Carrie soto is back, p.20
Carrie Soto Is Back,
p.20
Bowe catches my eye. And for a moment, I feel the nearly irresistible urge to flip the table we are sitting at.
“She deserves it,” I say. “She played a brutal match.”
Down the sidewalk, I see my father walking toward me. And I know that I’m supposed to be mad at him, or he’s supposed to be mad at me. But I don’t really care very much at the moment. Rather, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of inevitability: Of course he would come find me.
“Hi,” he says as he makes his way to us on the sidewalk patio. He puts one hand on my shoulder and then the other on Bowe’s. “You both did a great job here in France.”
He looks me in the eye, and I don’t look away. It feels as if the two of us are cycling through decades of moments together, everything that’s led to this. My unparalleled achievement. Now hers.
“I have not made peace with it,” I say. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Ya lo sé, pichona,” he says.
I look up at the television. Nicki is crying, her shoulders heaving, actual tears falling down her face.
“Come sit,” I say.
My father nods and pulls a chair over to join us.
The waitress comes by, and Bowe orders my father a drink. Dad leans over and whispers in my ear, “Nothing will ever diminish what you did and have done.”
I do not want to cry, so I can’t really think too hard about whether I believe him. Instead, I take the moment and pin it to my heart, as if it will wait for me to come back to it later.
I smile, and I pat his hand, and then I change the subject.
Bowe, my father, and I spend the night at that table. We drink club sodas and ginger ales. Bowe laments having to drop out of Wimbledon. My dad tells Bowe that he’ll coach him full-time for the US Open, if Bowe is healed by then.
Bowe reaches his hand out and they shake on it—and I notice how gently my father moves, so as not to hurt Bowe’s ribs.
When it gets late, Bowe pays the check, and my father raises his eyebrows at me—as if to pose the question that I’ve told him a million times not to ask. I nod: the only answer he’ll get. And he looks at me and grins, a simple, bright smile.
For a moment, I’m bowled over by just how old he looks. When did this happen? But he looks a happy old, a satisfied old. He’s had a lot of heartbreak in his life, and yet there is so much he’s gotten right.
Sos mi vida, pichona, my father mouths to me. He taps a finger to his chest, right over his heart.
I smile and rest my head on his shoulder for a split second.
And then we all walk back to the hotel—a walk that feels comfortable and familiar, even though there is so much about it that is new.
The Inevitability of Chan
By Rachel Berger
Op-Ed, Sports Section
California Post
Carrie Soto has made no secret of her intention to prevent Nicki Chan from overtaking her record. So it must have made the cut that much deeper when Chan won last night.
Some have been dismissive of Soto’s attempt at a comeback. But I am among the growing number of those who cannot help but marvel at the attempt.
Many have been quick to forget what Carrie Soto has done for women’s tennis. She set the bar for many of the things we now take for granted: incredibly fast serves, brilliant matches that broke multiple records at a time. And we have all but lost the most exquisite thing she brought to the sport: the grace of the game.
I do not care how hard Nicki Chan can hit a groundstroke or how fast her serve can be—she cannot hold a candle to the beauty with which Carrie Soto has played. Each shot executed to perfection, every dive for the ball as graceful as a ballet. So I join Carrie Soto in mourning her loss.
And yet, we cannot deny that the tide has turned.
Carrie Soto is the past. Nicki Chan is the future.
The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.
I wake up to the hotel phone ringing. Bowe hands it to me, half-asleep.
It’s Gwen.
“Elite Gold is officially pausing the campaign,” she says. “I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.”
I want to scream or throw the phone or bury my head under my pillow, but I don’t. “Okay, I understand.”
“AmEx is exploring buying them out, but they haven’t committed,” she says.
“It’s your job to convince them,” I say.
“Yes, it is. And it’s your job to remember I warned you this could happen. And you told me it was worth the risk.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I did.”
“It will be okay. This will all work out in the end.”
“Yeah,” I say. But neither of us sounds convinced.
* * *
—
A few hours later, I do my best to put it behind me as we all get on the plane back to Los Angeles. I switch seats with my father, who has the one next to Bowe. He does not tease me or raise an eyebrow—which I appreciate. He takes my spot two rows ahead.
A couple of college-age girls approach us early in the flight and ask us for our autographs. We agree, but then more people start coming down the aisle.
Soon enough, Bowe starts telling people that he’s a Bowe Huntley impersonator, and I stare—mouth half-open—when they actually seem to believe him. I try it on the next woman who comes up, and she just frowns at me and says, “You can’t just sign one lousy piece of paper? Unbelievable.”
When she storms off, Bowe rolls his eyes and then puts his head on my shoulder. I push it away.
“Everyone on this flight recognizes us,” I say.
“So?”
“So when this thing between us goes tits-up, I don’t want to have to answer questions about it in a post-match.”
Bowe looks at me, his eyebrows high and furrowed. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I just mean…” I add.
