Page 68 of Best Year Ever
“He missed you, I’m guessing?” I ask, appreciating the feeling. I’m in my PJs and ready for sleep, with the lights dim. I wish Landon was here with me.
“Yeah, he hasn’t left my side,” Landon says quietly, so as not to wake the pup.
I tell him more about the media chaos following my every move, and then he shares a bit about everything back home. The last thing I remember as my eyes close is his words to me, signing off on our call.
“Night, beautiful.”
I sleep well after that.
Semifinal day feels different, though. I’ve never been as nervous as I’m before the semis. With good reason—if I win this match, I will be in the finals of a Slam for the first time.
As I change into my all-white match outfit in the women’s locker room, the quiet echoes of every movement ring across the large room. During most of the tournament, the locker room and practice fields are teeming with players. At this stage though, most of those players have lost and headed home.
My opponent is a twenty-five-year-old Spaniard, Marta Lopez. We’ve faced each other many times, so I try to lean into that familiarity to ease my nerves. Also helping is the fact that Marta’s one of the kindest players on the women’s tour. She plays clean and never brings mind games into the mix on the court.
I look up as she walks in to get ready, planting her bag at a locker on the opposite end of the otherwise empty room. She gives me a half-smile and a nod.
Dying to find a way to keep myself from feeling my nerves, I throw in some earbuds and put on my favorite pump-up music.
Within five minutes, I feel a tap on my back. Turning around, it’s Julie, who I couldn’t hear come in with my music playing. I take out my earbuds, and she launches into coach mode.
“I feel positive about the strategy, Rori. It’s going to play to your strengths out there,” Julie says in vague terms, just in case Marta is listening. “Remember what I said about her inside-out forehand?”
I nod, taking a sip of my water and eating some of my pre-workout snack. I double-check in my bag that I have everything I want for the match and look back up at her.
“How long until we go out there?” I ask.
“The Princess of Wales is here to watch, so it’s taking a bit longer, as she traditionally greets all the staff,” Julie explains. Oh good, that information is really going to calm my nerves. “She’s taking her seat now.”
On cue, one of the tournament senior staff comes into the locker to lead us out.
Once we get to Centre Court and they announce our names, we both walk out to a large cheer. The court’s capacity is around 15,000, and it looks like every seat is taken as I glance around. The buzz I felt at Heathrow around four weeks ago has nothing on the energy emanating from the crowd here.
I look to the Royal Box, and yes, there she is. The Princess, looking sharp in a pale yellow suit, chatting politely with her seat neighbors, a couple of retired past champions.
My anxiousness spikes. This is a lot.
I sit down on my allotted chair after putting my bag down next to it. Closing my eyes, there’s no denying how overwhelmed I feel right now. With my eyes shut, I start working to re-channel the nerves, the energy, the stimulation, the anticipation into a laser focused need to win this match.
I’m winning this match. I’m winning this match,I repeat in my head over and over, eyes staying closed.
Sixty seconds of affirmations does the trick. When I open my eyes, there is no doubt.
I’m winning this match.
We trade the first two sets, but it feels like I’m controlling the play. My nervous energy repurposed and recalibrated into precise focus and sharpened anticipation of the balls’ every bounce, Marta’s every movement. I have her on the run most of the time and lose the second set only based on some badly timed errors on my part.
I’m winning this match.
Three hours in, I’m actually on the brink.
It’s 5-3 in the third set, 40-15 in the game. I win this last point—I win the match.
The crowd noise is at a new level now. The excitement over this critical point bleeds across the buzz of the stadium. Imagine thousands of people yelling, chattering, cheering, while you’redown on the court, encircled by their presence, as the object of their attention.
This is the moment I’ve been working towards since I picked up a racquet at six years old, but I don’t let myself think about it. With a herculean effort to focus, I center my vision on watching Marta’s movements, so I can predict exactly where she’s serving.
Right down the middle of the service box, it turns out. A flat, hard serve. One that I pound right back at her.
