over my towel and then put my towel over my head, cooling myself off and blocking the world out.

I have to win the next set. If I don’t, the whole thing is over. And the whole thing cannot be over. Not yet.

This is what you’ve always been good at.

I put the towel down and stand up. I shake my head vigorously, shake the tension out of my arms and shoulders. I focus in. Get back on the court.

I serve the ball with the spin and precision that I am known for. It flies right past Cortez. An ace. The crowd cheers. And I pump my fist. I am clawing my way back.

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It’s 5–5 in the last set. I wipe the sweat from my face and try to stretch out my legs without telegraphing to Cortez how much my knee is aching. She isn’t even sitting down during the changeover. She’s bouncing on her toes, as if eager to get right back out there. My gut drops as I watch her—it’s all coming into focus now. She ran me around in the second set, let me wear myself out. And now I’m slowing down when she is just getting started.

I squeeze the ball in my hand. How could I have played this so wrong? How could I have been so stupid? So green!You did exactlywhat she wanted! And now you’re just as tired as everyone expected you to be!

I get myself back on the court, and Cortez’s shots start coming at me again, no sign of slowing, running me left to right, playing each one she can to my backhand, knowing I don’t have the energy to run around the ball to play the forehand.

I run, I hit hard. I get points off her. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t break her serve.

We’re now at 5–6. If she wins this game, she wins the match.

CARRIE, DO NOT LOSE THIS.

I take the next point.15–love.

Her point.15-all.

Her point.

Her point.

Match point.

I serve it low. She returns it down the line.Don’t let them all be right about you.

I hit a drop shot. I can bring this back from the brink.

She returns it short. It bounces once. I run, but before I can reach it, it bounces again.

I’m overwhelmed by a downpour of dread—as if the sky has opened up and rained shame.

Cortez wins. I am done at the 1995 Australian Open.

“You got to the roundof sixteen your first tournament back,hija,” my father says. I’m lying in the trainers’ room with an ice pack on my knee. “That is something to be proud of!”

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