CHAPTER 15 #2
The late afternoon sun beams down on me.
It feels like heaven, even as my white tennis dress is plastered to my body and sweat trickles down the back of my neck.
I love to feel the work. I can almost picture Aurelio smiling as he watches me in the gym, distracted as he readies for his final match right after mine.
I can almost imagine Beck hugging me after I pull out the third set.
I can almost hear Fernanda’s wry words of congratulations at the net.
She won’t be too bitter, considering she already won a Grand Slam this year.
One more point. One more serve.
I bounce the ball four times on the baseline, like I always do.
I can tell my toss is perfect, the electric green ball blotting out the sun.
It’s difficult to see on this side of the court, but I don’t need to see.
I know this serve is an ace. I know it will rocket past Fernanda on the T.
I know it’s the fastest serve I’ve hit all day.
And I’m right. The ball slams off my racket, bouncing right past Fernanda. I clench my fist in victory, shaking it at my box. My father is on his feet, clapping too loudly. I almost don’t hear the chair umpire.
“Let. First serve,” he says into his microphone.
I spin around, shocked. My mouth hangs open. The call was so late. Almost too late. A let means the serve touched the net as it went over, which isn’t allowed. I get to serve again without penalty, but I don’t get the winning point.
The ace.
I haven’t won the set yet. I walk a few paces towards the umpire, trying to get clarification. “It hit the net?” I call to him. “I didn’t see anything.”
Unfortunately, the chair umpire, who looms high above me, is not a friend.
He’s almost sixty years old and has a history with the Bowmans.
My father’s legendary meltdown towards him in ‘02 is still talked about today. Clarence regards me shrewdly. “You didn’t need to see it, Ms. Bowman. All you have to do is hear the sound it makes.”
It’s strange to argue with the chair umpires at all.
As soon as electronic line calling was integrated at the Majors, there’s no point being upset at the calls.
It’s all done by a computer. For some complicated reason, lets are one of the few things still judged by the human eye. Or, according to Clarence, the ear.
I sigh, looking at the scoreboard again.
At least I’m still ahead of Fernanda by a few points.
I just need to hit the same serve again.
Fernanda watches our exchange from the other side of the court, twirling her racket anxiously.
She’s certainly not going to argue the umpire’s call, but I can tell she’s confused, too.
Some lets are more subtle than others. It might have been just the lightest brushing of the ball against the net.
Though how Clarence “heard it,” I have no idea.
I start slowly walking back towards the baseline, trying to gather my thoughts. I forget that Beck is there, watching all of it.
That’s my first mistake.
“Clarence, you son of a bitch!” Beck stands up in the box, irate. “That wasn’t a let. That was an ace!” Rafe stares up at my father worriedly. Vince winces at the “son of a bitch.”
“Beck!” I say sharply, knowing I need to stop this in its tracks. Immediately. “Sit down.”
Fortunately, Clarence is used to my father’s complaints. He responds in a bored tone. “It was a let, Mr. Bowman. I’m sure of it. Your daughter will have another first serve.”
It’s a reasonable response. You don’t win the point on a let, but it’s essentially a do-over. You still get two more serves, two more tries.
Beck is anything but reasonable. The crowd has fallen silent, watching my father implode. “She doesn’t need another first serve. She won the second set.” He turns his burning gaze on me. “Amy, go over to your bench. This set is over.”
It’s a ridiculous comment and completely insulting to Fernanda. Her gaze becomes pitying. I can see it from across the court. She’s no longer warrior Fernanda, but the friend who worries about me and my disastrous family. I have to get the warrior back. That’s who I’m trying to beat.
I keep my tone even and my gaze unwavering. “Please, sit down. I’m going to serve again.”
Beck doesn’t even look at me, still glaring at Clarence’s back. The chair umpire won’t even turn around to face my father, infuriating him. “It doesn’t matter if you serve again, Amy. He’ll just call another let. He doesn’t want a Bowman to win.”
He’s coming very close to accusing Clarence of cheating. “Dad—” I try the d-word, a warning in my voice. The sun that felt so encouraging a few minutes ago now feels like it’s glaring down in disapproval.