“No, I got it,” he says, shifting his weight to the window. “Enough said.”
“I’m just saying we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”
“Okay,” he says. “I got it. Let’s drop it.”
He’s quiet for an hour or two. But when the flight attendants come by offering chocolates, he wordlessly hands me his.
The plane lands a few hours later, and Bowe reaches for my dad’s carry-on from the overhead compartment, despite the fact that it clearly kills his ribs.
“Here you go, Jav,” he says.
“Jav?” I say. “You’re on a nickname basis now?”
“Of course we are,” my dad says. Though he’s joking around, he seems tired. “Thanks, B.”
“Bowe is already short for Bowen,” I say. “You don’t need to shorten it again.”
My dad waves me off. “Mind your own business, Care.”
Bowe laughs, and I throw up my hands.
The line begins to move, and the flight attendants gesture for us to go. The three of us exit the row and get off the plane.
“What is our next meal?” Bowe says. “Is it dinner?”
“It’s eleven in the morning, so…no,” I tell him.
“No need for the attitude,” Bowe says. “Just say lunch.”
I turn back to look at my father. “Are you hungry, Dad?” I ask, but before I even finish the sentence, I can see he’s stopped walking. He’s holding up the line of passengers behind him. He’s lost all the color in his face.
“Carrie…” he says.
“Dad?” I take a step to where he’s standing.
He collapses on the jet bridge just before I can catch him.
The cardiologist, Dr. Whitley, is a woman with curly red hair and what appears to be a moral opposition to good bedside manner. She looks up at my father and me. “This is an extreme case of cardiotoxicity,” she says.
My father is sitting up in the hospital bed. I’m in a chair next to him. Bowe tried to stay, but we both insisted he go home.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Dr. Whitley does not look away from my father. “It means you are in stage three heart failure, Mr. Soto. Most likely a side effect of the chemo treatment you had last year.”
My father gives the slightest scoff. “What doesn’t kill you…might still kill you.”
I grab his hand and squeeze it, offering him a smile.
“Have you been experiencing light-headedness? Shortness of breath?” she asks.
I answer “No” on his behalf just as my father speaks up. “Yes. Both.”
I look at him. “I’ve been feeling weak too,” he adds. “More and more.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
He ignores me.
“Your oncologist should have told you those were symptoms to watch for,” Dr. Whitley says.
“They did,” I say. “They did tell us that last year.”
Dr. Whitley nods. “If you had spoken up sooner, we could have put you on beta-blockers,” she says. “Now the damage is done. You will need surgery to fix the tear and put in a pacemaker.”
I stop breathing for a second. I stare straight ahead at the poster on the wall, an ugly still life of a vase of flowers. I try to control my breath and focus as best I can on the mauve plastic picture frame. I swallow, hard. “When do you plan on doing that?” I ask. “The surgery.”
Dr. Whitley closes the chart. “Within the next few days. And, Mr. Soto, you will need to stay in the hospital until then. And some time after, as we monitor your progress.”
My father shakes his head. “I do not have time for this. We play Wimbledon in three weeks.”
“Dad—” I say.
Dr. Whitley’s face does not move. “I urge you to listen to the medical advice you’re paying for. We have reached a point of life or death.”
My father quiets and then nods, and Dr. Whitley leaves the room.
I stand up and wait for the door to close, and then I look at him. “For crying out loud, why didn’t you say something?”
“Eso no es tu problema,” he says.
“¡Todos tus problemas son mis problemas!”
“Puedo cuidarme solo, Carolina. Sos mi hija, no mi madre.”
“¡Sí, y como tu hija, si te mueres, yo soy la que sufre, papá!”
“No quiero pelear con vos. Ahora no.”
I look at him and shake my head. I already know why he didn’t say anything, and the reason barely matters now anyway.
His face is pale. He’s hooked up to machines. He looks so small. I feel another rush of anger. I press my lips together and close my eyes.
“Bueno,” I say. “So we will get ready for you to have the surgery, then.”
“And I’ll recover quickly and be back on the court with you in no time,” he says.
“Dad, let’s not get into that now.”
“There’s nothing to get into. This doesn’t set us back at all.”
“Dad…”
“Say they get me in tomorrow for the surgery; it goes well. What’s recovery time? A week?” He takes my hand. “This is a minor setback. By July we’ll be ready for London.”
“Bueno, papá,” I say.
He picks up the remote control and turns on the television and pretends to watch it. So I sit back in the chair and let him.
Then, suddenly, he’s yelling. “I am not missing Wimbledon! We may never have another Wimbledon together, and I will not miss it!”
I put my head in my hands. “Ya lo sé, papá,” I say.
“The last time we were there, back in ’78, I didn’t know it was our last. I didn’t know that I might never coach you again. And I’m not letting this one slip through my goddamn fingers.”
“Está bien, lo entiendo,” I say. “Te amo, papá.”
