Open: An Autobiography
For Stefanie, Jaden, and Jaz
One cannot always tell what it is that keeps us shut in, confines us, seems to bury us, but
still one feels certain barriers, certain gates, certain walls. Is all this imagination, fantasy? I do
not think so. And then one asks: My God! Is it for long, is it for ever, is it for eternity? Do you
know what frees one from this captivity? It is very deep serious affection. Being friends, being
brothers, love, that is what opens the prison by supreme power, by some magic force.
Vincent van Gogh, letter to his brother, July 1880
THE END
I OPEN MY EYES and dont know where I am or who I am. Not all that unusualIve
spent half my life not knowing. Still, this feels different. This confusion is more frightening.
More total.
I look up. Im lying on the floor beside the bed. I remember now. I moved from the bed to
the floor in the middle of the night. I do that most nights. Better for my back. Too many hours
on a soft mattress causes agony. I count to three, then start the long, difficult process of
standing. With a cough, a groan, I roll onto my side, then curl into the fetal position, then flip
over onto my stomach. Now I wait, and wait, for the blood to start pumping.
Im a young man, relatively speaking. Thirty-six. But I wake as if ninety-six. After three
decades of sprinting, stopping on a dime, jumping high and landing hard, my body no longer
feels like my body, especially in the morning. Consequently my mind doesnt feel like my
mind. Upon opening my eyes Im a stranger to myself, and while, again, this isnt new, in the
mornings its more pronounced. I run quickly through the basic facts. My name is Andre
Agassi. My wifes name is Stefanie Graf. We have two children, a son and daughter, five and
three. We live in Las Vegas, Nevada, but currently reside in a suite at the Four Seasons hotel
in New York City, because Im playing in the 2006 U.S. Open. My last U.S. Open. In fact my
last tournament ever. I play tennis for a living, even though I hate tennis, hate it with a dark
and secret passion, and always have.
As this last piece of identity falls into place, I slide to my knees and in a whisper I say:
Please let this be over.
Then: Im not ready for it to be over.
Now, from the next room, I hear Stefanie and the children. Theyre eating breakfast, talking,
laughing. My overwhelming desire to see and touch them, plus a powerful craving for caffeine,
gives me the inspiration I need to hoist myself up, to go vertical. Hate brings me to my
knees, love gets me on my feet.
I glance at the bedside clock. Seven thirty. Stefanie let me sleep in. The fatigue of these final
days has been severe. Apart from the physical strain, there is the exhausting torrent of
emotions set loose by my pending retirement. Now, rising from the center of the fatigue
comes the first wave of pain. I grab my back. It grabs me. I feel as if someone snuck in during
the night and attached one of those anti-theft steering wheel locks to my spine. How can I
play in the U.S. Open with the Club on my spine? Will the last match of my career be a forfeit?
I was born with spondylolisthesis, meaning a bottom vertebra that parted from the other
vertebrae, struck out on its own, rebelled. (Its the main reason for my pigeon-toed walk.) With
this one vertebra out of sync, theres less room for the nerves inside the column of my spine,
and with the slightest movement the nerves feel that much more crowded. Throw in two herniated
discs and a bone that wont stop growing in a futile effort to protect the damaged area,
and those nerves start to feel downright claustrophobic. When the nerves protest their
cramped quarters, when they send out distress signals, a pain runs up and down my leg that
makes me suck in my breath and speak in tongues. At such moments the only relief is to lie
down and wait. Sometimes, however, the moment arrives in the middle of a match. Then the
only remedy is to alter my gameswing differently, run differently, do everything differently.
Thats when my muscles spasm. Everyone avoids change; muscles cant abide it. Told to
change, my muscles join the spinal rebellion, and soon my whole body is at war with itself.
Gil, my trainer, my friend, my surrogate father, explains it this way: Your body is saying it
doesnt want to do this anymore.
My body has been saying that for a long time, I tell Gil. Almost as long as Ive been saying
it.
Since January, however, my body has been shouting it. My body doesnt want to retire
my body has already retired. My body has moved to Florida and bought a condo and
white Sansabelts. So Ive been negotiating with my body, asking it to come out of retirement
for a few hours here, a few hours there. Much of this negotiation revolves around a cortisone
shot that temporarily dulls the pain. Before the shot works, however, it causes its own torments.
I got one yesterday, so I could play tonight. It was the third shot this year, the thirteenth of
my career, and by far the most alarming. The doctor, not my regular doctor, told me brusquely
to assume the position. I stretched out on his table, face down, and his nurse yanked down
my shorts. The doctor said he needed to get his seven-inch needle as close to the inflamed
nerves as possible. But he couldnt enter directly, because my herniated discs and bone spur
were blocking the path. His attempts to circumvent them, to break the Club, sent me through
the roof. First he inserted the needle. Then he positioned a big machine over my back to see
how close the needle was to the nerves. He needed to get that needle almost flush against
the nerves, he said, without actually touching. If it were to touch the nerves, even if it were to
only nick the nerves, the pain would ruin me for the tournament. It could also be life-changing.
In and out and around, he maneuvered the needle, until my eyes filled with water.
Finally he hit the spot. Bulls-eye, he said.
In went the cortisone. The burning sensation made me bite my lip. Then came the pressure.
I felt infused, embalmed. The tiny space in my spine where the nerves are housed
began to feel vacuum packed. The pressure built until I thought my back would burst.
Pressure is how you know everythings working, the doctor said.
Words to live by, Doc.
Soon the pain felt wonderful, almost sweet, because it was the kind that you can tell precedes
relief. But maybe all pain is like that.
MY FAMILY IS GROWING LOUDER. I limp out to the living room of our suite. My son,
Jaden, and my daughter, Jaz, see me and scream. Daddy, Daddy! They jump up and down
and want to leap on me. I stop and brace myself, stand before them like a mime imitating a
tree in winter. They stop just before leaping, because they know Daddy is delicate these days,
Daddy will shatter if they touch him too hard. I pat their faces and kiss their cheeks and join
them at the breakfast table.
Jaden asks if today is the day.
Yes.
Youre playing?
Yes.
And then after today are you retire?
A new word he and his younger sister have learned. Retired. When they say it, they always
leave off the last letter. For them its retire, forever ongoing, permanently in the present
tense. Maybe they know something I dont.
Not if I win, son. If I win tonight, I keep playing.
But if you losewe can have a dog?
To the children, retire equals puppy. Stefanie and I have promised them that when I stop
training, when we stop traveling the world, we can buy a puppy. Maybe well name him
Cortisone.
Yes, buddy, when I lose, we will buy a dog.
He smiles. He hopes Daddy loses, hopes Daddy experiences the disappointment that surpasses
all others. He doesnt understandand how will I ever be able to explain it to
him?the pain of losing, the pain of playing. Its taken me nearly thirty years to understand it
myself, to solve the calculus of my own psyche.
I ask Jaden what hes doing today.
Going to see the bones.
I look at Stefanie. She reminds me shes taking them to the Museum of Natural History.
Dinosaurs. I think of my twisted vertebrae. I think of my skeleton on display at the museum
with all the other dinosaurs. Tennis-aurus Rex.
Jaz interrupts my thoughts. She hands me her muffin. She needs me to pick out the blueberries
before she eats it. Our morning ritual. Each blueberry must be surgically removed,
which requires precision, concentration. Stick the knife in, move it around, get it right up to the
blueberry without touching. I focus on her muffin and its a relief to think about something other
than tennis. But as I hand her the muffin, I cant pretend that it doesnt feel like a tennis
ball, which makes the muscles in my back twitch with anticipation. The time is drawing near.
AFTER BREAKFAST, after Stefanie and the kids have kissed me goodbye and run off to
the museum, I sit quietly at the table, looking around the suite. Its like every hotel suite Ive
ever had, only more so. Clean, chic, comfortableits the Four Seasons, so its lovely, but its
still just another version of what I call Not Home. The non-place we exist as athletes. I close
my eyes, try to think about tonight, but my mind drifts backward. My mind these days has a
natural backspin. Given half a chance it wants to return to the beginning, because Im so
close to the end. But I cant let it. Not yet. I cant afford to dwell too long on the past. I get up
and walk around the table, test my balance. When I feel fairly steady I walk gingerly to the
shower.
Under the hot water I groan and scream. I bend slowly, touch my quads, start to come
alive. My muscles loosen. My skin sings. My pores fly open. Warm blood goes sluicing
through my veins. I feel something begin to stir. Life. Hope. The last drops of youth. Still, I
make no sudden movements. I dont want to do anything to startle my spine. I let my spine
sleep in.
Standing at the bathroom mirror, toweling off, I stare at my face. Red eyes, gray
stubblea face totally different from the one with which I started. But also different from the
one I saw last year in this same mirror. Whoever I might be, Im not the boy who started this
odyssey, and Im not even the man who announced three months ago that the odyssey was
coming to an end. Im like a tennis racket on which Ive replaced the grip four times and the
strings seven timesis it accurate to call it the same racket? Somewhere in those eyes,
however, I can still vaguely see the boy who didnt want to play tennis in the first place, the
boy who wanted to quit, the boy who did quit many times. I see that golden-haired boy who
hated tennis, and I wonder how he would view this bald man, who still hates tennis and yet
still plays. Would he be shocked? Amused? Proud? The question makes me weary, lethargic,
and its only noon.
Please let this be over.
Im not ready for it to be over.
The finish line at the end of a career is no different from the finish line at the end of a
match. The objective is to get within reach of that finish line, because then it gives off a magnetic
force. When youre close, you can feel that force pulling you, and you can use that force
to get across. But just before you come within range, or just after, you feel another force,
equally strong, pushing you away. Its inexplicable, mystical, these twin forces, these contradictory
energies, but they both exist. I know, because Ive spent much of my life seeking the
one, fighting the other, and sometimes Ive been stuck, suspended, bounced like a tennis ball
between the two.
Tonight: I remind myself that it will require iron discipline to cope with these forces, and
whatever else comes my way. Back pain, bad shots, foul weather, self-loathing. Its a form of
worry, this reminder, but also a meditation. One thing Ive learned in twenty-nine years of
playing tennis: Life will throw everything but the kitchen sink in your path, and then it will throw
the kitchen sink. Its your job to avoid the obstacles. If you let them stop you or distract you,
youre not doing your job, and failing to do your job will cause regrets that paralyze you more
than a bad back.
I lie on the bed with a glass of water and read. When my eyes get tired I click on the TV.
Tonight, Round Two of the U.S. Open! Will this be Andre Agassis farewell? My face flashes
on the screen. A different face than the one in the mirror. My game face. I study this new reflection
of me in the distorted mirror that is TV and my anxiety rises another click or two. Was
that the final commercial? The final time CBS will ever promote one of my matches?
I cant escape the feeling that Im about to die.
Its no accident, I think, that tennis uses the language of life. Advantage, service, fault,
break, love, the basic elements of tennis are those of everyday existence, because every
match is a life in miniature. Even the structure of tennis, the way the pieces fit inside one another
like Russian nesting dolls, mimics the structure of our days. Points become games become
sets become tournaments, and its all so tightly connected that any point can become
the turning point. It reminds me of the way seconds become minutes become hours, and any
hour can be our finest. Or darkest. Its our choice.
But if tennis is life, then what follows tennis must be the unknowable void. The thought
makes me cold.
Stefanie bursts through the door with the kids. They flop on the bed, and my son asks how
Im feeling.
Fine, fine. How were the bones?
Fun!
Stefanie gives them sandwiches and juice and hustles them out the door again.
They have a playdate, she says.
Dont we all.
Now I can take a nap. At thirty-six, the only way I can play a late match, which could go
past midnight, is if I get a nap beforehand. Also, now that I know roughly who I am, I want to
close my eyes and hide from it. When I open my eyes, one hour has passed. I say aloud, Its
time. No more hiding. I step into the shower again, but this shower is different from the morning
shower. The afternoon shower is always longertwenty-two minutes, give or takeand
its not for waking up or getting clean. The afternoon shower is for encouraging myself, coaching
myself.
Tennis is the sport in which you talk to yourself. No athletes talk to themselves like tennis
players. Pitchers, golfers, goalkeepers, they mutter to themselves, of course, but tennis players
talk to themselvesand answer. In the heat of a match, tennis players look like lunatics in
a public square, ranting and swearing and conducting Lincoln-Douglas debates with their alter
egos. Why? Because tennis is so damned lonely. Only boxers can understand the loneliness
of tennis playersand yet boxers have their corner men and managers. Even a boxers opponent
provides a kind of companionship, someone he can grapple with and grunt at. In tennis
you stand face-to-face with the enemy, trade blows with him, but never touch him or talk to
him, or anyone else. The rules forbid a tennis player from even talking to his coach while on
the court. People sometimes mention the track-and-field runner as a comparably lonely figure,
but I have to laugh. At least the runner can feel and smell his opponents. Theyre inches
away. In tennis youre on an island. Of all the games men and women play, tennis is the
closest to solitary confinement, which inevitably leads to self-talk, and for me the self-talk
starts here in the afternoon shower. This is when I begin to say things to myself, crazy things,
over and over, until I believe them. For instance, that a quasi-cripple can compete at the U.S.
Open. That a thirty-six-year-old man can beat an opponent just entering his prime. Ive won
869 matches in my career, fifth on the all-time list, and many were won during the afternoon
shower.
