Accompanying Song: Kid Francescoli, “Moon (And It Went Like)”
The rain outside pounded like a distant drum, but beneath the shelter of the closed roof, Center Court was a different world—still, silent, electric. Every breath from the crowd held the weight of history. Wimbledon had seen many legends rise and fall here, but this was something else: the fairy tale no one believed in, yet everyone had come to witness.
On one side of the net stood Anna, the Russian titan, her blonde hair gleaming beneath the lights like spun gold, her body carved by years of dominance. Three years at the top of women’s tennis, every serve and volley an echo of the empire that had built her. Her father—a billionaire, her coach, her maker—sat motionless in her box, his stoic expression unyielding as she prepared to serve for the championship. She had been groomed for this since childhood. And now, with victory just a point away, she was all but inevitable.
On the other side, Monique—smaller, darker skin and hair color, her body heavy with the exhaustion of the battle and the weight of expectation. A girl born of many places, a nomad with a Filipino mother and a military father from the states, always wandering, never truly belonging. She had fought her way here, surprising the world and herself, but now, at the brink, it seemed her story would end in defeat. She had been battered through the first set, 6-1, and now, down 5-2 in the second, her Cinderella run was about to end.
The umpire's voice cut through the tension: "Time."
Anna rose like a primmed princess summoned to the battlefield, her every movement precise, powerful, rehearsed. Monique, in contrast, stood slowly, as if the weight of the court itself was on her shoulders. She looked to the ground, her mind wandering, the roar of the crowd distant, like waves crashing on a far-off shore. Secretly she wanted to obliterate her racket and scream every obscenity into the arena.
She saw Anna glance up at her father, the great iron man in the box. He didn’t cheer, didn’t smile—he simply pointed at his head. Anna nodded, checking her ponytail, unshakable.
Monique’s eyes skimmed over the uneven green of the lawn, marred by brown patches. Her focus blurred, drifting beyond the court and the spectators, back to a distant childhood moment—a moment haunted by failure. She had been crushed in a junior match, broken her racket, and stormed off the court, furious and ashamed. She had been certain her father would be angry, would lecture her on discipline, but instead, he had taken her to get ice cream. Sitting there, still fuming, she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t angry. He’d handed her a cone and smiled. “I want to share something with you Monique” he had said, his voice calm and raspy. He handed her a folded piece of wrinkled and worn paper. She started to read the poem her father wrote.
Flow is
surrendering to what you cannot hold— the past, the future, letting the swirling stories go, breathing in the world, releasing it slow.
living now, without a need, no judgement, no expectations—Fearless, Ferocious, Free
Flow is Love
She asked her father what it meant. He responded kindly, “What do you love about tennis? Do you love playing tennis, or do you love winning?”
Monique couldn’t find the answer she truly believed in.
She hadn’t understood then. But over the years, she began to realize that what she truly loved was the feel of hitting a clean forehand, a solid backhand, gracefully gliding around the court—the opportunity to play in epic matches. She loved tennis.
Now on the world’s grandest stage, as the weight of the moment threatened to crush her, the message on her father’s poem resonated with her.
Her breath slowed. The pounding of her heart began to ease. The sweet, earthy scent of fresh grass mingled with the thick summer air clinging to her skin, while the crowd’s breathless anticipation hung like a silent storm. Her father had never cared about winning or losing. He embodied the pure spiritual connection to the game of tennis.
And now, in this moment, Monique felt that joy stronger than ever.
She stepped into her return stance, her eyes narrowing, her mind crystal clear. Anna tossed the ball high, the motion perfect, mechanical. The serve came like a bullet—120 miles per hour, a strike to end it all.
But Monique was ready. Time seemed to stretch. She stretched with it, her racket extending across her body meeting the ball in the sweet spot with an effortless grace she hadn’t felt all match. The ball shot back like a comet, low and fast, catching Anna by surprise. It hit her feet just as she moved to the net, and she flinched, sending a weak return spiraling into the air.
The crowd gasped. Anna blinked, as if the impossible had just happened.
The next serve came, and Monique was there again, reading it, returning it with precision, forcing Anna to stumble. The cracks began to show. Confidence wavered. The champion was human after all.
Monique broke her once. Then again.
The score tightened. 5-4. Then 6-6. A tiebreaker.
Anna tried to regroup, but the momentum had already shifted. Monique was everywhere now, playing with a freedom and fierceness she hadn’t shown before. Her footwork was lighter, her strokes crisper. It was as if the pressure had evaporated, leaving only the pure thrill of the game.
She took the tiebreak 7-4, forcing a third set no one had expected.
Anna, the machine, adjusted. She fought back with everything she had, her groundstrokes punishing, her serves biting the corners. It was an epic duel, back and forth, a clash of wills that neither woman seemed willing to surrender.
But Monique’s legs grew heavy, her breath shorter. By the final tiebreak of the third set, her body began to falter. She had given everything, clawed her way back from the brink, but in the end, Anna’s experience, her training, her destiny proved just a little stronger.
The final score: 7-5.
As they met at the net, Anna wrapped her arms around Monique, hiding her tear-streaked face, her breath hitching with sobs. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice raw. “I didn’t want it to end. That was the most alive I’ve ever felt. See you in New York.”
Anna was crowned champion. But it didn’t feel like a coronation. Not truly.
The crowd rose to their feet, but the cheers weren’t for Anna. They were for Monique—the girl who had fought, who had come so close, who had reminded them all why they loved this game in the first place. Tears filled Monique’s eyes as she looked up at the stands, at her father, smiling softly, clapping for her with the same calm pride he had shown that day in the park.
Choking back the flood of tears welling in his eyes, Monique’s father lifted his hand to blow her a kiss.
Though the trophy wasn’t hers, Monique had won something far greater—the heart of the crowd, the respect of her rival, and most importantly, a deeper level of love.
Pressure is a privilege. ~Billy Jean King
This piece is dedicated to my good friend, Scott N. Thank you for being such a kind and generous human being. Laughing with you, playing tennis with you, and sharing our personal evolutions have been the highlights of the last two years of my life. I’m going to dearly miss you having you around ❤️