CHAPTER 22 #4
She was waiting for me to ask. “Those long points don’t suit you,” she says, her visor slightly askew like she’s been twisting it mid-match.
“Fernanda is more patient, happy to hit balls back and forth until you make an error.” I nod along, taking careful sips of my water.
“I think that you should instead try to—”
I hear him before I see him. The crowd is quietly murmuring to each other, respectfully letting Fernanda and I talk to our boxes. Some people are up and stretching, a few sneak off to go to the bathroom, but not many, because we’ll start playing again in mere minutes.
Beck thunders down the stadium stairs like a bull in a china shop. Or, more aptly, like a coach infuriated with his player’s mistakes.
“Amy!” He calls from the crowd, interrupting Barbara.
“Listen to me!” He’s approaching my box which is separated from the regular seats by a low wall.
He must have been sitting up high, in one of the cheap seats.
A U.S. Open security guard standing near my box and wearing a yellow vest watches my father warily, a hand to his ear as if listening for directions about whether he should stop the Beck Bowman from entering my box.
Whoever’s on the other side must say it’s up to me, because the security guard turns my way.
“Dad.” I get to my feet, tired in so many ways. “Beck,” I correct myself, “Please don’t do this.”
He doesn’t hear me, shouting orders as he shoulders past the guard to get to my box.
The guard throws up his hands in disgust. Beck shoves in next to Aurelio’s dad, swinging one leg over the wall, then the other.
Barbara purses her lips, disgusted. Bianca’s eyes widen as Alessandro picks her up, ensuring she doesn’t get stepped on.
Tyrese stands still as a statue, not giving an inch when Beck pushes into the front row of my box.
Vince crosses his arms, gaze swinging between me and my father.
Suzy balls up her fists like she’s ready to swing on him.
The crowd hushes, once again drawn into my family drama.
Aurelio, my sweet Aurelio, touches a finger to the place where Beck hit him in Cincinnati. Then, he frowns at my father. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he reminds him.
Beck narrows his eyes. “That’s not your call, pal.” He spins around, leaning across the railing towards me. “Amy! I know how you can beat her! It’s all about her second serve, not the first—”
He says more, much more. I’m sure most people in the crowd don’t realize it, but I sense a franticness in him, a fear. I’m not sure if it’s that he’s losing me, or that I’m losing this final, or both. He waves his hands animatedly, talking and talking.
I could argue with him. I could tell him that he failed at being my father. I could tell him that I already have a coach. I could cry and admit that I miss him, but that I’m not sure he can change. I could punch him in the face, right where he hit the person I love the most.
I don’t do any of those things.
I turn to the umpire, a woman named Emma Keeley from the U.K, high up in her chair. The words don’t hurt when I say them. Instead, I’m finally free. “Umpire,” I say calmly, “Could you please remove Beck Bowman from my box? He isn’t welcome.”
The words must reach my father, because he stops barking orders. He leans back on his heels, face still.
Emma hesitates, watching me closely. “Are you sure, Amy?”
I nod. “Yes. I have a match to win, and he’s distracting me.”
She nods, picking up her walkie. “Consider it done.”
I avoid my father’s gaze as I head back to the bench and pick up my racket.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see security descend on him, multiple fluorescent vests swarming our box.
Beck is too smart to fight, to make a fool out of himself by resisting.
Maybe the media can spin him interrupting my match, say that it was an example of a father's love.
It will be much more difficult to spin him elbowing a security guard in the face.
He doesn’t spare me one more glance, throw an apology my way, or even curse me out. He wanted Amy the tennis player, and I denied him access. Amy the person is a throwaway. He walks out of the stadium, his back to me, escorted by security.
It’s my turn to serve, but there’s a lump in my throat.
I blink back traitorous tears, gesturing for one of the ball kids to toss me a couple of balls as I walk to the baseline.
The entire court is strangely quiet, only a few whispers and murmurs breaking the silence.
I see a teenage boy with a sign that says, “Bowmans Forever!” slowly lower his poster, putting it by his feet.
Fernanda stands on the court, but not in the return position.
Instead, she leans towards me, hesitant, as though wondering if I can continue.
I have a chance to win this with just one more set to play.