With the water roaring in my earsa sound not unlike twenty thousand fansI recall particular
wins. Not wins the fans would remember, but wins that still wake me at night. Squillari
in Paris. Blake in New York. Pete in Australia. Then I recall a few losses. I shake my head at
the disappointments. I tell myself that tonight will be an exam for which Ive been studying
twenty-nine years. Whatever happens tonight, Ive already been through it at least once before.
If its a physical test, if its mental, its nothing new.
Please let this be over.
I dont want it to be over.
I start to cry. I lean against the wall of the shower and let go.
I GIVE MYSELF STRICT ORDERS as I shave: Take it one point at a time. Make him work
for everything. No matter what happens, hold your head up. And for Gods sake enjoy it, or at
least try to enjoy moments of it, even the pain, even the losing, if thats whats in store.
I think about my opponent, Marcos Baghdatis, and wonder what hes doing at this moment.
Hes new to the tour, but not your typical newcomer. Hes ranked number eight in the
world. Hes a big strong Greek kid from Cyprus, in the middle of a superb year. Hes reached
the final of the Australian Open and the semis of Wimbledon. I know him fairly well. During
last years U.S. Open we played a practice set. Typically I dont play practice sets with other
players during a Grand Slam, but Baghdatis asked with disarming grace. A TV show from
Cyprus was doing a piece about him, and he asked if it would be all right if they filmed us
practicing. Sure, I said. Why not? I won the practice set, 62, and afterward he was all smiles.
I saw that hes the type who smiles when hes happy or nervous, and you cant tell which. It
reminded me of someone, but I couldnt think who.
I told Baghdatis that he played a little like me, and he said it was no accident. He grew up
with pictures of me on his bedroom wall, patterned his game after mine. In other words, tonight
Ill be playing my mirror image. Hell play from the back of the court, take the ball early,
swing for the fences, just like me. Its going to be toe-to-toe tennis, each of us trying to impose
our will, each of us looking for chances to smoke a backhand up the line. He doesnt have an
overwhelming serve, nor do I, which means long points, long rallies, lots of energy and time
expended. I brace myself for flurries, combinations, a tennis of attrition, the most brutal form
of the sport.
Of course the one stark difference between me and Baghdatis is physical. We have different
bodies. He has my former body. Hes nimble, fast, spry. Ill have to beat the younger version
of myself if I am to keep the older version going. I close my eyes and say: Control what
you can control.
I say it again, aloud. Saying it aloud makes me feel brave.
I shut off the water and stand, shivering. How much easier it is to be brave under a stream
of piping hot water. I remind myself, however, that hot-water bravery isnt true bravery. What
you feel doesnt matter in the end; its what you do that makes you brave.
STEFANIE AND THE KIDS RETURN. Time to make the Gil Water.
I sweat a lot, more than most players, so I need to begin hydrating many hours before a
match. I down quarts of a magic elixir invented for me by Gil, my trainer for the last seventeen
years. Gil Water is a blend of carbs, electrolytes, salt, vitamins, and a few other ingredients
Gil keeps a closely guarded secret. (Hes been tinkering with his recipe for two decades.) He
usually starts force-feeding me Gil Water the night before a match, and keeps forcing me right
up to match time. Then I sip it as the match wears on. At different stages I sip different versions,
each a different color. Pink for energy, red for recovery, brown for replenishment.
The kids love helping me mix Gil Water. They fight over who gets to scoop out the
powders, who gets to hold the funnel, who gets to pour it all into plastic water bottles. No one
but me, however, can pack the bottles into my bag, along with my clothes and towels and
books and shades and wristbands. (My rackets, as always, go in later.) No one but me
touches my tennis bag, and when its finally packed, it stands by the door, like an assassins
kit, a sign that the day has lurched that much closer to the witching hour.
At five, Gil rings from the lobby.
He says, You ready? Time to throw down. Its on, Andre. Its on.
Nowadays everyone says Its on, but Gil has been saying it for years, and no one says it
the way he does. When Gil says Its on, I feel my booster rockets fire, my adrenaline glands
pump like geysers. I feel as if I can lift a car over my head.
Stefanie gathers the children at the door and tells them its time for Daddy to leave. What
do you say, guys?
Jaden shouts, Kick butt, Daddy!
Kick butt, Jaz says, copying her brother.
Stefanie kisses me and says nothing, because theres nothing to say.
IN THE TOWN CAR Gil sits in the front seat, dressed sharp. Black shirt, black tie, black
jacket. He dresses for every match as if its a blind date or a mob hit. Now and then he checks
his long black hair in the side mirror or rearview. I sit in the backseat with Darren, my coach,
an Aussie who always rocks a Hollywood tan and the smile of a guy who just hit the
Powerball. For a few minutes no one says anything. Then Gil speaks the lyrics of one of our
favorites, an old Roy Clark ballad, and his deep basso fills the car:
Just going through the motions and pretending
we have something left to gain
He looks to me, waits.
I say, We Cant Build a Fire in the Rain.
He laughs. I laugh. For a second I forget my nervous butterflies.
Butterflies are funny. Some days they make you run to the toilet. Other days they make
you horny. Other days they make you laugh, and long for the fight. Deciding which type of
butterflies youve got going (monarchs or moths) is the first order of business when youre
driving to the arena. Figuring out your butterflies, deciphering what they say about the status
of your mind and body, is the first step to making them work for you. One of the thousand les
sons Ive learned from Gil.
I ask Darren for his thoughts on Baghdatis. How aggressive do I want to be tonight? Tennis
is about degrees of aggression. You want to be aggressive enough to control a point, not
so aggressive that you sacrifice control and expose yourself to unnecessary risk. My questions
about Baghdatis are these: How will he try to hurt me? If I hit a backhand cross-court to
start a point, some players will be patient, others will make a statement right away, crush the
ball up the line or come hard to the net. Since Ive never played Baghdatis outside of our one
practice set, I want to know how hell react to conservative play. Will he step up and jack that
routine crosscourt, or lie back, bide his time?
Darren says, Mate, I think if you get too conservative on your rally shot, you can expect
this guy to move around it and hurt you with his forehand.
I see.
As far as his backhand goes, he cant hit it easily up the line. He wont be quick to pull that
trigger. So if you find he is hitting backhands up the line, that definitely means youre not putting
enough steam on your rally shot.
Does he move well?
Yes, hes a good mover. But hes not comfortable being on the defensive. Hes a better
mover offensively than defensively.
Hm.
We pull up to the stadium. Fans are milling about. I sign a few autographs, then duck
through a small door. I walk down a long tunnel and into the locker room. Gil goes off to consult
with security. He always wants them to know exactly when were going out to the court to
practice, and when were coming back. Darren and I drop our bags and walk straight to the
training room. I lie on a table and beg the first trainer who comes near me to knead my back.
Darren ducks out and returns five minutes later, carrying eight freshly strung rackets. He sets
them atop my bag. He knows I want to place them in the bag myself.
I obsess about my bag. I keep it meticulously organized, and I make no apologies for this
anal retentiveness. The bag is my briefcase, suitcase, toolbox, lunchbox, and palette. I need it
just right, always. The bag is what I carry onto the court, and what I carry off, two moments
when all my senses are extra acute, so I can feel every ounce of its weight. If someone were
to slip a pair of argyle socks into my tennis bag, Id feel it. The tennis bag is a lot like your
heartyou have to know whats in it at all times.
Its also a question of functionality. I need my eight rackets stacked chronologically in the
tennis bag, the most recently strung racket on the bottom and the least recently strung on the
top, because the longer a racket sits, the more tension it loses. I always start a match with the
racket strung least recently, because I know thats the racket with the loosest tension.
My racket stringer is old school, Old World, a Czech artiste named Roman. Hes the best,
and he needs to be: a string job can mean the difference in a match, and a match can mean
the difference in a career, and a career can mean the difference in countless lives. When I
pull a fresh racket from my bag and try to serve out a match, the string tension can be worth
hundreds of thousands of dollars. Because Im playing for my family, my charitable foundation,
my school, every string is like a wire in an airplane engine. Given all that lies beyond my
control, I obsess about the few things I can control, and racket tension is one such thing.
So vital is Roman to my game that I take him on the road. Hes officially a resident of New
York, but when Im playing in Wimbledon, he lives in London, and when Im playing in the
French Open, hes a Parisian. Occasionally, feeling lost and lonely in some foreign city, Ill sit
with Roman and watch him string a few rackets. Its not that I dont trust him. Just the opposite:
Im calmed, grounded, inspired by watching a craftsman. It reminds me of the singular importance
in this world of a job done well.
The raw rackets come to Roman in a great big box from the factory, and theyre always a
mess. To the naked eye they look identical; to Roman theyre as different as faces in a crowd.
He spins them, back and forth, furrows his brow, then makes his calculations. At last he begins.
He starts by removing the factory grip and putting on my grip, the custom grip Ive had
since I was fourteen. My grip is as personal as my thumbprint, a by-product not just of my
hand shape and finger length but the size of my calluses and the force of my squeeze. Roman
has a mold of my grip, which he applies to the racket. Then he wraps the mold with calfskin,
which he pounds thinner and thinner until its the width he wants. A millimeter difference,
near the end of a four-hour match, can feel as irritating and distracting as a pebble in my
shoe.
With the grip just so, Roman laces in the synthetic strings. He tightens them, loosens
them, tightens them, tunes them as carefully as strings on a viola. Then he stencils them and
vigorously waves them through the air, to let the stenciling dry. Some stringers stencil the
rackets right before match time, which I find wildly inconsiderate and unprofessional. The
stencil rubs off on the balls, and theres nothing worse than playing a guy who gets red and
black paint on the balls. I like order and cleanliness, and that means no stencil-specked balls.
Disorder is distraction, and every distraction on the court is a potential turning point.
Darren opens two cans of balls and shoves two balls in his pocket. I take a gulp of Gil Water,
then a last leak before warm-ups. James, the security guard, leads us into the tunnel. As
usual hes squeezed into a tight yellow security shirt, and he gives me a wink, as if to say, We
security guards are supposed to be impartial, but Im rooting for you.
James has been at the U.S. Open almost as long as I have. Hes led me down this tunnel
before and after glorious wins and excruciating losses. Large, kind, with tough-guy scars that
he wears with pride, James is a bit like Gil. Its almost as though he takes over for Gil during
those few hours on the court, when Im outside Gils sphere of influence. There are people
you count on seeing at the U.S. Openoffice staffers, ball boys, trainersand their presence
is always reassuring. They help you remember where and who you are. James is at the top of
that list. Hes one of the first people I look for when I walk into Arthur Ashe Stadium. Seeing
him, I know Im back in New York, and Im in good hands.
Ever since 1993, when a spectator in Hamburg rushed onto the court and stabbed Monica
Seles during a match, the U.S. Open has positioned one security guard behind each players
chair during all breaks and changeovers. James always makes sure to be the one behind my
chair. His inability to remain impartial is endlessly charming. During a grueling match, Ill often
catch James looking concerned, and Ill whisper, Dont worry, James, Ive got this chump
today. It always makes him chuckle.
Now, walking me out to the practice courts, hes not chuckling. He looks sad. He knows
that this could be our last night together. Still, he doesnt deviate from our pre-match ritual. He
says the same thing he always says:
Let me help you with that bag.
No, James, no one carries my bag but me.
Ive told James that when I was seven years old I saw Jimmy Connors make someone
carry his bag, as though he were Julius Caesar. I vowed then and there that I would always
carry my own.
OK, James says, smiling. I know, I know. I remember. Just wanted to help.
Then I say: James, you got my back today?
I got your back, baby. I got it. Dont worry about nothing. Just take care of business.
We emerge into a dusky September night, the sky a smear of violet and orange and
smog. I walk to the stands, shake hands with a few fans, sign a few more autographs before
practicing. There are four practice courts, and James knows I want the one farthest from the
crowd, so Darren and I can have a little privacy as we hit and talk strategy.
I groan as I guide the first backhand up the line to Darrens forehand.
Dont hit that shot tonight, he says. Baghdatis will hurt you with that.
Really?
Trust me, mate.
And you say he moves well?
Yes, quite well.
We hit for twenty-eight minutes. I dont know why I notice these detailsthe length of an
afternoon shower, the duration of a practice session, the color of Jamess shirt. I dont want to
notice, but I do, all the time, and then I remember forever. My memory isnt like my tennis
bag; I have no say over its contents. Everything goes in, and nothing ever seems to come out.
My back feels OK. Normal stiffness, but the excruciating pain is gone. The cortisone is
working. I feel goodthough, of course, the definition of good has evolved in recent years.
Still, I feel better than I did when I opened my eyes this morning, when I thought of forfeiting. I
might be able to do this. Of course tomorrow there will be severe physical consequences, but
I cant dwell on tomorrow any more than I can dwell on yesterday.
Back inside the locker room I pull off my sweaty clothes and jump in the shower. My third
shower of the day is short, utilitarian. No time for coaching or crying. I slip on dry shorts, a T-
shirt, put my feet up in the training room. I drink more Gil Water, as much as I can hold, because
its six thirty, and the match is nearly one hour off.
There is a TV above the training table, and I try to watch the news. I cant. I walk down to
the offices and look in on the secretaries and officials of the U.S. Open. Theyre busy. They
dont have time to talk. I step through a small door. Stefanie and the children have arrived.
Theyre in a little playground outside the locker room. Jaden and Jaz are taking turns on the
plastic slide. Stefanie is grateful, I can tell, to have the children here for distraction. Shes
more keyed up than I. She looks almost irritated. Her frown says, This thing should have started
already! Come on! I love the way my wife spoils for a fight.
