CHAPTER 4
The tournament has passed by smoothly, with straight set wins in all of my previous four matches.
I haven’t lost my serve once. Sometimes, my epic loss at the Grand Slam in Melbourne feels like a dream.
An improbable blip. Either way, I’m thankful my game has lined back up.
Beck reclines in his seat in the courtside coach’s box most of my matches, finding no reason to yell and berate when I’m winning so easily.
Neither of us mention the strange practice with Aurelio, though it has not been repeated.
“Time!” The chair umpire calls to Fernanda and me. “Bowman serves first.”
Beck is already calling out a multitude of instructions. “Stick to her backhand side. Give her heat when you can. Start with a,” he gestures a hand signal to me that indicates a T-serve, straight down the middle and on the line, “and put her on her heels.”
I nod in confirmation, bouncing the ball as I take my spot at the baseline.
Even from so far away, Fernanda looks tall.
She squats deeply, ready to return my serve from behind the baseline.
Most of my opponents stand there in the hope that they’ll have more time to return my serve that way.
Fernanda’s coach, Angelina, is also calmly relaying some instructions from her coaching box, but I can’t hear what they are.
Fernanda gives a curt nod but doesn’t take her eyes off me.
That’s where people have Fernanda Navarro all wrong. She’s not sweet, calm, easygoing.
She wants to win as badly as I do. She just hides it better.
I ready to throw my toss, to absolutely lay down a serve that will send her into hiding for this tiebreak. Right as I’m going through my motion, a competitive fire sizzling in my veins, I notice Fernanda moving. It distracts me, throws me off my rhythm, as I watch her take three huge steps forward.
Forward. On the best fucking serve on tour?
But maybe she’s thinking of my loss in Melbourne. Of how my serve went offline when it really mattered. My serve rockets onto her side of the court, smacking the hard surface and ricocheting into the stands.
The Chair Umpire calls it out. Fault.
I turn away from Fernanda, steaming. That’s probably what Angelina was whispering to her.
They wanted to throw me off, to make me doubt my serve.
I take a centering breath, lucky that I don’t hear Beck voicing his opinion behind me.
Fortunately, I have another serve. I bounce the new ball the ball kid handed to me, eyeing her.
Logic dictates that the second serve be slower and steadier than the first, to make sure that you at least have a chance to get the ball in play.
Fernanda smiles at me.
I can’t resist the fury snarling through me, and I hit the second serve way too hard, way too wild. I can tell it’ll be out before the Umpire even calls it. Double fault.
The tiebreak score is 1-0, Fernanda. Now, it’s her serve.
Beck rips into me as she readies herself across the court. Tennis is typically quiet, especially in tense moments. His voice cuts through like a knife. “She’s playing with you, Amy! Don’t let her inside your fucking head!”
He shuts up as she serves. The points go back and forth.
I win one on her serve with a tricky drop shot, which she struggles to reach even with her long legs.
She wins the next one after relentlessly hitting me from corner to corner until one ball is just out of reach.
The desert night is cool, but the game feels hot, hot, hot.
Sweat drips down my face as we head to the changeover, now tied 3-3.
We switch sides every 6 points, grabbing some water along the way.
I hate being on this side of the court because I’m further from Beck. For some players tiring of their coaches, they consider this a blessing. Their coach is far from them and can’t scream across the court, unless they want to get kicked out for disrupting the match.
Beck Bowman doesn’t believe he can be kicked out of anywhere, let alone a tennis tournament he won 11 times.
So, he’ll scream even louder when I’m on the far side.
I keep my gaze on the ball, prepping to serve.
The ball is fresh from the can, smelling of tennis and power.
He can’t scream at me if I don’t make mistakes, I remind myself. If I win, the way he used to.
I serve a solid wide serve, one that arcs high off the court.
Fernanda’s footwork is beautiful as she easily chases it down, hitting a flat forehand my way.
I watch it with determination, stepping in to hit it with my biggest weapon, my forehand.
I mistime the hit, and instead, it thuds dully into the net.
4-3, Fernanda. I have another serve.
My incompetence is too much for the Beck Bowman.
“Amy!” he growls from the stands. The whole crowd watches our family sideshow, rapt.
“Is that the type of player you are? You’ll lose this because of the pressure.
Because of the moment. Not because of your opponent but because of you!
” It might sound harsh to some, and the murmurs from the crowd probably confirm that, but it’s coach-speak.
