Page 35 of Love, Amy

The president of Wimbledon Club presents my father with a huge bronze plaque that will be hung on their Wall of Fame with other legends like Pete Sampras, Arthur Ashe, Martina Navratilova, and Roger Federer. My father genially shakes his hand and then poses with the plaque for the dozens of photographers. Flashes pop up in the crowd, too, fans snapping pictures of my father. Even Fernanda lifts her phone for a snap of Beck in all his glory. She then swivels the camera towards me, pointing a finger my way. I try to smile for her, and everyone else, but I hate that there are so many eyes on me.

A local British reporter, Brian, rushes over to my father, a cameraman in his wake. I take an extra step to the side, so I won’t be in frame. “Beck!” He gushes in his English accent. “What an incredible night reminiscing on your eight wins here at the Championships. How does it feel to be recognized for your legacy at Wimbledon?”

Beck casually tucks the plaque under his arm. He smiles at Brian. “It’s certainly an honor to be back at my favorite place in the world.” The crowd roars at his easy pandering. “My eight wins at Wimbledon were the highlight of my career. It’s every tennis player’s dream. It feels wonderful to have all my hard work recognized by my peers, by the tennis world, and by the fans.”

More applause. More itching.

Brian is delighted by my grumpy father’s cooperation. I don’t know why he’s surprised; Beck loves to answer questions that are essentially compliments towards him. “And now,” Brian continues enthusiastically, “You’re back at the Championships with your daughter, Amy, the number one player in the world.” Brian doesn’t mention that my ranking is dangling by a thread. If Fernanda goes further than I do at Wimbledon, she and I will swap places. “Does it feel like history is repeating itself, Beck?”

The crowd’s attention slides over to me. I wave and smile at them. Beck looks over at me, too. I’m taken aback when I see genuine fondness in his expression. His smile is soft, like we’re sharing a secret. My smile wavers in response. “My daughter, Amy, is the greatest women’s player in the world.” Beck reminds the crowd, in coach mode. “I’m delighted that she’s chosen to follow in my footsteps. To continue the Bowman legacy.” His gaze swings back to me. “Amy, congratulations. I know someday we’ll be celebrating your career in the same way.” He raises his hands, including the plaque, to egg on the crowd. “And that career starts this tournament!”

It’s the nicest thing my father has ever said to me. A lump starts in my throat. He wants this for me. He wants the crowd to be cheering for me, too. For the Bowmans. He might be one of the greatest tennis players of all time, but together we could be the greatest tennis family since Venus and Serena. The first father-daughter duo to win Grand Slams.

What if I never win one? What else does he see for our future together? What else is there for Beck Bowman, who hasn’t felt the same since he won here in 2001?

Brian eats it up, gesturing for me to enter the frame. I step over, carefully, to Beck’s side. “Amy!” Brian smiles at me. “How do you feel about continuing your father’s legacy? Can you imagine this being you one day, just like he said?”

The question is all enthusiasm. All fluff. Brian expects me to agree, to laugh and wink and simper for the crowd like my father does. We’re cold on the court, cold in the locker room, cold when we lose, but burning hot when we’re finally winners. And everyone thinks having Beck as a father makes me a winner.

My eyes scan the crowd, trying to find the words. I can’t say what Brian expects. I find the big screen again, now silently replaying Beck’s highlights in the background. “It’s hard to imagine anyone being as dedicated to tennis as my father is,” I finally say, truthfully. Apologetically. “There’s been a lot of great champions here at Wimbledon, but watching my father on the screen, I can’t remember them. His joy, his passion, his intensity—it’s hard to match. I just try to keep up.” I smile a little for Brian’s enthusiasm, for Beck and his hopes for me, for the crowd seeking a dutiful daughter, for Fernanda who just wants me to have fun, and for Aurelio so he knows that I’m okay. I can be something different for each of them.

The crowd claps politely at my response. I didn’t really answer the question. Can I imagine myself winning 18 Grand Slams? Eight here at Wimbledon? At least one on each of the three surfaces? At least one in my teens, twenties, and thirties?

I can’t even imagine myself winning one.

The photographers gesture for Beck and me to stand closer together. He puts his arm around my shoulders. It feels heavy. He holds one side of the plaque, and I hold the other. We lift up the Bowman legacy together.

That feels heavy, too.

*

I’m so relieved to see Aurelio the next morning for our walk that I almost jump into his arms right there on the sidewalk. It’s 7 a.m., and we’re the first tennis players on the Wimbledon grounds. I’ve convinced Beck that I’m going for early morning jogs now to improve my conditioning, when really, I’m driving over to the tournament facility to walk with Aurelio. Beck loves the lie because he thinks it means that I’m becoming even more dedicated to winning. If only he knew that every day I become more committed to Aurelio instead. The next two weeks of Wimbledon will be hectic, but neither of us plays the first two days because of our high seeds. Aurelio is up to number five in the world after being the runner-up at his lead-in tournament. He lost again to Charles, the French number one, which I know troubles him. It’s three losses in a row.

I can tell Aurelio wants to hug me, too, but he holds himself back. Even though it’s quiet from a media and tennis player perspective, there are still dozens of workers, umpires, and organizers setting up for the day. Sprinklers spray the already emerald grass, bleachers are unfurled on the outside courts, coolers and benches pulled out of storage. It’s not like Beck would lower himself to speaking to someone without a Rolex on their wrist, but we still try to stay out of the way.

“Amy.” Aurelio smiles at me. The month we’ve been apart feels like a lifetime. “How are you?”

It’s a careful question. Beck’s ceremony and the dinner that followed didn’t end until late into the evening. I saw Aurelio in passing at the dinner, but Beck and I were constantly surrounded by well-wishers and ass-kissers. I start walking, and Aurelio easily falls into step with me. “I don’t know,” I admit after a beat. I glance up at Aurelio. “He was being nice to me, wasn’t he? I didn’t imagine that?”

The past few months with my father have been tense. Ever since we got into our argument in Paris, we’ve had a hard time falling into our old routine. There’s an extra wedge between us that hasn’t dissolved. It feels like maybe it’s all on my side. I’m not sure Beck is acting any differently than he normally would. Instead, maybe I just see him differently.

Aurelio hesitates, deciding what to say. My heart sinks. “He was,” he finally agrees, soft. “He has big hopes for you. Big dreams.”

There’s a lot left unsaid. “But?”

Aurelio sighs. “But it’s also a lot of pressure, no?”

I sigh along with him, rubbing a frustrated hand over my face. “No, you’re right. I heard it, too. Even when he was talking about me, he was also talking about himself.”

I can tell Aurelio is trying to find something positive to say about my father. “Maybe he’s right,” he offers. “You have a great opportunity to win this year’s tournament. Fernanda is your only real competition.”

I shake my head. “And myself.”

Aurelio disagrees, “That’s true of everyone. You’re the best tennis player in the world. One of these tournaments will be yours. It’s just a matter of time.”

It’s tempting to imagine it. There are two Grand Slam tournaments left this season, this one and the U.S. Open in August. Even winning one of those would turn the whole year around. Maybe some of that pressure from my father would alleviate.

Until, inevitably, the bubble bursts. Beck would just focus on the next Slam and the next and the next. “I’ll never win eighteen,” I admit. “It would take a miracle. He won six Slams between nineteen and twenty-four, which is how old I am now. He also never had a challenger as good as Fernanda. She won’t let up on me, as she shouldn’t. I’m not going to win eighteen Grand Slams. I probably won’t win half that many. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to win one.” I look ahead, too embarrassed to see Aurelio’s pitying expression. “So, I’ll be a disappointment to him forever.”