I talk to her and the children for a few minutes, but I cant hear a word theyre saying. My
mind is far away. Stefanie sees. She feels. You dont win twenty-two Grand Slams without a
highly developed intuition. Besides, she was the same way before her matches. She sends
me back into the locker room: Go. Well be here. Do what you need to do.
She wont watch the match from ground level. Its too close for her. Shell stay in a skybox
with the children, alternately pacing, praying, and covering her eyes.
PERE, ONE OF the senior trainers, walks in. I can tell which of his trays is for me: the one
with the two giant foam donuts and two dozen precut strips of tape. I lie on one of six training
tables, and Pere sits at my feet. A messy business, getting these dogs ready for war, so he
puts a trash can under them. I like that Pere is tidy, meticulous, the Roman of calluses. First
he takes a long Q-tip and applies an inky goo that makes my skin sticky, my instep purple.
Theres no washing off that ink. My instep hasnt been ink-free since Reagan was president.
Now Pere sprays on skin toughener. He lets that dry, then taps a foam donut onto each callus.
Next come the strips of tape, which are like rice paper. They instantly become part of my
skin. He wraps each big toe until its the size of a sparkplug. Finally he tapes the bottoms of
my feet. He knows my pressure points, where I land, where I need extra layers of padding.
I thank him, put on my shoes, unlaced. Now, as everything begins to slow down, the
volume goes up. Moments ago the stadium was quiet, now its beyond loud. The air is filled
with a buzzing, a humming, the sound of fans rushing to their seats, hurrying to get settled,
because they dont want to miss a minute of whats coming.
I stand, shake out my legs.
I wont sit again.
I try a jog down the hall. Not bad. The back is holding. All systems go.
Across the locker room I see Baghdatis. Hes suited up, fussing with his hair in front of a
mirror. Hes flicking it, combing it, pulling it back. Wow, he has a lot of hair. Now hes positioning
his headband, a white Cochise wrap. He gets it perfect, then gives one last tug on his
ponytail. A decidedly more glamorous pre-match ritual than cushioning your toe calluses. I remember
my hair issues early in my career. For a moment I feel jealous. I miss my hair. Then I
run a hand over my bare scalp and feel grateful that, with all the things Im worried about right
now, hair isnt one of them.
Baghdatis begins stretching, bending at the waist. He stands on one leg and pulls one
knee to his chest. Nothing is quite so unsettling as watching your opponent do pilates, yoga,
and tai chi when you cant so much as curtsy. He now maneuvers his hips in ways I havent
dared since I was seven.
And yet hes doing too much. Hes antsy. I can almost hear his central nervous system, a
sound like the buzz of the stadium. I watch the interaction between him and his coaches, and
theyre antsy too. Their faces, their body language, their coloring, everything tells me they
know theyre in for a street fight, and theyre not sure they want it. I always like my opponent
and his team to show nervous energy. A good omen, but also a sign of respect.
Baghdatis sees me and smiles. I remember that he smiles when hes happy or nervous,
and you can never tell which. Again, it reminds me of someone, and I cant think who.
I raise a hand. Good luck.
He raises a hand. We who are about to die
I duck into the tunnel for one last word with Gil, whos staked out a corner where he can
be alone but still keep an eye on everything. He puts his arms around me, tells me he loves
me, hes proud of me. I find Stefanie and give her one last kiss. Shes bobbing, weaving,
stomping her feet. Shed give anything to slip on a skirt, grab a racket, and join me out there.
My pugnacious bride. She tries a smile but it ends up a wince. I see in her face everything
she wants to say but will not let herself say. I hear every word she refuses to utter: Enjoy, savor,
take it all in, notice each fleeting detail, because this could be it, and even though you
hate tennis, you might just miss it after tonight.
This is what she wants to say, but instead she kisses me and says what she always says
before I go out there, the thing Ive come to count on like air and sleep and Gil Water.
Go kick some butt.
AN OFFICIAL OF THE U.S. OPEN, wearing a suit and carrying a walkie-talkie as long as
my forearm, approaches. He seems to be in charge of network coverage and on-court security.
He seems to be in charge of everything, including arrivals and departures at LaGuardia.
Five minutes, he says.
I turn to someone and ask, What time is it?
Go time, they say.
No. I mean, what time? Is it seven thirty? Seven twenty? I dont know, and it suddenly
feels important. But there are no clocks.
Darren and I turn to each other. His Adams apple goes up and down.
Mate, he says, your homework is done. Youre ready.
I nod.
He holds out his fist for a bump. Just one bump, because thats what we did before my
first-round win earlier this week. Were both superstitious, so however we start a tournament,
thats how we finish. I stare at Darrens fist, give it one decisive bump, but dont dare lift my
gaze and make eye contact. I know Darren is tearing up, and I know what that sight will do to
me.
Last things: I lace up my shoes. I tape my wrist. I always tape my own wrist, ever since my
injury in 1993. I tie my shoes.
Please let this be over.
Im not ready for it to be over.
Mr. Agassi, its time.
Im ready.
I walk into the tunnel, three steps behind Baghdatis, James again leading the way. We
stop, wait for a signal. The buzzing sound all around us becomes louder. The tunnel is meat-
locker cold. I know this tunnel as well as I know the front foyer of my house, and yet tonight it
feels about fifty degrees colder than usual and a football field longer. I look to the side. There
along the walls are the familiar photos of former champions. Navratilova. Lendl. McEnroe.
Stefanie. Me. The portraits are three feet tall and spaced evenlytoo evenly. Theyre like
trees in a new suburban development. I tell myself: Stop noticing such things. Time to narrow
your mind, the way the tunnel narrows your vision.
The head of security yells, OK, everyone, its showtime!
We walk.
By careful prearrangement, Baghdatis stays three paces ahead as we move toward the
light. Suddenly a second light, a blinding ethereal light, is in our faces. A TV camera. A reporter
asks Baghdatis how he feels. He says something I cant hear.
Now the camera is closer to my face and the reporter is asking the same question.
Could be your last match ever, the reporter says. How does that make you feel?
I answer, no idea what Im saying. But after years of practice I have a sense that Im saying
what he wants me to say, what Im expected to say. Then I resume walking, on legs that
dont feel like my own.
The temperature rises dramatically as we near the door to the court. The buzzing is now
deafening. Baghdatis bursts through first. He knows how much attention my retirement has
been getting. He reads the papers. He expects to play the villain tonight. He thinks hes prepared.
I let him go, let him hear the buzzing turn to cheers. I let him think the crowd is cheering
for both of us. Then I walk out. Now the cheers triple. Baghdatis turns and realizes the first
cheer was for him, but this cheer is mine, all mine, which forces him to revise his expectations
and reconsider whats in store. Without hitting a single ball Ive caused a major swing in his
sense of well-being. A trick of the trade. An old-timers trick.
The crowd gets louder as we find our way to our chairs. Its louder than I thought it would
be, louder than Ive ever heard it in New York. I keep my eyes lowered, let the noise wash
over me. They love this moment; they love tennis. I wonder how they would feel if they knew
my secret. I stare at the court. Always the most abnormal part of my life, the court is now the
only space of normalcy in all this turmoil. The court, where Ive felt so lonely and exposed, is
where I now hope to find refuge from this emotional moment.
I CRUISE THROUGH THE FIRST SET, winning 64. The ball obeys my every command.
So does my back. My body feels warm, liquid. Cortisone and adrenaline, working together. I
win the second set, 64. I see the finish line.
In the third set I start to tire. I lose focus and control. Baghdatis, meanwhile, changes his
game plan. He plays with desperation, a more powerful drug than cortisone. He starts to live
in the now. He takes risks, and every risk pays off. The ball now disobeys me and conspires
with him. It consistently bounces his way, which gives him confidence. I see the confidence
shining from his eyes. His initial despair has turned to hope. No, anger. He doesnt admire me
anymore. He hates me, and I hate him, and now were sneering and snarling and trying to
wrest this thing from each other. The crowd feeds on our anger, shrieking, pounding their feet
after every point. Theyre not clapping their hands as much as slapping them, and it all
sounds primitive and tribal.
He wins the third set, 63.
I can do nothing to slow the Baghdatis onslaught. On the contrary, its getting worse. Hes
twenty-one, after all, just warming up. Hes found his rhythm, his reason for being out here,
his right to be here, whereas Ive burned through my second wind and Im painfully aware of
the clock inside my body. I dont want a fifth set. I cant handle a fifth set. My mortality now a
factor, I start to take my own risks. I grab a 40 lead. Im up two service breaks, and again the
finish line is within sight, within reach. I feel the magnetic force, pulling me.
Then I feel the other force pushing. Baghdatis starts to play his best tennis of the year. He
just remembered hes number eight in the world. He pulls triggers on shots I didnt know he
had in his repertoire. Ive set a perilously high standard, but now he meets me there, and exceeds
me. He breaks me to go 41. He holds serve to go 42.
Here comes the biggest game of the match. If I win this game, I retake command of this
set and reestablish in his mindand minethat he was fortunate to get one break back. If I
lose, its 43, and everything resets. Our night will begin again. Though weve bludgeoned
each other for ten rounds, if I lose this game the fight will start over. We play at a furious
pace. He goes for broke, holds nothing backwins the game.
Hes going to take this set. Hell die before he loses this set. I know it and he knows it and
everyone in this stadium knows it. Twenty minutes ago I was two games from winning and advancing.
Im now on the brink of collapse.
He wins the set, 75.
The fifth set begins. Im serving, shaking, unsure my body can hold out for another ten
minutes, facing a kid who seems to be getting younger and stronger with every point. I tell
myself, Do not let it end this way. Of all ways, not this way, not giving up a two-set lead.
Baghdatis is talking to himself also, urging himself on. We ride a seesaw, a pendulum of high-
energy points. He makes a mistake. I give it back. He digs in. I dig in deeper. Im serving at
deuce, and we play a frantic point that ends when he hits a backhand drop shot that I wing into
the net. I scream at myself. Advantage Baghdatis. The first time Ive trailed him all night.
Shake it off. Control what you can control, Andre.
I win the next point. Deuce again. Elation.
I give him the next point. Backhand into the net. Advantage Baghdatis. Depression.
He wins the next point also, wins the game, breaks to go up 10.
We walk to our chairs. I hear the crowd murmuring the first Agassi eulogies. I take a sip of
Gil Water, feeling sorry for myself, feeling old. I look over at Baghdatis, wondering if hes feeling
cocky. Instead hes asking a trainer to rub his legs. Hes asking for a medical time-out. His
left quad is strained. He did that to me on a strained quad?
The crowd uses the lull in the action to chant. Lets go, Andre! Lets go, Andre! They start
a wave. They hold up signs with my name.
Thanks for the memories, Andre!
This is Andres House.
At last Baghdatis is ready to go. His serve. Having just broken me to take the lead in the
match, he should have a full head of steam. But instead the lull seems to have disrupted his
rhythm. I break him. Were back on serve.
For the next six games we each hold. Then, knotted at fourall, with me serving, we play a
game that seems to last a week, one of the most taxing and unreal games of my career. We
grunt like animals, hit like gladiators, his forehand, my backhand. Everyone in the stadium
stops breathing. Even the wind stops. Flags go limp against the poles. At 4030, Baghdatis
hits a swift forehand that sweeps me out of position. I barely get there in time to put my racket
on it. I sling the ball over the netscreaming in agonyand he hits another scorcher to my
backhand. I scurry in the opposite directionoh, my back!and reach the ball just in time.
But Ive wrenched my spine. The spinal column is locked up and the nerves inside are keening.
Goodbye, cortisone. Baghdatis hits a winner to the open court and as I watch it sail by I
know that for the rest of this night my best effort is behind me. Whatever I do from this point
on will be limited, compromised, borrowed against my future health and mobility.
I look across the net to see if Baghdatis has noticed my pain, but hes hobbling. Hobbling?
Hes cramping. He falls to the ground, grabbing his legs. Hes in more pain than I. Ill take a
congenital back condition over sudden leg cramps any day. As he writhes on the ground I
realize: All I have to do is stay upright, move this goddamned ball around a little while longer,
and let his cramps do their work.
I abandon all thought of subtlety and strategy. I say to myself, Fundamentals. When you
play someone wounded, its about instinct and reaction. This will no longer be tennis, but a
raw test of wills. No more jabs, no more feints, no more footwork. Nothing but roundhouses
and haymakers.
Back on his feet, Baghdatis too has stopped strategizing, stopped thinking, which makes
him more dangerous. I can no longer predict what hell do. Hes crazed with pain, and no one
can predict crazy, least of all on a tennis court. At deuce, I miss my first serve, then give him a
fat, juicy second serve, seventy-something miles an hour, on which he unloads. Winner. Advantage
Baghdatis.
Shit. I slump forward. The guy cant move, but he still crushes my serve?
Now, yet again, Im one slender, skittish point away from falling behind 45, which will set
up Baghdatis to serve for the match. I close my eyes. I miss my first serve again. I hit another
tentative second serve just to get the point going and somehow he flubs an easy forehand.
Deuce again.
When your mind and body teeter on the verge of all-out collapse, one easy point like that
feels like a pardon from the governor. And yet, I nearly squander my pardon. I miss my first
serve. I make my second and he returns it wide. Another gift. Advantage Agassi.
Im one point from a commanding 54 lead. Baghdatis grimaces, bears down. He wont
yield. He wins the point. Deuce number three.
I promise myself that if I gain the advantage again, I wont lose it.
