Page 65 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I can barely breathe. “Bueno,” I gasp. “Mañana.”

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My life becomes:

Five miles in the sand every other morning.

Forty-yard sprints on the days off.

Hitting against a machine spitting balls at me that are as fast as 80 miles per hour.

Playing against hitters for hours on end.

My father clocking my serves with a radar gun and shaking his head until I hit at least 120 miles per hour.

And then, when the sun begins to set and evening takes hold, watching tape.

My father and I watch my matches in Melbourne to figure out what I could have done better. We watch Cortez, Perez, Odette Moretti, Natasha Antonovich, Suze Carter, Celine Nystrom, Petra Zetov, and Andressa Machado at the IGA Classic in Oklahoma City.

My father’s jaw tenses as we watch Natasha Antonovich dominate in the final against Moretti. He doesn’t have to say anything—I already know his concern.

Antonovich plays like I used to. She’s fast, with a full arsenal of shots. It will not be easy for me to go up against her in Paris, if I haveto.

“I think we should go to Indian Wells,” my father says as we turn off the TV one night. “See these players up close again, look for their weak spots. Train to defeat them.”

“All right,” I say. “Sure.”

My father stands up to go to his house. “Did you see Bowe got to the quarters in Milan?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding.

“We gotta get you two back on the court. The better he gets, thebetter you’ll play. Until one day, you will play the greatest tennis you’ve ever played in your life,pichona.”

“No lo sé, papá,” I say.

“I’m telling you,hija,the greatest match of your career is ahead of you.”

It is such a kind thing for him to say—exactly the sort of thing a father like him would tell a daughter like me. Full of heart and love and belief, and maybe a little bit untrue.

MARCH 1995

Three months until Paris

My father, Gwen, and Ipack our suitcases into Gwen’s SUV and head west for Indian Wells.

Gwen is driving, and I am in the passenger seat. TLC is playing on the radio, and Gwen’s stereo system makes me feel like they are right here in the car.

My father is in the back seat and falls asleep five minutes after we get onto the 10.

Gwen turns the radio down. “Look,” she says, her voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay…” I say as we drive through downtown L.A.

“Elite Gold wants to pause on the photo shoot and commercials, for now.”

I turn to Gwen. “But I made it to the round of sixteen.”

She checks her mirrors and moves into the fast lane—which is almost at a standstill. “They were impressed with your showing inMelbourne. But they said clay is your worst surface and they don’t want to run a bunch of commercials about what a legend you are off of two…”

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