He looks at me and for the first time in this conversation, he lets a frown take hold in the corners of his mouth. “Yo también, cariño.”
And then, after he takes a breath, “Perdoname, hija. Realmente lo siento.”
* * *
—
That night, I ask the nurse to help me pull out a cot.
“De ninguna manera,” my father says to me. He turns to the nurse. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Dad, I’m not leaving you here alone,” I say.
“Has it ever occurred to you I might like to be by myself?”
“Dad—”
“Sleep at home, Carrie. Please. And in the morning, please go out onto the court with a ball machine,” he says. “Do not stop training. You cannot afford to right now.”
“I don’t know about—”
“You’re playing Wimbledon, Carolina María.”
The nurse excuses herself, and I sit down for a moment.
“Por favor, no te pierdas Wimbledon. Por favor.”
“Dad, I’m not sure—”
My father breathes out, a long and deep breath. He shakes his head. “Even if—I’m saying if—I can’t be there,” he says.
I have to stop the corners of my mouth from pulling down.
“Pero, por favor, play it one more time. Te encanta jugar Wimbledon. Por favor, hacelo por mí.”
I cannot imagine leaving him. But I also know, right now, I’m not going to fight him.
“Está bien,” I say. “Lo jugaré.”
“Gracias, ahora, andá. Go home.”
He seems so determined. “Bueno,” I say, grabbing my bag. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Come see me in the afternoon,” he says. “Every day, first you train. And then you can come see me after.”
I shake my head as I smile at him. “Okay, I’ll come tomorrow after I train.” I grab his hand and squeeze it.
“Buena, niña,” he says.
I walk down the hall and hit the elevator button.
As I wait, I can see out of the corner of my eye that there is a nurse at the station whose gaze lingers on me. She either knows who I am or is trying to figure out where she recognizes me from. I let her wonder as I get in the empty elevator.
When the doors finally close, I lean my back against the wall. I sink down to the floor. “Please let him leave this hospital,” I say. It is barely more than a whimper, and I hate the sound of it.
* * *
—
That night, Bowe comes over, and as I’m falling asleep, he puts his arm around me and says, “Everything is going to be okay.”
“Everyone always says that,” I tell him. “And no one ever knows if it’s true.”
* * *
—
A couple of days later, my father goes in for surgery. Instead of staying home and training like he has told me to do, I spend the entire day in the waiting room so I can hear the results the moment the surgeon is done.
When Dr. Whitley comes out, she has no smile on her face. For a moment, I feel as if life as I know it is ending. My chest constricts; the room grows hot. But then she says, “He’s doing fine.” And suddenly I can breathe again.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You should go home,” she tells me. “He will probably sleep the rest of the night.”
But I don’t.
I wait until he’s moved to recovery and then fall asleep in the chair beside him. Just hearing his breath is enough to allow me to sleep soundly.
In the morning, when he wakes up, he is groggy and confused. But Dr. Whitley says that his pacemaker is operating properly.
“So when can I go home?” he asks.
Dr. Whitley shakes her head. “You have to stay here and recover. The surgery was long, the repairs have to heal. We need you here for observation.”
“For how long?”
“Dad, you need to focus on getting better,” I say.
He holds my hand and ignores my words. “How long?” he asks again.
“A week at least,” she says. “Maybe more.”
“Okay,” my dad says with a nod. “I understand.”
When the doctors leave, I start to ask my dad if he wants me to bring him anything else from home. But he cuts me off.
“If we can’t train together, you are wasting your time on the home court. You need to go to London and practice on grass.”
“Dad—”
“No,” he says. “You know that I’m right. We would have left for London by now anyway. You need to go on your own.”
“I know, Dad, but I’m not leaving for London yet, not with you still in the hospital.”
“Yes, you are, and don’t fight me on it. I’ve been thinking about this for days now. This is the new plan.”
There is a gentle knock at the door. I see Bowe standing in the doorway, holding a fern and a balloon that says Get Well Soon.
“Hey, Jav,” he says. “Hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to check on you.”
“Come in, come in,” my father tells Bowe, who smiles at me. “Actually, I have a great idea,” my dad says. “Bowe can come check on me while you’re in London. You’ll do that, won’t you, Bowe?”
Bowe nods. “Absolutely. As long as you need. With my ribs, I can’t play tennis. I have nothing to do. You could even argue nothing to live for. So yes. It would be a favor to me if you let me check in on you.”
I look at the two of them.
“This is a setup,” I say.
“It is not a setup,” my father says.
“We discussed it prior to today,” Bowe says. “If that’s what you’re saying.”
My father rolls his eyes at Bowe. “Don’t give up information that hasn’t been directly requested.”
“Okay,” Bowe says. And then he looks at me and mouths, Sorry.
“You agree with me that she needs to go to London to train,” my father says to Bowe.
And to that, Bowe’s answer is clear and appears perfectly honest. “There’s no doubt about it. You know damn well you need to go to London.”