By now Baghdatis isnt merely cramping, hes a cripple. Awaiting my serve, hes fully bent
over. I cant believe hes managing to stay on the court, let alone give me such a game. The
guy has as much heart as he has hair. I feel for him, and at the same time tell myself to show
him no mercy. I serve, he returns, and in my eagerness to hit to the open court, I hit far wide.
Out. A choke. Clearly, a choke. Advantage Baghdatis.
He cant capitalize, however. On the next point he hits a forehand several feet beyond the
baseline. Deuce number four.
We have a long rally, ending when I drive a deep shot to his forehand that he misplays.
Advantage Agassi. Again. I promised myself I wouldnt waste this opportunity if it came
around again, and here it is. But Baghdatis wont let me keep the promise. He quickly wins
the next point. Deuce number five.
We play an absurdly long point. Every ball he hits, moaning, catches a piece of the line.
Every ball I hit, screaming, somehow clears the net. Forehand, backhand, trick shot, diving
shotthen he hits a ball that nicks the baseline and takes a skittish sideways hop. I catch it
on the rise and hit it twenty feet over him and the baseline. Advantage Baghdatis.
Stick to basics, Andre. Run him, run him. Hes gimpy, just make him move. I serve, he hits
a vanilla return, I send him side to side until he yowls in pain and hits the ball into the net.
Deuce number six.
While waiting for my next serve, Baghdatis is leaning on his racket, using it as an old man
uses a walking stick. When I miss a first serve, however, he creeps forward, crablike, and with
his walking stick he whacks my serve well beyond the reach of my forehand. Advantage
Baghdatis.
His fourth break point of this game. I hit a timid first serve, so paltry, so meek, my seven-
year-old self would have been ashamed, and yet Baghdatis hits a defensive return. I hit to
his forehand. He nets. Deuce number seven.
I make another first serve. He gets a racket on it but cant get it over the net. Advantage
Agassi.
Im serving again for the game. I recall my twice-broken promise. Here, one last chance.
My back, however, is spasming. I can barely turn, let alone toss the ball and hit it 120 miles
an hour. I miss my first serve, of course. I want to crush a second serve, be aggressive, but I
cant. Physically I cannot. I tell myself, Three-quarter kick, put the ball above his shoulder,
make him go side to side until he pukes blood. Just dont double-fault.
Easier said than done. The box is shrinking. I watch it gradually diminish in size. Can
everyone else see what Im seeing? The box is now the size of a playing card, so small that
Im not sure this ball would fit if I walked it over there and set it down. I toss the ball, hit an al
ligator-armed serve. Out. Of course. Double fault. Deuce number eight.
The crowd screams in disbelief.
I manage to make a first serve. Baghdatis hits a workmanlike return. With three-quarters
of his court wide open, I punch the ball deep to his backhand, ten feet from him. He scampers
toward it, waves his racket limply, cant get there. Advantage Agassi.
On the twenty-second point of the game, after a brief rally, Baghdatis finally whips a backhand
into the net. Game, Agassi.
During the changeover I watch Baghdatis sit. Big mistake. A young mans mistake. Never
sit when cramping. Never tell your body that its time to rest, then tell it, Just kidding! Your
body is like the federal government. It says, Do anything you like, but when you get caught,
dont lie to me. So hes not going to be able to serve. Hes not going to be able to get out of
that chair.
And then he gets out and holds serve.
Whats keeping this man up?
Oh. Yes. Youth.
At 5all, we play a stilted game. He makes a mistake, goes for the knockout. I counter-
punch and win. I lead, 65.
His serve. He goes up 4015. Hes one point from pushing this match to a tiebreaker.
I fight him to deuce.
Then I win the next point, and now I have match point.
A quick, vicious exchange. He hits a wild forehand, and as it leaves his strings I know its
out. I know Ive won this match, and at the same moment I know that I wouldnt have had energy
for one more swing.
I meet Baghdatis at the net, take his hand, which is trembling, and hurry off the court. I
dont dare stop. Must keep moving. I stagger through the tunnel, my bag slung over my left
shoulder, feeling as if its slung over my right shoulder, because my whole body is twisted. By
the time I reach the locker room Im unable to walk. Im unable to stand. Im sinking to the
floor. Im on the ground. Darren and Gil arrive, slip my bag off my shoulder and lift me onto a
table. Baghdatiss people deposit him on the table next to me.
Darren, whats wrong with me?
Lie down, mate. Stretch out.
I cant, I cant
Where does it hurt? Is it a cramp?
No, its a constriction. I cant breathe.
What?
I cantDarren, I cantbreathe.
Darren is helping someone put ice on my body, raising my arms, calling for doctors. Hes
begging me to reach, reach, stretch.
Just release, mate. Unclench. Your body is clenched. Just let go, mate, let go.
But I cant. And thats the whole problem, isnt it? I cant let go.
A KALEIDOSCOPE OF FACES appears above me. Gil, squeezing my arm, handing me a
recovery drink. I love you, Gil. Stefanie, kissing me on the forehead and smilinghappy or
nervous, I cant tell. Oh, yes, of course, thats where Ive seen that smile before. A trainer,
telling me the doctors are on the way. He turns on the TV above the table. Something to do
while you wait, he says.
I try to watch. I hear moans to my left. I turn my head slowly and see Baghdatis on the
next table. His team is working on him. They stretch his quad, his hamstring cramps. They
stretch his hamstring, his quad cramps. He tries to lie flat, his groin cramps. He curls into a
ball and begs them to leave him be. Everyone clears out of the locker room. Its just the two of
us. I turn back to the TV.
Moments later something makes me turn back to Baghdatis. Hes smiling at me. Happy or
nervous? Maybe both. I smile back.
I hear my name coming from the TV. I turn my head. Highlights from the match. The first
two sets, so misleadingly easy. The third, Baghdatis starting to believe. The fourth, a knife
fight. The fifth, the never-ending ninth game. Some of the best tennis Ive ever played. Some
of the best Ive ever seen. The commentator calls it a classic.
In my peripheral vision I detect slight movement. I turn to see Baghdatis extending his
hand. His face says, We did that. I reach out, take his hand, and we remain this way, holding
hands, as the TV flickers with scenes of our savage battle.
At last I let my mind go where its wanted to go. I cant stop it anymore. No longer asking
politely, my mind is now forcibly spinning me into the past. And because my mind notes and
records the slightest details, I see everything with bright, startling clarity, every setback, victory,
rivalry, tantrum, paycheck, girlfriend, betrayal, reporter, wife, child, outfit, fan letter,
grudge match, and crying jag. As if a second TV above me were showing highlights from the
last twenty-nine years, it all flies past in a high-def whirl.
People often ask what its like, this tennis life, and I can never think how to describe it. But
that word comes closest. More than anything else, its a wrenching, thrilling, horrible, astonishing
whirl. It even exerts a faint centrifugal force, which Ive spent three decades fighting.
Now, lying on my back under Arthur Ashe Stadium, holding hands with a vanquished opponent
and waiting for someone to come help us, I do the only thing I can do. I stop fighting it. I
just close my eyes and watch.
IM SEVEN YEARS OLD, talking to myself, because Im scared, and because Im the only
person who listens to me. Under my breath I whisper: Just quit, Andre, just give up. Put down
your racket and walk off this court, right now. Go into the house and get something good to
eat. Play with Rita, Philly, or Tami. Sit with Mom while she knits or does her jigsaw puzzle.
Doesnt that sound nice? Wouldnt that feel like heaven, Andre? To just quit? To never play
tennis again?
But I cant. Not only would my father chase me around the house with my racket, but
something in my gut, some deep unseen muscle, wont let me. I hate tennis, hate it with all
my heart, and still I keep playing, keep hitting all morning, and all afternoon, because I have
no choice. No matter how much I want to stop, I dont. I keep begging myself to stop, and I
keep playing, and this gap, this contradiction between what I want to do and what I actually
do, feels like the core of my life.
At the moment my hatred for tennis is focused on the dragon, a ball machine modified by
my fire-belching father. Midnight black, set on big rubber wheels, the word PRINCE painted in
white block letters along its base, the dragon looks at first glance like the ball machine at
every country club in America, but its actually a living, breathing creature straight out of my
comic books. The dragon has a brain, a will, a black heartand a horrifying voice. Sucking
another ball into its belly, the dragon makes a series of sickening sounds. As pressure builds
inside its throat, it groans. As the ball rises slowly to its mouth, it shrieks. For a moment the
dragon sounds almost silly, like the fudge machine swallowing Augustus Gloop in Willy
Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. But when the dragon takes dead aim at me and fires a ball
110 miles an hour, the sound it makes is a bloodcurdling roar. I flinch every time.
My father has deliberately made the dragon fearsome. Hes given it an extra-long neck of
aluminum tubing, and a narrow aluminum head, which recoils like a whip every time the
dragon fires. Hes also set the dragon on a base several feet high, and moved it flush against
the net, so the dragon towers above me. At seven years old Im small for my age. (I look
smaller because of my constant wince and the bimonthly bowl haircuts my father gives me.)
But when standing before the dragon, I look tiny. Feel tiny. Helpless.
My father wants the dragon to tower over me not simply because it commands my attention
and respect. He wants the balls that shoot from the dragons mouth to land at my feet as
if dropped from an airplane. The trajectory makes the balls nearly impossible to return in a
conventional way: I need to hit every ball on the rise, or else it will bounce over my head. But
even thats not enough for my father. Hit earlier, he yells. Hit earlier.
My father yells everything twice, sometimes three times, sometimes ten. Harder, he says,
harder. But whats the use? No matter how hard I hit a ball, no matter how early, the ball
comes back. Every ball I send across the net joins the thousands that already cover the court.
Not hundreds. Thousands. They roll toward me in perpetual waves. I have no room to turn, to
step, to pivot. I cant move without stepping on a balland yet I cant step on a ball, because
my father wont bear it. Step on one of my fathers tennis balls and hell howl as if you stepped
on his eyeball.
Every third ball fired by the dragon hits a ball already on the ground, causing a crazy sideways
hop. I adjust at the last second, catch the ball early, and hit it smartly across the net. I
know this is no ordinary reflex. I know there are few children in the world who could have
seen that ball, let alone hit it. But I take no pride in my reflexes, and I get no credit. Its what
Im supposed to do. Every hit is expected, every miss a crisis.
My father says that if I hit 2,500 balls each day, Ill hit 17,500 balls each week, and at the
end of one year Ill have hit nearly one million balls. He believes in math. Numbers, he says,
dont lie. A child who hits one million balls each year will be unbeatable.
Hit earlier, my father yells. Damn it, Andre, hit earlier. Crowd the ball, crowd the ball.
Now hes crowding me. Hes yelling directly into my ear. Its not enough to hit everything
the dragon fires at me; my father wants me to hit it harder and faster than the dragon. He
wants me to beat the dragon. The thought makes me panicky. I tell myself: You cant beat the
dragon. How can you beat something that never stops? Come to think of it, the dragon is a lot
like my father. Except my father is worse. At least the dragon stands before me, where I can
see it. My father stays behind me. I rarely see him, only hear him, day and night, yelling in my
ear.
More topspin! Hit harder. Hit harder. Not in the net! Damn it, Andre! Never in the net!
Nothing sends my father into a rage like hitting a ball into the net. He dislikes when I hit
the ball wide, he yells when I hit a ball long, but when I muff a ball into the net, he foams at
the mouth. Errors are one thing, the net is something else. Over and over my father says: The
net is your biggest enemy.
My father has raised the enemy six inches higher than regulation, to make it that much
harder to avoid. If I can clear my fathers high net, he figures Ill have no trouble clearing the
net one day at Wimbledon. Never mind that I dont want to play Wimbledon. What I want isnt
relevant. Sometimes I watch Wimbledon on TV with my father, and we both root for Bjrn
Borg, because hes the best, he never stops, hes the nearest thing to the dragonbut I dont
want to be Borg. I admire his talent, his energy, his style, his ability to lose himself in his
game, but if I ever develop those qualities, Id rather apply them to something other than
Wimbledon. Something of my own choosing.
Hit harder, my father yells. Hit harder. Now backhands. Backhands.
My arm feels like its going to fall off. I want to ask, How much longer, Pops? But I dont
ask. I do as Im told. I hit as hard as I can, then slightly harder. On one swing I surprise myself
by how hard I hit, how cleanly. Though I hate tennis, I like the feeling of hitting a ball dead
perfect. Its the only peace. When I do something perfect, I enjoy a split second of sanity and
calm.
The dragon responds to perfection, however, by firing the next ball faster.
Short backswing, my father says. Short backthats it. Brush the ball, brush the ball.
At the dinner table my father will sometimes demonstrate. Drop your racket under the ball,
he says, and brush, brush. He makes a motion like a painter, gently wafting a brush. This
might be the only thing Ive ever seen my father do gently.
Work your volleys, he yellsor tries to. An Armenian, born in Iran, my father speaks five
languages, none of them well, and his English is heavily accented. He mixes his Vs and Ws,
so it sounds like this: Vork your wolleys. Of all his instructions, this is his favorite. He yells this
until I hear it in my dreams. Vork your wolleys, vork your wolleys.
Ive vorked so many wolleys I can no longer see the court. Not one patch of green cement
is visible beneath the yellow balls. I slidestep, shuffling like an old man. Finally, even my father
has to admit there are too many balls. Its counterproductive. If I cant move we wont make
our daily quota of 2,500. He revs up the blower, the giant machine for drying the court after it
rains. Of course it never rains where we liveLas Vegas, Nevadaso my father uses the
blower to corral tennis balls. Just as he did with the ball machine, my father has modified a
standard blower, made it into another demonic creature. Its one of my earliest memories: five
years old, getting pulled out of kindergarten, going with my father to the welding shop and
watching him build this insane lawnmower-like machine that can move hundreds of tennis
balls at once.
