Page 45 of Love, Amy

My favorite Fernanda looks back at me, a warrior with a smoky eye. “Wimbledon is the biggest tennis tournament in the world, Amy. I’ll fight any way I have to.” And she means it.

I do, too.

*

Beck sits across from me at breakfast the morning of the Wimbledon Final. We get more than one or two curious looks. Amy Bowman on her own is a normal enough sight, but Beck rarely graces the public spaces with his kingly presence. It should feel comforting that he wanted to join his daughter for breakfast, but I know it’s a reminder of today’s importance. He watches me eat my small portion of eggs and toast like a hawk.

I swallow a dry bit of toast. “I watched the extra film you sent last night. I agree that Fernanda hates the body serve. She said as much a few weeks ago at dinner.” It almost feels dirty to use our friendship and the general bitching us girls do against her, but I know she’s also racking her brain for tennis tidbits I’ve dropped over the past few months.

Unfortunately for her, I trained at Beck Bowman’s school of making friends, which focuses less on making friends and more on manipulating your enemies. I doubt she’ll find many clues that differ from the film.

Beck nods. “Considering her height, you’d expect the serve to be her greatest weapon. It’s not bad, but really, it’s the return. Her footwork and timing are better than yours.”

I poke at my eggs. “She’s also calmer, more level-headed. Her demeanor won’t change, even if she loses the first set 6-0.” Beck’s still nodding, so I take a deep breath and say what’s really on my mind. “It would probably be best if we can stay calm, too. I don’t want to show her any weakness.”

“Agreed,” Beck says curtly. “No tantrums.”

I try not to bristle at his comment because there have been times when I’ve destroyed a racket or two. I wonder if he even realizes that it’s been months since that’s happened. Not since Australia. I soldier on. “Yes, I’ll hold myself in check, and so will you.”

He’s immediately defensive. “Me? I don’t have a problem. My head is always in the game.”

“Maybe to the extreme sometimes,” I confirm. “It doesn’t help me stay calm if you’re yelling and complaining. I know sometimes you’re trying to help with the umpire or my opponent...” I let out a tired exhale. “But it can be distracting.”

I don’t say that most of the time he’s yelling at me. I don’t say that some of the things he yells are mean, misogynistic, or petty. I don’t say that these days I wonder if I would play better without him in my corner at all.

Baby steps.

Beck is still chewing on my assessment of things, so I try again before he can decide he hates everything I’ve said. I lean across the table, gently putting my hand on top of his. That definitely catches his attention. “Please, Dad,” I say. He’s looking right at me now, dazed at my use of the d-word. “I want to make you proud. I want to win this one.” I try to infuse as much sincerity into the words as I can. There’s not an ounce of dishonesty in them. I gesture to myself with my free hand. “I feel good. I feel like this could be the right match for me, so let’s wait and see, okay? Let’s not force it.”

I must say something that resonates with him because, after a heavy beat, he nods. “Fine.” He takes his hand out from under mine. I go back to eating to make him feel more comfortable. He scans the room, but there’s a slight flush on his cheeks. I think I embarrassed him with real human emotion. “Though I’ve never heard of just waiting for a Grand Slam title to fall into your lap.” He grumbles under his breath, but I still hear it.

I smirk into my plate. “That’s not what you did?” I ask innocently, still poking at my eggs.

He immediately turns in his chair to face me, one finger in the air. “Certainly not, young lady. My focus was—” He realizes I’m joking when he sees my shoulders silently shake with laughter. He throws his hands up. “Just eat your breakfast, Amy.”

I do, watching the clock over his shoulder get closer and closer to match time.

*

The scoreboard reassures me as I ready my serve. I lost a closely contested first set to Fernanda 6-4 after missing a few too many serves. But I didn’t panic, like I promised Beck at breakfast, and he managed to keep his word, too. He calmly reminded me to focus on the body serve, and I was able to follow his advice, tightening up the second set.

Fernanda fought hard enough to make it to the seven-point tiebreak, but I’m ahead 6-3. One more point and I’m officially back in the match. One more point and everything will be tied. One more point and I’m guaranteed more time on the court.

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.”