Page 42 of A Follow-Through in Faking
Things are far from over, and I won’t give up yet.
Once my tears are under control, I lower my towel again, grabbing my electrolytes. I take a big swig, then another sip of my water, still avoiding eye contact with anyone in my box. Santiago has been standing since the set break started, trying to get my attention.
I’ve been ignoring him.
I know what he’ll tell me.
Take risks, Catalina.
Get out of your comfort zone and try something new.
You won’t win if you don’t change things up.
And while he would be right about all of it, Ihavetried other things. I have taken risks, but Layla is too strong a tennis player.
It’s my turn to serve when the second set starts, and I hate that I have to put my towel where Santi, Charlie, and the rest of my team are sitting.
“Cariño, get out of your head. You won’t win if you keep overthinking everything. You have to feel the game.” Santiago’s words are nothing more than background noise I drown out.
Feelingthe game is a bullshit concept I can’t do anything with. I need a strategy that works. I need to find a rhythm for myself that knocks Layla off balance.
I need, I need, I need.
The ball kid on my side of the court throws me several balls, and I inspect three of them before handing one back, sliding another into the pocket of the shorts that are under my dress, and bouncing the last one up and down. I take a few deep breaths, doing my best to focus on the game.
She will need two sets to win, and I won’t make this easy on her.
Mamá used to tell me five words to think about when I was losing. Five words that would give me back balance and help me win the game, even if it seemed hopeless.
Breathe.
Analyze.
Adjust.
Focus.
Win.
It’s almost as if she was giving me steps to follow. Breathe to slow my nervous heart. Analyze the game. Adjust according to my analysis. Focus on going through with my new plan. And win.
Simple enough when one looks at it from such a two-dimensional view.
Things are never so easy, though.
“Vamos, mariquita,” Santi calls out before the whole crowd in the Rod Laver Arena goes silent as I prepare to serve.
My first serve goes too far, which doesn’t help with my whole “recentering” thing because it only makes me feel even less confident. My hands start shaking as I bounce the ball to get ready for my second serve.
It goes out, too.
A double fault is not fucking great at this point in the game. I swallow another wave of tears as I wipe my face with my towel. Love-fifteen.
What a way to start the set.
“Come on, Catalina,” I mumble to myself as I place the towel down again, letting one of the ball kids hand me three more balls. I repeat the same process as earlier, only this time, I don’t care which ball I choose. I pretend like I do for the crowd, but I’m not actually looking.
I don’t know how not to get rattled. It’s always been like this. Sometimes I wonder how I even got the second-place spot in the world rankings, considering how horribly I react once I’m under pressure. Tennis players are taught to deal with these feelings, to ignore the score and go one point at a time.