Now I watch him push the blower, watch the tennis balls scurry from him, and feel sympathy
for the balls. If the dragon and the blower are living things, maybe the balls are too.
Maybe theyre doing what I would if I couldrunning from my father. After blowing all the balls
into one corner, my father takes a snow shovel and scoops the balls into a row of metal
garbage cans, slop buckets with which he feeds the dragon.
He turns, sees me watching. What the hell are you looking at? Keep hitting! Keep hitting!
My shoulder aches. I cant hit another ball.
I hit another three.
I cant go on another minute.
I go another ten.
I get an idea. Accidentally on purpose, I hit a ball high over the fence. I manage to catch it
on the wooden rim of the racket, so it sounds like a misfire. I do this when I need a break, and
it crosses my mind that I must be pretty good if I can hit a ball wrong at will.
My father hears the ball hit wood and looks up. He sees the ball leave the court. He
curses. But he heard the ball hit wood, so he knows it was an accident. Besides, at least I
didnt hit the net. He stomps out of the yard, out to the desert. I now have four and a half
minutes to catch my breath and watch the hawks circling lazily overhead.
My father likes to shoot the hawks with his rifle. Our house is blanketed with his victims,
dead birds that cover the roof as thickly as tennis balls cover the court. My father says he
doesnt like hawks because they swoop down on mice and other defenseless desert
creatures. He cant stand the thought of something strong preying on something weak. (This
also holds true when he goes fishing: whatever he catches, he kisses its scaly head and
throws it back.) Of course he has no qualms about preying on me, no trouble watching me
gasp for air on his hook. He doesnt see the contradiction. He doesnt care about contradictions.
He doesnt realize that Im the most defenseless creature in this godforsaken desert. If
he did realize, I wonder, would he treat me differently?
Now he stomps back onto the court, slams the ball into a garbage can, and sees me staring
at the hawks. He glares. What the fuck are you doing? Stop thinking. No fucking thinking!
The net is the biggest enemy, but thinking is the cardinal sin. Thinking, my father believes,
is the source of all bad things, because thinking is the opposite of doing. When my father
catches me thinking, daydreaming, on the tennis court, he reacts as if he caught me taking
money from his wallet. I often think about how I can stop thinking. I wonder if my father yells
at me to stop thinking because he knows Im a thinker by nature. Or, with all his yelling, has
he turned me into a thinker? Is my thinking about things other than tennis an act of defiance?
I like to think so.
OUR HOUSE IS AN OVERGROWN SHACK, built in the 1970s, white stucco with peeling
dark trim around its edges. The windows have bars. The roof, under all the dead hawks, has
wood shingles, many of which are loose or missing. The door has a cowbell that rings every
time someone comes or goes, like the opening bell of a boxing match.
My father has painted the high cement wall around the house a bright forest green. Why?
Because green is the color of a tennis court. Also, my father likes the convenience of directing
someone to the house like this: Turn left, go down half a block, then look for the bright green
wall.
Not that we ever have any visitors.
Surrounding the house on all sides is desert, and more desert, which to me is another
word for death. Dotted with sticker bushes, tumble-weed, and coiled rattlers, the desert
around our house seems to have no reason for existence, other than providing a place for
people to dump things they no longer want. Mattresses, tires, other people. Vegasthe casi
nos, the hotels, the Stripstands off in the distance, a glittering illusion. My father commutes
to the illusion every day. Hes a captain at one of the casinos, but he refuses to live closer.
We moved out here to the middle of nowhere, the heart of nothingness, because its only here
that my father could afford a house with a yard big enough for his ideal tennis court.
Its another early memory: driving around Vegas with my father and the real estate agent.
It would have been funny if it hadnt been scary. At house after house, even before the
agents car came to a full stop my father would jump out and march up the front walk. The
agent, close on my fathers heels, would be yakking about local schools, crime rates, interest
rates, but my father wouldnt be listening. Staring straight ahead, my father would storm into
the house, through the living room, through the kitchen, into the backyard, where hed whip
out his tape measure and count off thirty-six feet by seventy-eight feet, the dimensions of a
tennis court. Time after time hed yell, Doesnt fit! Come on! Lets go! My father would then
march back through the kitchen, through the living room, down the front walk, the real estate
agent struggling to keep pace.
We saw one house my older sister Tami desperately wanted. She begged my father to
buy it, because it was shaped like a T, and T stood for Tami. My father almost bought it, probably
because T also stood for Tennis. I liked the house. So did my mother. The backyard,
however, was inches too short.
Doesnt fit! Lets go!
Finally we saw this house, its backyard so big that my father didnt need to measure. He
just stood in the middle of the yard, turning slowly, gazing, grinning, seeing the future.
Sold, he said quietly.
We hadnt carried in the last cardboard box before my father began to build his dream
court. I still dont know how he did it. He never worked a day in construction. He knew nothing
about concrete, asphalt, water drainage. He read no books, consulted no experts. He just got
a picture in his head and set about making that picture a reality. As with so many things, he
willed the court into being through sheer orneriness and energy. I think he might be doing
something similar with me.
He needed help, of course. Pouring concrete is a big job. So each morning hed drive me
to Sambos, a diner on the Strip, where wed recruit a few old-timers from the gang that hung
out in the parking lot. My favorite was Rudy. Battle-scarred, barrel-chested, Rudy always
looked at me with a half smile, as if he understood that I didnt know who or where I was.
Rudy and his gang would follow me and my father back to our house, and there my father
would tell them what needed doing. After three hours my father and I would run down to McDonalds
and buy huge sacks of Big Macs and French fries. When we returned, my father
would let me ring the cowbell and call the men to lunch. I loved rewarding Rudy. I loved
watching him eat like a wolf. I loved the concept of hard work leading to sweet rewards
except when hard work meant hitting tennis balls.
The days of Rudy and the Big Macs passed in a blur. Suddenly my father had his backyard
tennis court, which meant I had my prison. Id helped feed the chain gang that built my
cell. Id helped measure and paint the white lines that would confine me. Why did I do it? I had
no choice. The reason I do everything.
No one ever asked me if I wanted to play tennis, let alone make it my life. In fact, my
mother thought I was born to be a preacher. She tells me, however, that my father decided
long before I was born that I would be a professional tennis player. When I was one year old,
she adds, I proved my father right. Watching a ping-pong game, I moved only my eyes, never
my head. My father called to my mother.
Look, he said. See how he moves only his eyes? A natural.
She tells me that when I was still in the crib, my father hung a mobile of tennis balls above
my head and encouraged me to slap at them with a ping-pong paddle hed taped to my hand.
When I was three he gave me a sawed-off racket and told me to hit whatever I wanted. I specialized
in salt shakers. I liked serving them through glass windows. I aced the dog. My father
never got mad. He got mad about many things, but never about hitting something hard with a
racket.
When I was four he had me hitting with tennis greats who passed through town, beginning
with Jimmy Connors. My father told me that Connors was one of the finest to ever play. I was
more impressed that Connors had a bowl haircut just like mine. When we finished hitting,
Connors told my father that I was sure to become very good.
I already know that, my father said, annoyed. Very good? Hes going to be number one in
the world.
He wasnt seeking Connorss confirmation. He was seeking someone who could give me
a game.
Whenever Connors comes to Vegas, my father strings his rackets. My father is a master
stringer. (Who better than my old man to create and maintain tension?) Its always the same
drill. In the morning Connors gives my father a box of rackets, and eight hours later my father
and I meet Connors at a restaurant on the Strip. My father sends me in, cradling the restrung
rackets. I ask the manager if he can point me to Mr. Connorss table. The manager sends me
to a far corner, where Connors sits with his entourage. Connors is at the center, back to the
wall. I hold his rackets toward him, carefully, not saying a word. The conversation at the table
comes to a halt, and everyone looks down at me. Connors takes the rackets roughly and sets
them on a chair. For a moment I feel important, as though Ive delivered freshly sharpened
swords to one of the Three Musketeers. Then Connors tousles my hair, says something sar
castic about me or my father, and everyone at the table guffaws.
THE BETTER I GET AT TENNIS, the worse I get at school, which pains me. I like books,
but feel overmatched by them. I like my teachers, but dont understand much of what they
say. I dont seem to learn or process facts the way other kids do. I have a steel-trap memory,
but trouble concentrating. I need things explained twice, three times. (Maybe thats why my
father yells everything twice?) Also, I know that my father resents every moment I spend in
school; it comes at the cost of court time. Disliking school, therefore, doing poorly in school,
feels like loyalty to Pops.
Some days, when hes driving me and my siblings to school, my father will smile and say:
Ill make you guys a deal. Instead of taking you to school, how about I take you to Cambridge
Racquet Club? You can hit balls all morning. How does that sound?
We know what he wants us to say. So we say it. Hooray!
Just dont tell your mother, my father says.
Cambridge Racquet Club is a long, low-roofed dump, just east of the Strip, with ten hard
courts and a seedy smelldust, sweat, liniment, plus something sour, something just past its
expiration date, that I can never quite identify. My father treats Cambridge like an addition to
our house. He stands with the owner, Mr. Fong, and they watch us closely, making sure we
play, that we dont waste our time talking or laughing. Eventually my father lets out a short
whistle, a sound Id know anywhere. He puts his fingers in his mouth, gives one hard blast,
and that means game, set, match, stop hitting and get in the car, now.
My siblings always stop before I do. Rita, the oldest, Philly, my older brother, and
Tamithey all play tennis well. Were like the von Trapps of tennis. But me, the youngest, the
baby, Im the best. My father tells me so, tells my siblings, tells Mr. Fong. Andre is the chosen
one. Thats why my father gives me most of his attention. Im the last best hope of the Agassi
clan. Sometimes I like the extra attention from my father, sometimes Id rather be invisible,
because my father can be scary. My father does things.
For instance, he often reaches a thumb and forefinger inside his nostril and, bracing himself
for the eye-watering pain, pulls out a thick bouquet of black nose hairs. This is how he
grooms himself. In the same spirit, he shaves his face without soap or cream. He simply runs
a disposable razor up and down his dry cheeks and jaw, shredding his skin, then letting the
blood trickle down his face until it dries.
When stressed, when distracted, my father often stares off into space and mumbles: I love
you, Margaret. I ask my mother one day: Whos Pops talking to? Whos Margaret?
My mother says that when my father was my age, he was skating on a pond and the ice
cracked. He fell through and drownedstopped breathing for a long time. He was pulled from
the water and revived by a woman named Margaret. Hed never seen her before and never
saw her again. But every so often he sees her in his mind, and speaks to her, and thanks her
in his most tender voice. He says this vision of Margaret comes upon him like a seizure. He
has no knowledge while its happening, and only a dim memory afterward.
Violent by nature, my father is forever preparing for battle. He shadowboxes constantly.
He keeps an ax handle in his car. He leaves the house with a handful of salt and pepper in
each pocket, in case hes in a street fight and needs to blind someone. Of course some of his
most vicious battles are with himself. He has chronic stiffness in his neck, and hes perpetually
loosening the neck bones by angrily twisting and yanking his head. When this doesnt
work he shakes himself like a dog, whipping his head from side to side until the neck makes a
sound like popcorn popping. When even this doesnt work, he resorts to the heavy punching
bag that hangs from a harness outside our house. My father stands on a chair, removes the
punching bag, and places his neck in the harness. He then kicks away the chair and drops a
foot through the air, his momentum abruptly halted by the harness. The first time I saw him do
this, I was walking through the rooms of the house. I looked up and there was my father, kicking
the chair, hanging by his neck, his shoes three feet off the ground. I had no doubt hed
killed himself. I ran to him, hysterical.
Seeing the stricken look on my face, he barked: What the fuck is the matter with you?
Most of his battles, however, are against others, and they typically begin without warning,
at the most unexpected times. In his sleep, for instance. He boxes in his dreams, and frequently
hauls off and punches my dozing mother. In the car too. My father enjoys few things
more than driving his green diesel Oldsmobile, singing along to his eight-track of Laura
Branigan. But if another driver crosses him, if another driver cuts him off or objects to being
cut off by my father, everything goes dark.
Im driving with my father one day, going to Cambridge, and he gets into a shouting match
with another driver. My father stops his car, steps out, orders the man out of his. Because my
father is wielding his ax handle, the man refuses. My father whips the ax handle into the
mans headlights and taillights, sending sprays of glass everywhere.
Another time my father reaches across me and points his handgun at another driver. He
holds the gun level with my nose. I stare straight ahead. I dont move. I dont know what the
other driver has done wrong, only that its the automotive equivalent of hitting into the net. I
feel my fathers finger tensing on the trigger. Then I hear the other driver speed away, followed
by a sound I rarely hearmy father laughing. Hes busting a gut. I tell myself that Ill remember
this momentmy father laughing, holding a gun under my noseif I live to be one
hundred.
When he puts the gun back into the glove box and throws the car into drive, my father
turns to me. Dont tell your mother, he says.
I cant imagine why he says this. What would my mother do if we told her? She never
raises a word of protest. Does my father think theres a first time for everything?
On a rare rainy day in Vegas, my father is driving me to pick up my mother at her office.
Im standing on my end of the bench seat, horsing around, singing. My father gets in the left
lane to make a turn. A trucker honks at my father. My father apparently forgot to signal. My
father gives the trucker the finger. His hand flies up so fast, it nearly hits my face. The trucker
yells something. My father lets fly a stream of curses. The trucker stops, opens his door. My
father stops, jumps out.
