My entire life’s work rests on the outcome of this match.
My father, Javier, and I sit front row center at Flushing Meadows, the sidelines just out of reach. The linesmen stand with their arms behind their backs on either side of the court. Straight in front of us, the umpire presides over the crowd high in his chair. The ball girls crouch low, ready to sprint at a moment’s notice.
This is the third set. Nicki Chan took the first and Ingrid Cortez squeaked out the second.
This last one will determine the winner.
My father and I watch — along with the twenty thousand others in the stadium — as Nicki Chan approaches the baseline. She bends her knees and steadies herself. Then she raises onto her toes, tosses the ball in the air, and with a snap of her wrist, sends a blistering serve 126 miles per hour toward Ingrid Cortez’s backhand.
Cortez returns it with startling power. It falls just inside the line. Nicki isn’t able to get to it. Point Cortez.
I let my eyes close and exhale.
“Cuidado. The cameras are watching our reactions,” my father says through gritted teeth. He’s wearing one of his many Panama hats, his curly silver hair creeping out the back.
“Dad, everyone’s watching our reactions.”
Nicki Chan has won two Slam titles this year already — the Australian Open and the French Open. If she wins this match, she’ll tie my lifetime record of 20 Grand Slam singles titles. I set that record back in 1987, when I won Wimbledon for the ninth time and established myself as the greatest tennis player of all time…
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