Chapter 4
Chapter Four
It was hard to believe it was the Wimbledon Championship.
Even during warm-ups, Yoko fought not to panic, to be struck dumb with wonder, to overthink.
Didn’t they make some mistake? For weeks, she’d pushed herself from one tier to the next, battling women older and more tactical and faster and stronger than she was on the court.
For whatever reason, she’d scraped through every game and brought herself here.
Today’s championship match featured Yoko facing Emilia Lewandowski, a Polish woman.
Emilia had won Wimbledon last year and had come in as runner-up the year before.
She had strong shoulders, thick, muscular legs, and blond hair that hung in a straight braid down the center of her back—except when she bobbed and weaved and dove for balls.
Then the braid came alive like a yellow snake.
Even now, as Yoko and Emilia entered the first game of their match, Yoko felt herself quivering.
Despite being a part of the circuit for years and despite being a well-known up-and-comer, Yoko still hadn’t played against Emilia.
She knew better than to think she would lose, as it did an athlete no favors to imagine losing.
But she couldn’t really visualize herself winning, either.
Her coach hadn’t minced words. In Japanese, he’d essentially told her to do her best. “Better things will come from this,” he’d said. This hadn’t brightened Yoko’s view of herself nor her game.
Emilia served first. She ripped the bright ball through the air directly into the back square.
Yoko hardly saw it and only realized she’d lost track of it when the chair umpire called that it was a point for Emilia.
Yoko hadn’t had a chance to hit back. She blinked and blinked and moved to the other side of the court for Emilia’s second point.
Emilia’s serves were colossal. Yoko had to find a way to get them back, or else she’d lose game after game after game.
After Emilia defeated her in the first game—without allowing Yoko a single point—Yoko went to the side of the court for a drink of water and an internal pep talk.
You’re allowed to lose, she told herself.
But you can’t embarrass yourself on Center Court.
You’ve worked too hard to get here. Show them you were worth the plane trip over here, at least.
As Yoko got up and stretched, she allowed her eyes to glaze over the little group of Japanese people who’d come to England to support her.
Among them, she knew, was her childhood best friend Akira.
He’d flown into London only last night but had called her from his hotel, telling her he’d made it and that he couldn’t wait to catch up.
Yoko’s heart had leaped. After high school, Akira’s and her lives had splintered apart, with Akira abandoning tennis and taking up filmmaking.
Yoko’s entire existence, it seemed like, was on the tennis court.
How she missed being younger, giggling with Akira as they explored Osaka, eating desserts, and never managing to hold hands (despite her aching desire to).
It was hard to believe that Akira had come all the way to England just for her. Would their romance finally begin? Would he help her through the heartbreak that probably awaited her after the loss of the championship?
There he was, so handsome, broad-shouldered, and taller than most Japanese men. She’d watched his most recent student film and felt blown over by his talent. He’d been wasting his real talent on the tennis court. He should have been making art from the very beginning.
But right before Yoko walked out to serve, she realized that someone was sitting next to Akira, a beautiful Japanese woman with slight features and glowing black hair.
As Yoko pretended not to look at them, the Japanese woman leaned over, whispered something into Akira’s ear, and giggled.
Yoko seethed. What was the Japanese woman saying?
Was she telling Akira that it was obvious that Yoko would be slaughtered?
That she wouldn’t win a single game. And then, horribly, Akira laughed at what the strange woman had said.
Like he was agreeing with her. Yoko’s eyes filled with tears.
She wanted to storm up the stadium steps and tell Akira to take that girl out of here. She was distracting.
But Yoko took a breath and told herself to shut up.
You haven’t seen each other in years, she reminded herself as she banged the tennis ball against the grassy ground.
Of course, he was in love with someone. Of course, someone had fallen in love with him.
He was fantastic. And you were married to tennis, remember? It was all you’d ever wanted.
Yoko threw herself back into the game. She felt ferocious and emotionally damaged.
She watched herself drive the ball forward and leap to all corners of the court.
To her surprise, she won her serve and won the very next game after that, putting them at 2-1 for the first set.
Emilia looked volatile. She drank water like someone preparing for a fistfight.
For her part, Yoko breathed a sigh of relief.
At least she’d shown the audience that she was made of something, that she could handle Emilia.
But right before she returned to court, she made the mistake of looking up at Akira again.