But how can I do that now? The crowd doesn’t want to see that version of Beck Bowman, disgraced and escorted out by security.
They want to see Beck and I on the same team, grinning and slapping each other on the back.
No one wants us to come back down to earth.
Someone claps for me. “Come on, Amy!” he cheers, getting to his feet. “You can do this!” It only takes one. The crowd responds, happy to gloss over that awkward moment with Beck. They get to their feet, applauding and whistling. “Forza, Amy!” My fan shouts at me, eyes fierce and loyal.
It’s Aurelio, obviously. It’s strange that I didn’t recognize him so many months ago when he did the same thing at Indian Wells.
Francisco is not to be outdone. He stands in Fernanda’s box, yelling encouragement for her. The crowd roars even louder, focusing on our beautiful rivalry rather than the ugliness between my father and me.
A smile spreads on my face, watery and wavering. I blink back one final flood of tears, though these are full of gratitude and love. Is tennis the best sport in the world? It certainly is for me.
I point my racket at Aurelio in gratitude. He blows me a kiss.
I turn back towards the court, back towards Fernanda. She looks at me, long and assessing, before nodding and getting into her return position. My serve blazes towards her, 123 miles per hour. She manages to send it back to me, long strides reaching it in time.
And so, we play. And we play. And we play.
The score climbs. 1-1, 2-2, 3-3, 4-4, 5-5.
Barbara gives me instructions on the changeovers as I pour water over my head.
Aurelio cheers for me, standing from his seat every point I win.
Bianca sits on her father’s shoulders, lucky sparkly sunglasses on even though it’s nighttime.
Every time I look over at them, their energy, their belief overshadows my father’s ghost.
My frustration with Fernanda climbs as the match continues. As does my shock at what she can do.
When she manages to hold serve one last time, hitting a surprising drop shot so shallow there’s no way I’ll reach it, I have to shake my head. She grins at me from across the net.
6-6.
The match clock reads three hours, 11 minutes. We’re heading to the tiebreak. For the final set, the winner has to reach 10 points and win by two.
Barbara, Aurelio, Vince, Suzy—they don’t have to say anything. They all just nod and pump their fists as I wipe my face, drink some water one last time.
When I head to the baseline, my heart is pounding.
I can hardly hear the crowd over the roar in my own ears.
This is my last chance to win a Grand Slam this year, to win the U.S.
Open. The American crowd wants it for me, my champion coach wants it for me, my steady physios, old and new, want it for me, my Italian family wants it for me, and my devoted boyfriend wants it for me.
I just have to reach out and get it.
I serve an ace to start, completely out of Fernanda’s reach. The serve gun says 127 mph. The fastest serve I’ve ever hit during a match.
1-0, Amy.
Fernanda’s eyes widen for one vulnerable moment before narrowing in determination.
She spins and marches over to the baseline.
She doesn’t hit her serves as fast as I do, but she’s precise in her placement.
She hits this one up the center, right on the T-line.
I manage a quick return, but I’m not able to swing freely, my arm tucked into my body, so it just barely sails over the net.
Fernanda pounces on it, sending a winner up the opposite line.
1-1.
The pattern continues. My first serve is online, landing anywhere between 118-125 mph.
Fernanda gets a few chip returns, but they’re always slow and short.
I make a meal of them, hitting winners back.
Unfortunately, Fernanda’s doing just as well.
Her serve is a little slower, but she’s taller than I am and able to hit some difficult angles.
I hit two errors into the net, unable to get my timing right so that I can swing through the return.
I try stepping up and hitting them early like before, but Fernanda is entirely wise to my schemes.
I always knew she was too smart for her own good.
I shouldn’t be surprised when I stare at the scoreboard and see it says 10-10. This is a championship. We’ll play until it’s over. We’ll play until we collapse onto the hard court.
The match clock says three hours, 26 minutes. The umpire offers us a five-minute bathroom break, but Fernanda and I both decline. We want this done.
My box is quiet at this point, but it’s because they’re so focused. Even Bianca is still, clutching the top of Alessandro’s head as she sits on his shoulders. Aurelio grips the railing, watching intently. Barbara takes off her visor, running anxious hands through her braids instead.