I crawl into the backseat and watch through the back window. The rain is falling harder.
My father approaches the trucker. The trucker throws a punch. My father ducks, deflects the
punch with the top of his head, then throws a blazingly fast combination, ending with an uppercut.
The trucker is lying on the pavement. Hes deadIm sure of it. If hes not dead, he
soon will be, because hes in the middle of the road and someone will run him over. My father
gets back in the car and we peel away. I stay in the backseat, watching the trucker through
the back window, rain pelting his unconscious face. I turn to see my father, mumbling, throwing
combinations against the steering wheel. Just before we pick up my mother he looks
down at his hands, clenches and unclenches his fists to make sure the knuckles arent
broken. Then he looks in the backseat, directly into my eyes, though it feels as if hes seeing
Margaret. Somewhat tenderly he says, Dont tell your mother.
Such moments, and many more, come to mind whenever I think about telling my father
that I dont want to play tennis. Besides loving my father, and wanting to please him, I dont
want to upset him. I dont dare. Bad stuff happens when my father is upset. If he says Im going
to play tennis, if he says Im going to be number one in the world, that its my destiny, all I
can do is nod and obey. I would advise Jimmy Connors or anyone else to do the same.
THE ROAD TO NUMBER ONE goes over Hoover Dam. When Im almost eight years old
my father says the time has come to move from backyard sessions with the dragon and hitarounds
at Cambridge to actual tournaments, against real live little boys, all over Nevada and
Arizona and California. Every weekend the whole family piles into the car and drives, either
north on U.S. 95, toward Reno, or south, through Henderson and over Hoover Dam, across
the desert to Phoenix or Scottsdale or Tucson. The last place I want to be, other than a tennis
court, is in a car with my father. But its all settled. Im condemned to divide my childhood
between these two boxes.
I win my first seven tournaments in the ten-and-under bracket. My father has no reaction.
Im simply doing what Im supposed to do. Driving back over Hoover Dam, I stare at all the
water bottled up behind the massive wall. I look at the inscription on the base of the flagpole:
In honor of those men who, inspired by a vision of lonely lands made fruitful I turn this
phrase over in my mind. Lonely lands. Is there a land lonelier than our house in the desert? I
think about the rage bottled up in my father, like the Colorado River inside the Hoover Dam.
Only a matter of time before it bursts. Nothing to do but scramble for high ground.
For me, that means winning. Always winning.
We go to San Diego. Morley Field. I play a kid named Jeff Tarango, who isnt nearly on my
level. But he wins the first set, 64. Im stunned. Scared. My father is going to kill me. I bear
down, win the second set, 60. Early in the third set Tarango twists his ankle. I start dropshotting
him, trying to make him run on the bad ankle. But hes only faking. His ankle is fine.
He comes bounding in and smashes my drop shots and wins every point.
My father screams from the stands: No more drop shots! No more drops!
But I cant help myself. I have a strategy, Im sticking with it.
We go to a tiebreak. Its best-of-nine. Back and forth we trade points, until its 4all. Here it
is. Sudden death. One point for the whole match. Ive never lost and cant imagine what my
fathers reaction will be if I do. I play as if my life hangs in the balance, which it does. Tarango
must have a father like mine, because hes playing the same way.
I haul off and rope a fizzing backhand crosscourt. I hit it as a rally shot but it comes off my
racket bigger and hotter than I intended. Its a screaming winner, three feet in but well beyond
Tarangos reach. I howl in triumph. Tarango, standing in the center of the court, bows his
head and seems to cry. Slowly he walks toward the net.
Now he stops. All of a sudden, he looks back at where the ball hit. He smiles.
Out, he says.
I stop.
The ball was out! Tarango yells.
This is the rule in juniors. Players act as their own linesmen. Players call balls in or out,
and there is no appeal. Tarango has decided hed rather do this than lose, and he knows
theres nothing anyone can do about it. He raises his hands in victory.
Now I start to cry.
Bedlam breaks out in the stands, parents arguing, shouting, nearly coming to blows. Its
not fair, its not right, but its reality. Tarango is the winner. I refuse to shake his hand. I run
away into Balboa Park. When I return half an hour later, all cried out, my father is furious. Not
because I disappeared, but because I didnt do what he said during the match.
Why didnt you listen to me? Why did you keep hitting drop shots?
For once Im not afraid of my father. No matter how angry he is with me, Im angrier. Im
furious with Tarango, with God, with myself. Even though I feel Tarango cheated me, I
shouldnt have put him in a position to cheat me. I shouldnt have let the match get that close.
Because I did, Ill now have a loss on my recordforever. Nothing can ever change it. I cant
endure the thought, but its inescapable: Im fallible. Blemished. Imperfect. A million balls hit
against the dragonfor what?
After years of hearing my father rant at my flaws, one loss has caused me to take up his
rant. Ive internalized my fatherhis impatience, his perfectionism, his rageuntil his voice
doesnt just feel like my own, it is my own. I no longer need my father to torture me. From this
day on, I can do it all by myself.
MY FATHERS MOTHER lives with us. Shes a nasty old lady from Tehran with a wart the
size of a walnut on the edge of her nose. Sometimes you cant hear a word shes saying because
you cant take your eyes off that wart. But it doesnt matter, shes surely saying the
same nasty things she said yesterday, and the day before, and probably saying them to my
father. This seems to be the reason Grandma was put on earth, to harass my father. He says
she nagged him when he was a boy and often beat him. When he was extra bad, she made
him wear hand-me-down girl clothes to school. Thats why he learned to fight.
If shes not pecking at my father, the old lady is squawking about the old country, sighing
about the folks she left behind. My mother says Grandma is homesick. The first time I hear
this word I ask myself, How can you be sick about not being home? Home is where the
dragon lives. Home is the place where, when you go there, you have to play tennis.
If Grandma wants to go back home, Im all for it. Im only eight, but Ill drive her to the airport
myself, because she causes more tension in a house that doesnt need one bit more.
She makes my father miserable, she bosses me and my siblings around, and she engages in
a strange competition with my mother. My mother tells me that when I was a baby, she
walked into the kitchen and found Grandma breastfeeding me. Things have been awkward
between the two women ever since.
Of course, there is one good thing about Grandma living with us. She tells stories about
my father, about his childhood, and this sometimes gets my father reminiscing, causes him to
open up. If not for Grandma we wouldnt know much about my fathers past, which was sad
and lonely and helps explain his odd behavior and boiling rage. Sort of.
Oh, Grandma says with a sigh, we were poor. You cant imagine how poor. And hungry,
she says, rubbing her belly. We had no foodalso, no running water, no electricity. And not a
stick of furniture.
Where did you sleep?
We slept on the dirt floor! All of us in one tiny room! In an old apartment house built
around a filthy courtyard. In one corner of the courtyard was a holethat was the toilet for all
the tenants.
My father chimes in.
Things got better after the war, he says. Overnight, the streets were filled with British and
American soldiers. I liked them.
Why did you like the soldiers?
They gave me candy and shoes.
They also gave him English. The first word my father learned from the GIs was victory.
Thats all they talked about, he says. Wictory.
Whoa, were they big, he adds. And strong. I followed them everywhere, watching them,
studying them, and one day I followed them to the place where they spent all their free
timea park in the woods with two clay tennis courts.
There were no fences around the courts, so the ball would go bouncing away every few
seconds. My father would run after the ball and bring it back to the soldiers, like a puppy dog,
until finally they made him their unofficial ball boy. Then they made him the official court custodian.
My father says: Every day I swept and watered and combed the courts with a heavy roller.
I painted the lines white. What a job that was! I had to use chalk water.
How much did they pay you?
Pay? Nothing! They gave me a tennis racket. It was a piece of junk. An old wooden thing
strung with steel wire. But I loved it. I spent hours with that racket, hitting a tennis ball against
a brick wall, alone.
Why alone?
No one else in Iran played tennis.
The only sport that could offer my father a steady supply of opponents was boxing. His
toughness was tested first in one street fight after another, and then as a teenager he strode
into a gym and set to work learning formal boxing techniques. A natural, the trainers called
him. Quick with his hands, light on his feetand he had a grudge against the world. His rage,
so hard for us to deal with, was an asset in the squared circle. He won a spot on the Iranian
Olympic team, boxing in the bantamweight division, and went to the 1948 Games in London.
Four years later he went to the Games in Helsinki. He didnt do well at either.
The judges, he grumbles. They were crooked. The whole thing was fixed, rigged. The
world was very biased against Iran.
My father, Mike, as a scrappy eighteen-year-old
bantamweight in Tehran
But my son, he addsmaybe they will make tennis an Olympic sport once again, and my son
will win a gold medal, and that will make up for it.
A little extra pressure to go with my everyday pressure.
After seeing a bit of the world, after being an Olympian, my father couldnt return to that
same single room with the dirt floor, so he snuck out of Iran. He doctored his passport and
booked a flight under an assumed name to New York City, where he spent sixteen days on
Ellis Island, then took a bus to Chicago, where he Americanized his name. Emmanuel became
Mike Agassi. By day he worked as an elevator operator at one of the citys grand hotels.
By night he boxed.
His coach in Chicago was Tony Zale, the fearless middleweight champ, often called the
Man of Steel. Famous for his part in one of the sports bloodiest rivalries, a three-bout saga
with Rocky Graziano, Zale lauded my father, told him he had tons of raw talent, but pleaded
with him to hit harder. Hit harder, Zale would scream at my father as he peppered the speed
bag. Hit harder. Every punch you throw, throw it from the floor up.
With Zale in his corner my father won the Chicago Golden Gloves, then earned a prime-
time fight at Madison Square Garden. His big break. But on fight night my fathers opponent
fell ill. The promoters scrambled, trying to find a substitute. They found one, all righta much
better boxer, and a welterweight. My father agreed to the fight, but moments before the opening
bell he got the shakes. He ducked into a bathroom, crawled out the window above the toilet,
then took the train back to Chicago.
Sneaking out of Iran, sneaking out of the Gardenmy father is an escape artist, I think.
But theres no escaping him.
My father says that when he boxed, he always wanted to take a guys best punch. He tells
me one day on the tennis court: When you know that you just took the other guys best punch,
and youre still standing, and the other guy knows it, you will rip the heart right out of him. In
tennis, he says, same rule. Attack the other mans strength. If the man is a server, take away
his serve. If hes a power player, overpower him. If he has a big forehand, takes pride in his
forehand, go after his forehand until he hates his forehand.
My father has a special name for this contrarian strategy. He calls it putting a blister on the
other guys brain. With this strategy, this brutal philosophy, he stamps me for life. He turns me
into a boxer with a tennis racket. More, since most tennis players pride themselves on their
serve, my father turns me into a counterpunchera returner.
EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE my father gets homesick too. He especially misses his oldest
brother, Isar. Someday, he vows, your uncle Isar will sneak out of Iran, like I did.
But first Isar needs to sneak out his money. Iran is falling apart, my father explains. Revolution
is brewing. The government is teetering. Thats why theyre watching everyone, making
sure people dont drain their bank accounts and flee. Uncle Isar, therefore, is slowly,
secretly converting his cash to jewels, which he then hides in packages he sends us in Vegas.
It feels like Christmas every time a brown-wrapped box from Uncle Isar arrives. We sit on
the living-room floor and cut the string and tear the paper and shriek when we find, hidden under
a tin of cookies or inside a fruitcake, diamonds and emeralds and rubies. Uncle Isars
packages arrive every few weeks, and then one day comes a much larger package. Uncle Isar.
Himself. On the doorstep, smiling down.
You must be Andre.
Yes.
Im your uncle.
He reaches out and touches my cheek.
Hes the mirror image of my father, but his personality is the exact opposite. My father is
shrill and stern and filled with rage. Uncle Isar is soft-spoken and patient and funny. Hes also
a geniushe was an engineer back in Iranso he helps me every night with my homework.
Such a relief from my fathers tutoring sessions. My fathers way of teaching is to tell you
once, then tell you a second time, then shout at you and call you an idiot for not getting it the
first time. Uncle Isar tells you, then smiles and waits. If you dont understand, no problem. He
tells you again, more softly. He has all the time in the world.
I stare at Uncle Isar as he strolls through the rooms and hallways of our house. I follow
him the way my father followed the British and American soldiers. As I grow familiar with
Uncle Isar, as I get to know him better, I like to hang from his shoulders and swing from his
arms. He likes it too. He likes to roughhouse, to be tackled and tickled by his nephews and
nieces. Every night I hide behind the front door and jump out when Uncle Isar comes home,
because it makes him laugh. His booming laughter is the opposite of the sounds that come
from the dragon.
One day Uncle Isar goes to the store for a few things. I count the minutes. At last, the front
gate clanks open, then clanks shut, meaning I have exactly twelve seconds until Uncle Isar
walks through the front door. It always takes people twelve seconds to go from the gate to the
door. I crouch, count to twelve, and as the door opens I leap out.
Boo!
Its not Uncle Isar. Its my father. Startled, he yells, steps back, then shoots out his fist.
Even though he only puts a fraction of his weight into it, my fathers left hook hits my jaw flush
and sends me flying. One second Im excited, joyful, the next Im sprawled on the ground.
My father stands over me, scowling. What the fuck is the matter with you? Go to your
room.
I run to my room and throw myself on my bed. I lie there, shaking, I dont know how long.
An hour? Three? Eventually the door opens and I hear my father.
Grab your racket. Get on the court.