Beck steamrolls right over my warning. “You’ve always had a stick up your ass, Clar—”
Now the umpire twists in his chair, looking over his shoulder at my father. “One more word and I’ll have you removed, Beck.” My father opens his mouth again. “One. More. Word.”
I hurry over to the baseline, my heart pounding.
I need to regain control and silence Beck’s protests.
“I’m serving,” I announce to the crowd, flashing the tennis ball at Fernanda to let her know.
She hesitates but then squats down into her return position.
My father makes a noise of protest, so I only bounce the ball once before I toss it into the air.
I can tell the toss is a mistake the moment I throw it. It’s off center and when my racket slams into it, the ball lands well outside of the box. A bad miss.
“OUT!” The electronic calling system shouts. It feels like the word slices right through my skin. Clarence leans back into his chair, satisfied. My father leans forward, practically hanging over the railing as though he wants to play the point himself.
I try to take a deep breath, but it’s shallow. Sharp. My skin itches and tightens. Everything that felt right before suddenly feels wrong.
I get a new ball from the ball kid to my right. I try not to look at Fernanda, smoky eye-less today, but no less the warrior. I try not to look at Clarence, who seems a bit smug. I try not to look at the fans, who have been put on mute by my father.
Beck has no problem speaking up. “What did I say? This set it over because of such a bullshit call—”
“I’m serving,” I announce again, but this time my voice is shaking.
“I’m serving, Dad.” The humiliation is setting in.
He said “this set is over” even though I’m still up 6-3 in this tiebreaker.
Even though I still only need one more point to win the set.
He doesn’t believe in me. He doesn’t think I can battle back.
He doesn’t think I’m tough enough for this.
I’m a Beck-fulfilling prophecy.
I miss my next serve, too. It’s so short it barely hits the net at all. It’s now 6-4, still to my advantage. No one applauds. No one cheers for me or for Fernanda. It’s just silent and hot and uncomfortable.
I feel like I’m watching myself play on TV. I’m not really there anymore.
I’m not there when I make two errors in a row on Fernanda’s serves and it’s tied 6-6.
I’m not there when I sit on my bench, trying to take a drink of water with shaking hands.
I’m not there when Beck barks orders after orders at my back, and like Clarence, I don’t turn around.
I’m not there when I serve again, this time much slower to get it in bounds, and Fernanda pounces, slapping an easy winner to the corner.
The scoreboard isn’t reassuring anymore, as it reads 7-6, Fernanda.
If she wins the next point, she wins the second set.
If she wins the second set, she wins the match. The Wimbledon Trophy is hers.
Before I bounce the ball, I look up at Beck.
I want to see something there. A glimmer of faith in his daughter, who just a couple of weeks ago he said was the greatest tennis player in the world.
Instead, Beck isn’t even looking at me. He’s complaining to Rafe, gesturing wildly.
Vince looks disgusted and some small part of me is resigned to him quitting soon.
He won’t be able to stand Beck much longer.
Another good relationship pulverized by tennis giant, Beck Bowman.
I swallow a lump in my throat, and I serve.
Maybe I have a little faith in myself because the serve isn’t bad.
It lands in the corner of the box, forcing Fernanda out wide.
She manages a return, but it’s a bit short.
I step up into the court, whipping a forehand to the opposite side.
Unfortunately for me, Fernanda knew that’s where I would go.
She knows I can never resist a good forehand.
She scampers easily to the other corner, using her reliable backhand to send it back over the net.
That’s how it goes. I’m the aggressor, smacking ball after ball towards her.
She runs back and forth on the baseline, barely hitting the return back to me.
I’m feeling more confident with each ball.
Fernanda is usually better when the point goes this long, but I’m the one in control, dictating the point, standing still in the middle of the court.
She’ll tire soon, exhausted from running so long in the 90-degree heat.
My moment comes on her next return. She barely gets her racket under the ball, popping it high in the air.
It looks like a fly ball that any MLB outfielder would routinely step under and catch.
For us tennis players, it’s a lot more fun.
I track the ball as it starts to fall back on my side, spinning slowly through the air.
I’m sure I’ve timed it right. I leap into the air, reading to smack the overhead onto her side of the court.
It should hit so hard, so close to the net, that she won’t even have a chance to return it.
I swing my arm with as much power as I can. It feels good. It feels right.