He’s said the same version of these words hundreds of times to me, maybe thousands.
And it’s not that unusual even amongst other coaches, as I’ve seen videos of Beck’s coach doing the exact same thing.
The truth is—I don’t want to be the type of player Beck fears I’m becoming.
But want means nothing to my father. And maybe it means nothing to tennis either.
I keep retracing my steps on the day of the Australian Grand Slam, and I can’t find the mistake.
I know I made them, over and over, in fact, but I can’t find the reason.
There has to be one. Because if there wasn’t a real reason why you played poorly—a nagging injury, a bad night of sleep, a personal matter that’s clouding your thoughts, then maybe it’s just in you or it’s not.
It certainly was in my father. Even here, under the lights, in front of thousands of fans, he overshadows me.
I turn my face towards him, determined to show him the face of a champion.
I lift my chin, smooth my expression, light that fire in my eyes.
I stagger my feet like my father would when he served.
I grip the ball tightly. I can do this; I must do this.
Beck laughs. “That’s the problem with you, Ames, you think looking like a champion and being a champion are the same.
” At this point, we’re holding up play. The chair umpire, frustrated, turns to glare at my father.
It doesn’t accomplish much. Beck is having too much fun explaining to the crowd that if I’m a loser, it has nothing to do with him.
My blood heats, shame and fury coloring my cheeks.
“Well, being a Bowman, you’ve looked like a champion your whole fucking life, but that doesn’t mean—”
I open my mouth, ready to scream at him to SHUT UP. Just SHUT UP.
Instead, the most miraculous thing happens. Someone shouts from the balcony of the stadium, “Come on, Amy! Keep going!”
If my father was doing coach-speak, this person is doing fan-speak.
It’s meaningless talk, but it shocks me all the same.
One, it interrupts Beck, which never happens.
Tennis fans are usually too busy worshipping him to criticize how he’s coaching his daughter.
Two, I may be respected, largely due to my record and number one place in the world rankings, but I’m not loved by the crowd.
They’ll follow my momentum, cheer when I hit big serves or win tricky points.
But they’ve never bailed me out before. They don’t try to rescue me when I’m struggling.
Those actions are usually reserved for beloved players like Fernanda, who tell jokes and giggle during their press conferences.
The crowd follows the fan’s lead. “Let’s go, Amy!”
“Come on, Bowman!”
“You’ve got this!”
“Ace, ace, another ace for Amy!”
Soon, the cheers become less solitary and more a giant clapping, whooping entity of fans. My father, who likes to stand against the railing, all the better to yell at me, slowly sits back down in his seat.
I don’t think of him when I serve the next ace.
4-4, tie game. I don’t think of Beck as I run around Fernanda’s next wide serve, absolutely crushing a forehand to the corner.
5-4, Amy. I don’t think of Beck as I smack a deep backhand to Fernanda off her serve.
When she hits a chip shot back, I run to the front, heart beating in my ears, and jump up to slam an overhead volley.
It crashes down on her side, well out of reach. 6-4, Amy.
The crowd is roaring. Above all, tennis fans love good tennis. And we give it to them. Fernanda returns my next slower serve with the exact same dropshot that I got her with earlier. I have to give her a nod of respect for that one. 6-5, Amy.
I have one more serve to win this thing. Beck is shouting again, trying to be heard over the crowd, but it’s too loud. He can’t call which serve I should throw.
Like any servebot, I go for the heat. I throw the toss high over my head, waiting for it to fall a little closer to earth before whipping it across the court.
Fernanda tries to step into it again and take it early.
Her perfect footwork wavers a little, stutters in the moment.
The ball slams past her, ricocheting off the far wall.
A quick glance at the speed clock shows 124 mph.
7-5, Amy. I win.
The crowd gets to their feet, whistling and clapping.
Normally, I’d look for Beck in the player’s box.
In that moment, we would understand each other.
All sins would be forgiven, as we both achieved our collective goal.
He’d put his fingers in his mouth and whistle louder than anyone.
He’d buy me a drink after the match and squeeze my shoulder.
It’s a nice routine. But for the first time, I decide to deviate.
I walk around the court, waving to the fans and smiling. It doesn’t feel fake. It doesn’t feel rehearsed, like it often does. Today, they saved me. That one fan broke the tension—faced my father and won. It’s not often that Beck Bowman is beaten.
I know a victory doesn’t last forever, but I wish this one would.