Time to face the dragon.
I hit for half an hour, my head throbbing, my eyes tearing.
Hit harder, my father says. Goddamn it, hit harder. Not in the fucking net!
I turn and face my father. The next ball from the dragon I hit as hard as I can, but high
over the fence. I aim for the hawks and I dont bother pretending its an accident. My father
stares. He takes one menacing step toward me. Hes going to hit me over the fence. But then
he stops, calls me a bad name, and warns me to stay out of his sight.
I run into the house and find my mother lying on her bed, reading a romance novel, her
dogs at her feet. She loves animals, and our house is like Dr. Dolittles waiting room. Dogs,
birds, cats, lizards, and one mangy rat named Lady Butt. I grab one of the dogs and hurl it
across the room, ignoring its insulted yelp, and bury my head in my mothers arm.
Why is Pops so mean?
What happened?
I tell her.
She strokes my hair and says my father doesnt know any better. Pa has his own ways,
she says. Strange ways. We have to remember that Pa wants whats best for us, right?
Part of me feels grateful for my mothers endless calm. Part of me, however, a part I dont
like to acknowledge, feels betrayed by it. Calm sometimes means weak. She never steps in.
She never fights back. She never throws herself between us kids and my father. She should
tell him to back off, ease up, that tennis isnt life.
But its not in her nature. My father disturbs the peace, my mother keeps it. Every morning
she goes to the officeshe works for the State of Nevadain her sensible pantsuit, and
every night she comes home at six, bone tired, not uttering one word of complaint. With her
last speck of energy she cooks dinner. Then she lies down with her pets and a book, or her
favorite: a jigsaw puzzle.
Only every great once in a while does she lose her temper, and when she does, its epic.
One time my father made a remark about the house being unclean. My mother walked to the
cupboard, took out two boxes of cereal, and waved them around her head like flags, spraying
Corn Flakes and Cheerios everywhere. She yelled: You want the house clean? Clean it your
self!
Moments later, she was calmly working on a jigsaw puzzle.
She particularly loves Norman Rockwell puzzles. There is always some half-assembled
scene of idyllic family life spread across the kitchen table. I cant imagine the pleasure my
mother takes in jigsaw puzzles. All that fractured disorder, all that chaoshow can that be relaxing?
It makes me think my mother and I are complete opposites. And yet, anything soft in
me, any love or compassion I have for people, must come from her.
Lying against her, letting her continue to stroke my hair, I think there is so much about her
that I cant understand, and it all seems to flow from her choice of a husband. I ask how she
ever ended up with a guy like my father in the first place. She gives a short, weary laugh.
It was a long time ago, she says. Back in Chicago. A friend of a friend told your father:
You should meet Betty Dudley, shes just your type. And vice versa. So your father phoned
me one night at the Girls Club where I was renting a furnished room. We talked a long, long
time, and your father seemed sweet.
Sweet?
I know, I know. But he did. So I agreed to meet him. He showed up the next day in a spiffy
new Volkswagen. He drove me around town, no place in particular, just round and round,
telling me his story. Then we stopped to get something to eat and I told him my story.
My mother told my father about growing up in Danville, Illinois, 170 miles from Chicago,
the same small town where Gene Hackman and Donald OConnor and Dick Van Dyke grew
up. She told him about being a twin. She told him about her father, a crotchety English teacher,
a stickler for proper English. My father, with his broken English, must have cringed. More
likely, he didnt hear. I imagine my father not capable of listening to my mother on their first
date. He would have been too mesmerized by her flaming auburn hair and bright blue eyes.
Ive seen pictures. My mother was a rare beauty. I wonder if he liked her hair best because it
was the color of a clay tennis court. Or was it her height? Shes several inches taller than he. I
can imagine him perceiving that as a challenge.
My mother says it took eight blissful weeks for my father to convince her that they should
combine their stories. They ran away from her crotchety father and her twin sister and eloped.
Then they kept running. My father drove my mother clear out to Los Angeles, and when they
had trouble finding jobs there, he drove her across the desert, to a new gambling boomtown.
My mother landed her job with the state government, and my father caught on at the Tropicana
Hotel, giving tennis lessons. It didnt pay much, so he got a second job waiting tables at
the Landmark Hotel. Then he got a job as a captain at the MGM Grand casino, which kept
him so busy he dropped the other two jobs.
My parents, Mike and Betty Agassi, 1959, newlyweds in
Chicago
Over their first ten years of marriage, my parents had three kids. Then, in 1969, my mother
went to the hospital with ominous stomach pains. Need to do a hysterectomy, the doctor said.
But a second round of tests showed she was pregnant. With me. I was born April 29, 1970, at
Sunrise Hospital, two miles from the Strip. My father named me Andre Kirk Agassi, after his
bosses at the casino. I ask my mother why my father named me after his bosses. Were they
friends? Did he admire them? Did he owe them money? She doesnt know. And its not the
kind of question you can ask my father directly. You cant ask my father anything directly. So I
file it away with all the other things I dont know about my parentspermanently missing
pieces in the jigsaw puzzle that is me.
MY FATHER WORKS HARD, puts in long hours on the night shift at the casino, but tennis
is his life, his reason for getting out of bed. No matter where you sit in the house, you see
scattered evidence of his obsession. Aside from the backyard court, and the dragon, there is
my fathers laboratory, also known as the kitchen. My fathers stringing machine and tools
take up half the kitchen table. (My mothers latest Norman Rockwell takes up the other
halftwo obsessions vying for one busy room.) On the kitchen counter stand several stacks
of rackets, many sawed in half so my father can study their guts. He wants to know everything
about tennis, everything, which means dissecting its various parts. Hes forever conducting
experiments on this or that piece of equipment. Lately, for instance, hes been using old tennis
balls to extend the lives of our shoes. When the rubber starts to wear down, my father cuts
a tennis ball in half and puts one half on each toe.
I tell Philly: Its not bad enough that we live in a tennis laboratorynow we have to wear
tennis balls on our feet?
I wonder why my father loves tennis. Yet another question I cant ask him directly. Still, he
drops clues. He talks sometimes about the beauty of the game, its perfect balance of power
and strategy. Despite his imperfect lifeor maybe because of itmy father craves perfection.
Geometry and mathematics are as close to perfection as human beings can get, he says, and
tennis is all about angles and numbers. My father lies in bed and sees a court on the ceiling.
He says he can actually see it there, and on that ceiling court he plays countless imaginary
matches. Its a wonder he has any energy when he goes to work.
As a casino captain its my fathers job to seat people at the shows. Right this way, Mr.
Johnson. Nice to see you again, Miss Jones. The MGM pays him a small salary, the rest he
earns in tips. We live on tips, which makes life unpredictable. Some nights my father comes
home with his pockets bulging with cash. Other nights his pockets are perfectly flat. Whatever
he pulls from his pockets, no matter how little, gets carefully counted and stacked, then
stashed in the family safe. Its nerve-wracking, never knowing how much Pops is going to be
able to tuck in the safe.
My father loves money, makes no apologies for loving it, and he says theres good money
to be made in tennis. Clearly this is one big part of his love for tennis. Its the shortest route he
can see to the American dream. He takes me to the Alan King Tennis Classic and we watch a
beautiful woman dressed as Cleopatra being carried onto center court by four half-naked
musclemen in togas, followed by a man dressed as Caesar, pushing a wheelbarrow full of silver
dollars. First prize for the winner of the tournament. My father stares at that silvery haze
sparkling in the Vegas sun and looks drunk. He wants that. He wants me to have that.
Soon after that fateful day, when Im almost nine years old, he finagles me a job as a ball
boy for the Alan King tournament. But I dont give a damn about silver dollarsI want a mini
Cleopatra. Her name is Wendi. Shes one of the ball girls, about my age, a vision in her blue
uniform. I love her instantly, with all my heart and part of my spleen. I lie awake at night, picturing
her on the ceiling.
During matches, as Wendi and I dart past each other along the net, I shoot her a smile, try
to get her to give me a smile in return. Between matches I buy her Cokes and sit with her, trying
to impress her with my knowledge of tennis.
The Alan King tournament attracts big-time players, and my father cajoles most of them
into hitting a few balls with me. Some are more willing than others. Borg acts as if there is
nowhere else hed rather be. Connors clearly wants to say no, but cant, because my father is
his stringer. Ilie Nastase tries to say no, but my father pretends to be deaf. A champion of
Wimbledon and the French Open, ranked number one in the world, Nastase has other places
hed rather be, but he quickly discovers that refusing my father is next to impossible. The man
is relentless.
As Nastase and I hit, Wendi watches from the net post. Im nervous, Nastase is visibly
boreduntil he spots Wendi.
Hey, he says. Is this your girlfriend, Snoopy? Is this pretty thing over here your sweetheart?
I stop. I glare at Nastase. I want to punch this big, stupid Romanian in the nose, even
though hes got two feet and 100 pounds on me. Bad enough that he calls me Snoopy, but
then he dares to mention Wendi in such a disrespectful way. A crowd has gathered, two hundred
people at least. Nastase begins playing to the crowd, calling me Snoopy again and
again, teasing me about Wendi. And I thought my father was relentless.
Eight years old, hitting a few balls with my idol, Bjrn Borg
At the very least, I wish I had the courage to say: Mr. Nastase, youre embarrassing me,
please stop. But all I can do is keep hitting harder. Hit harder. Then Nastase makes yet another
wisecrack about Wendi, and thats it, I cant take any more. I drop my racket and walk off
the court. Up yours, Nastase.
My father stares, openmouthed. Hes not angry, hes not embarrassedhes incapable of
embarrassment, and he recognizes his own genes when he sees them in action. I dont know
that Ive ever seen him prouder.
BESIDES THE OCCASIONAL EXHIBITION with a top-ranked player, my public matches
are mostly hustle jobs. I have a slick routine to lure in the suckers. First, I pick a highly visible
court, where I play by myself, knocking the ball all over the place. Second, when some cocky
teenager or drunken guest strolls by I invite them to play. Third, I let them beat me, soundly.
Finally, in my most pitiful voice I ask if theyd like to play for a dollar. Maybe five? Before they
know whats happening, Im serving for match point and twenty bucks, enough to keep Wendi
in Cokes for a month.
Philly taught me how to do it. He gives tennis lessons and often hustles his students, plays
them for the price of the lesson, then double or nothing. But Andre, he says, with your size
and youth, you should be raking in the dough. He helps me develop and rehearse the routine.
Now and then it occurs to me that I only think Im hustling, that people are happy to shell out
for the show. Later they can brag to their friends that they saw a nine-year-old tennis freak
who never misses.
I dont tell my father about my side business. Not that hed think it was wrong. He loves a
good hustle. I just dont feel like talking to my father about tennis any more than is absolutely
necessary. Then my father stumbles into his own hustle. It happens at Cambridge. As we
walk in one day, my father points to a man talking with Mr. Fong.
Thats Jim Brown, my father whispers to me. Greatest football player of all time.
Hes an enormous block of muscle wearing tennis whites and tube socks. Ive seen him
before at Cambridge. When hes not playing tennis for money, hes playing backgammon, or
shooting crapsalso for money. Like my father, Mr. Brown talks a lot about money. At this
moment hes complaining to Mr. Fong about a money match that fell through. He was supposed
to play a guy, and the guy didnt show. Mr. Brown is taking it out on Mr. Fong.
I came to play, Mr. Brown is saying, and I want to play.
My father steps forward.
You looking for a game?
Yeah.
My son Andre will play you.
Mr. Brown looks at me, then back at my father.
I aint playing no eight-year-old boy!
Nine.
Nine? Oooh, well, I didnt realize.
Mr. Brown laughs. A few men within earshot laugh too.
I can tell that Mr. Brown doesnt take my father seriously. Big mistake. Just ask that trucker
lying in the road. I close my eyes and see him, the rain pelting his face.
Look, Mr. Brown says, I dont play for fun, OK? I play for money.
My son will play you for money.
I feel a bead of sweat start down my armpit.
Yeah? How much?
My father laughs and says, Ill bet you my fucking house.
I dont need your house, Mr. Brown says. I got a house. Lets say ten grand.
Done, my father says.
I walk toward the court.
Slow down, Mr. Brown says. I need to see some money up front.
Ill go home and get it, my father says. Ill be right back.
My father hurries out the door. I sit in a chair and picture him opening the safe and pulling
out stacks of money. All those tips Ive seen him count through the years, all those nights of
hard work. Now hes going to let it ride on me. I feel a heaviness in the center of my chest. Im
proud, of course, to think my father has such faith in me. But mainly Im scared. What happens
to me, to my father, to my mother and my siblings, not to mention Grandma and Uncle
Isar, if I lose?
Ive played under this kind of pressure before, when my father, without warning, has
chosen an opponent and ordered me to beat him. But its always been another kid, and
theres never been money involved. It usually happens in the middle of the afternoon. My father
will wake me from a nap and yell, Grab your racket! Theres someone here you need to
beat! It never occurs to him that Im taking a nap because Im exhausted from a morning playing
the dragon, that nine-year-olds dont often take naps. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes Ill
go outside and see some strange kid, some prodigy from Florida or California who happens to
be in town. Theyre always older and biggerlike that punk whod just moved to Vegas, and
heard about me, and rang our doorbell. He had a white Rossignol and a head like a pumpkin.
He was at least three years older than I, and he smirked as I walked out of the house, because
I was so small. Even after I beat him, even after I wiped that smirk off his face, it took
hours for me to calm down, to shed the feeling that Id just run along a tightrope stretched
across Hoover Dam.