Was that his hand on the strange woman’s knee? Was that love reflected in his eyes?
Yoko felt like she was going to be sick.
She went back on the court and let Emilia take the next three games.
Yoko was a rag doll, loose and inarticulate with her racket.
She could feel her coach's anger. She could feel the crowd's disappointment.
But ultimately, Emilia took the first set 6-3—and then wiped the court clean with Yoko in the second set, defeating her 6-2.
But this was Wimbledon, which meant that Yoko couldn’t slink off the court and drown her sorrows in a bowl of ice cream back at the hotel.
She had to stand in front of the crowd, thank them for coming to see her, and answer journalists’ questions about her performance, Emilia’s playing, and her plan of attack for the months ahead.
The most embarrassing part of all of this, of course, was not the fact that Yoko had been destroyed so handily by the Polish woman.
It was because Yoko couldn’t speak English very well.
For years, she’d given everything to tennis and neglected her studies.
While many of her ex-peers were excellent English speakers, some of them even living in London and New York, she spoke only Japanese and was trained in Osaka.
During the interview, a Japanese translator had to relay what was said, and Yoko spoke directly to the translator, hoping she didn’t seem rude or stupid.
By the end of all that, Yoko found herself face-to-face with her coach—and he was angry.
In Japanese, he growled that she’d played worse than he’d seen in years, that he was considering taking her off the circuit and sending her back to Osaka for another few years of nonstop training.
Yoko felt sorrow in her throat, hampering her speech.
She’d been training with her coach since the age of fourteen. He was like a father to her.
After her coach finished destroying her spirit, he released her to meet up with her parents.
Her mother and father were soft-spoken and very shy.
They hugged her but couldn’t meet her eye.
Yoko wondered if they were as embarrassed as her coach.
Maybe they’d wanted to return to Japan as the triumphant parents of the Wimbledon Champion.
Perhaps they felt that all the years they’d driven her to tennis practices and tennis scrambles and doctor appointments were wasted.
But not long after that, they confessed how tired they were.
“Let’s go back to the hotel,” her mother urged, sliding her hand down the smooth black shine of Yoko’s hair.
Tears filled Yoko’s eyes. She realized that they weren’t embarrassed by her. They felt terrible because they knew her heart was breaking. She opened her lips to agree with them and was already picturing herself in a cab, racing back to the hotel.
But suddenly, she heard her name, carried on a voice that she would have known anywhere.
She turned on her heel to find him, Akira, the only boy she’d ever loved.
His eyes weren’t embarrassed or sorrowful or anything but happy to see her.
He stretched out his arms, and she ran into them, momentarily forgetting the big loss and the journalists’ questions and how frightened she’d been.
Akira still smelled the same, like soap and sandalwood.
“Runner-up champion!” Akira said in English. These were words that Yoko understood. “I’m so proud to know you.”
Yoko blushed and took a step back. It was then that she noticed the woman standing to the left, her hands clasped at her waist. It was the same woman she’d seen in the stands, the woman who’d made him laugh.
Akira gestured for the woman to approach, and she did, smiling prettily but stiffly.
Yoko guessed she was a model. She looked like she was frozen in one magazine or another.
Akira introduced the woman as his girlfriend, Himari. Yoko shook her hand and said all the right things, asking her about her flight and if she enjoyed the match.
“Center court!” Himari said. And then in English she said, “It’s a dream come true.”
Yoko felt immediately embarrassed. It was clear that Himari knew English much better than Yoko herself did. She wondered how Himari and Akira had met and prayed she would never have to know—unless it was a horrible, pathetic story. Then she would relish it.
“We have to go get a drink,” Akira said. “We have to celebrate!”
Yoko grimaced. “You know that I lost, right?”
Akira waved his hand. “Emilia was the champion today, but you’ll be the champion next time. Mark my words. Everyone will know your name.”
Yoko still wasn’t sure she wanted to go out with Akira and his girlfriend.
She glanced over at her parents, who hovered on the fringe, watching.
From the look on her mother’s face, she understood that her mother knew all about Yoko’s love for Akira.
Her mother sensed Yoko’s discomfort as though it were her own.
“Let’s get going,” her mother said, tilting her head toward the line of cabs near the curb.
But Yoko felt frozen with indecision. Down to her bones, she sensed she couldn’t leave Akira without having a proper conversation, even if his girlfriend sat nearby.