Page 82 of Love, Amy

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.