This thing with Mr. Brown, however, is different, and not just because my familys life savings
are riding on the outcome. Mr. Brown disrespected my father, and my father cant knock
him out. He needs me to do it. So this match will be about more than money. It will be about
respect and manhood and honoragainst the greatest football player of all time. Id rather
play in the final of Wimbledon. Against Nastase. With Wendi as the ballgirl.
Slowly I become aware that Mr. Brown is watching me. Staring. He walks over and introduces
himself, shakes my hand. His hand is one big callus. He asks how long Ive been playing,
how many matches Ive won, how many Ive lost.
I never lose, I say quietly.
His eyes narrow.
Mr. Fong pulls Mr. Brown aside and says: Dont do this, Jim.
Guys asking for it, Mr. Brown whispers. Fool and his money.
You dont understand, Mr. Fong says. You are going to lose, Jim.
What the hell are you? Hes a kid.
Thats not just any kid.
You must be crazy.
Look, Jim, I like having you come here. Youre a friend, and its good for business to have
you at my club. But when you lose ten grand to this kid, youll be sore, and you might stop
coming around.
Mr. Brown turns to look me up and down, as if he must have missed something the first
time. He walks back toward me and starts firing questions.
How much do you play?
Every day.
Nohow long do you play at one time? An hour? Couple of hours?
I see what hes doing. He wants to know how fast I get tired. Hes trying to size me up,
game-planning for me.
My fathers back. Hes got a fistful of hundreds. He waves it in the air. Suddenly Mr. Brown
has had a change of heart.
Heres what well do, Mr. Brown tells my father. Well play two sets, then decide how much
to bet on the third.
Whatever you say.
We play on Court 7, just inside the door. A crowd has gathered, and they cheer themselves
hoarse as I win the first set, 63. Mr. Brown shakes his head. He talks to himself. He
bangs his racket on the ground. Hes not happy, which makes two of us. Not only am I thinking,
in direct violation of my fathers cardinal rule, but my mind is spinning. I feel as if I might
have to stop playing at any moment, because I need to throw up.
Still, I win the second set, 63.
Now Mr. Brown is furious. He drops to one knee, laces his sneakers.
My father approaches him.
So? Ten grand?
Naw, Mr. Brown says. Why dont we just bet $500.
Whatever you say.
My body relaxes. My mind grows quiet. I want to dance along the baseline, knowing I
wont have to play for $10,000. I can swing freely now, without thinking about consequences.
Without thinking at all.
Mr. Brown, meanwhile, is thinking more, playing a less relaxed game. Hes suddenly junking,
drop-shotting, lofting lobs, angling the ball at the corners, trying backspin and sidespin
and all sorts of trickery. Hes also trying to run me, back and forth, wear me out. But Im so relieved
not to be playing for the entire contents of my fathers safe that I cant be worn out, and
I cant miss. I beat Mr. Brown 62.
Sweat running down his face, he pulls a wad from his pocket and counts out five crisp
hundreds. He hands them to my father, then turns to me.
Great game, son.
He shakes my hand. His calluses feel rougherthanks to me.
He asks what my goals are, my dreams. I start to answer, but my father jumps in.
Hes going to be number one in the world.
I wouldnt bet against him, Mr. Brown says.
NOT LONG AFTER BEATING MR. BROWN, I play a practice match against my father at
Caesars. Im up 52, serving for the match. Ive never beaten my father, and he looks as if
hes about to lose much more than $10,000.
Suddenly he walks off the court. Get your stuff, he says. Lets go.
He wont finish. Hed rather sneak away than lose to his son. Deep down, I know its the
last time well ever play.
Packing my bag, zipping the cover on my racket, I feel a thrill greater than anything I felt
after beating Mr. Brown. This is the sweetest win of my life, and it will be hard to top. Ill take
this win over a wheelbarrow full of silver dollarsand Uncle Isars jewels thrown on
topbecause this is the win that made my father finally sneak away from me.
IM TEN, playing in the nationals. Second round. I lose badly to some kid whos older,
whos supposed to be the best in the country. Not that this makes it easier. How can losing
hurt so much? How can anything hurt so much? I walk off the court wishing I were dead. I
stagger out to the parking lot. As my father gathers our stuff and says goodbye to the other
parents, I sit in the car, crying.
A mans face appears in the car window. Black guy. Smiling.
Hey there, he says. My names Rudy.
Same name as the man who helped my father build his backyard tennis court. Strange.
Whats your name?
Andre.
He shakes my hand.
Nice to meet you, Andre.
He says he works with the great champion Pancho Segura, who coaches kids my age. He
comes to these big tournaments to scout kids for Pancho. He puts his arms through the window,
leans heavily on the car door, sighs. He tells me that days like this are tough, he knows,
very tough indeed, but in the end these days will make me stronger. His voice is warm, thick,
like hot cocoa.
That kid who beat you, why, that kids two years older than you! Youve got two years to
reach that kids level. Two years is an eternityespecially when youre working hard. Do you
work hard?
Yes, sir.
Youve got so much ahead of you, son.
But I dont want to play anymore. I hate tennis.
Ha, ha! Sure you do. Right now. But deep down, you dont really hate tennis.
Yes, I do.
You just think you hate it.
No, I hate it.
Youre saying that because youre hurting right now, hurting like heck, but that just means
you care. Means you want to win. You can use that. Remember this day. Try to use this day
as motivation. If you dont want to feel this hurt again, good, do everything you can to avoid it.
Are you ready to do everything?
I nod.
Fine, fine. So go ahead and cry. Hurt a while longer. But then tell yourself, thats it, time to
get back to work.
OK.
I wipe my tears on my sleeve and thank Rudy and when he walks away Im ready to practice.
Bring on the dragon. Im ready to hit balls for hours. If Rudy were standing behind me,
whispering encouragement in my ear, I think I could beat that dragon. Suddenly my father
climbs behind the wheel of the car and we drive slowly away, like the head car in a funeral
procession. The tension in the car is so thick that I curl up on the backseat and close my
eyes. I think about jumping out, running away, finding Rudy and asking him to coach me. Or
adopt me.
I HATE ALL THE junior tournaments, but I hate nationals most of all, because the stakes
are higher, and theyre held in other states, which means airfare, motels, rental cars, restaurant
meals. My father is shelling out money, investing in me, and when I lose, there goes another
piece of his investment. When I lose I set back the whole Agassi clan.
Im eleven, playing nationals in Texas on clay. Im among the best in the nation on clay, so
theres no way Im going to lose, and then I lose. In the semis. I dont even reach the final.
Now I have to play a consolation match. When you lose in the semis they make you play a
match to determine third and fourth place. Worse, in this particular consolation match Im facing
my archnemesis, David Kass. Hes ranked just below me, but somehow becomes a different
player when he sees me across that net. No matter what I do, Kass beats me, and
today is no different. I lose in three sets. Again Im shattered. Ive disappointed my father. Ive
cost my family. I dont cry, however. I want to make Rudy proud, so I manage to choke back
the tears.
At the awards ceremony a man hands out the first-place trophy, then second, then third.
Then he announces that this year a sportsmanship trophy will be awarded to the youngster
who exhibits the most grace on the court. Incredibly, he says my namemaybe because Ive
been biting my lip for an hour. Hes holding the trophy toward me, waving me to come and get
it. Its the last thing in the world I want, a sportsmanship trophy, but I take it from the man and
thank him and something shifts inside me. It is an awfully cool trophy. And I have been a good
sport. I walk out to the car, clutching the trophy to my chest, my father a step behind me. He
says nothing, I say nothing. I concentrate on the click-clack of our footsteps on the cement.
Finally I break the silence. I say, I dont want this stupid thing. I say it because I think its what
my father wants to hear. My father comes alongside me. He rips the trophy from my hands.
He lifts it over his head and throws it on the cement. The trophy shatters. My father picks up
the biggest piece and throws it on the cement, smashing it into smaller pieces. Now he collects
the pieces and throws them into a nearby dumpster. I dont say a word. I know not to say
a word.
IF ONLY I COULD play soccer instead of tennis. I dont like sports, but if I must play a
sport to please my father, Id much rather play soccer. I get to play three times a week at
school, and I love running the soccer field with the wind in my hair, calling for the ball, knowing
the world wont end if I dont score. The fate of my father, of my family, of planet earth,
doesnt rest on my shoulders. If my team doesnt win, it will be the whole teams fault, and no
one will yell in my ear. Team sports, I decide, are the way to go.
My father doesnt mind my playing soccer, because he thinks it helps my footwork on the
court. But I recently hurt myself in a soccer scrimmage, pulled a muscle in my leg, and the injury
forces me to skip tennis practice one afternoon. My father isnt happy. He looks at my leg,
then me, as if I injured myself on purpose. But an injury is an injury. Even he cant argue with
my body. He stomps out of the house.
Moments later my mother looks at my schedule and realizes I have a soccer game this afternoon.
What do we do? she says.
The team is counting on me, I tell her.
She sighs. How do you feel?
I think I can play.
OK. Put on your soccer uniform.
Do you think Pops will be upset?
You know Pa. He doesnt need a reason to be upset.
She drives me to the soccer game and leaves me there. After a few jogs up and down the
field, my leg feels good. Surprisingly good. I dart in between defenders, fluid, graceful, calling
for the ball, laughing with my teammates. Were working toward a common objective. Were in
this together. This feels right. This feels like me.
Suddenly I look up and see my father. Hes at the edge of the parking lot, stalking toward
the field. Now hes talking to the coach. Now hes yelling at the coach. The coach is waving to
me. Agassi! Out of the game!
I sprint off the field.
Get in the car, my father says. And get out of that uniform.
I run to the car and find my tennis clothes on the backseat. I put them on and walk back to
my father. I hand him my soccer uniform. He walks onto the field and throws the uniform at
the coachs chest.
As we drive home my father says without looking at me: Youre never playing soccer
again.
I beg him for a second chance. I tell my father that I dont like being by myself on that
huge tennis court. Tennis is lonely, I tell him. Theres nowhere to hide when things go wrong.
No dugout, no sideline, no neutral corner. Its just you out there, naked.
He shouts at the top of his lungs: Youre a tennis player! Youre going to be number one in
the world! Youre going to make lots of money. Thats the plan, and thats the end of it.
Hes adamant, and desperate, because that was the plan for Rita, Philly, and Tami, but
things never worked out. Rita rebelled. Tami stopped getting better. Philly didnt have the
killer instinct. My father says this about Philly all the time. He says it to me, to Mom, even to
Phillyright to his face. Philly just shrugs, which seems to prove that Philly doesnt have the
killer instinct.
But my father says far worse things to Philly.
Youre a born loser, he says.
Youre right, Philly says in a sorrowful tone. I am a born loser. I was born to be a loser.
You are! You feel sorry for your opponent! You dont care about being the best!
Philly doesnt bother to deny it. He plays well, he has talent, but he just isnt a perfectionist,
and perfection isnt the goal in our house, its the law. If youre not perfect, youre a loser.
A born loser.
My father decided that Philly was a born loser when Philly was about my age, playing nationals.
Philly didnt just lose; he didnt argue when his opponents cheated him, which made
my father turn bright red and scream curses in Assyrian from the bleachers.
Like my mother, Philly takes it and takes it, and then every once in a great while he blows.
The last time it happened, my father was stringing a tennis racket, my mother was ironing,
and Philly was on the couch, watching TV. My father kept after Philly, mercilessly nagging him
about his performance at a recent tournament. All at once, in a tone Id never heard him use,
Philly screeched, You know why I dont win? Because of you! Because you call me a born
loser!
Philly started panting with anger. My mother started crying.
From now on, Philly continued, Ill just be a robot, hows that? Would you like that? Ill be a
robot and feel nothing and just go out there and do everything you say!
My father stopped stringing the racket and looked happy. Almost peaceful. Jesus Christ,
he said, youre finally getting it.
Unlike Philly, I argue with opponents all the time. I sometimes wish I had Phillys knack for
shrugging off injustice. If an opponent cheats me, if he pulls a Tarango, my face gets hot. Often
I get my revenge on the next point. When my cheating opponent hits a shot in the center
of the court, I call it out and stare at him with a look that says: Now were even.
I dont do this to please my father, but it surely does. He says, You have a different mentality
than Philly. You got all the talent, all the fireand the luck. You were born with a horseshoe
up your ass.
He says this once a day. Sometimes he says it with conviction, sometimes admiration
sometimes envy. I blanch when he says it. I worry that I got Phillys good luck, that I
stole it from him somehow, because if I was born with a horseshoe up my ass, Philly was
born with a black cloud over his head. When Philly was twelve he broke his wrist while riding
his bike, broke it in three places, and that was the beginning of a long stretch of unbroken
gloom. My father was so furious with Philly that he made Philly keep playing tournaments,
broken wrist and all, which worsened Phillys wrist, made the problem chronic, and ruined his
game forever. Favoring his broken wrist, Philly was forced to use a one-handed backhand,
which Philly believes is a terrible habit, one he couldnt break after the wrist healed. I watch
Philly lose and think: Bad habits plus bad luckdeadly combination. I also watch him when
he comes home after a hard loss. He feels so rotten about himself, you can see it all over his
face, and my father drives that rottenness down deeper. Philly sits in a corner, beating himself
up over the loss, but at least its a fair fight, one on one. Then along comes my father. He
jumps in and helps Philly gang up on Philly. There is name-calling, slapping. By rights this
should make Philly a basket case. At the very least it should make him resent me, bully me.
Instead, after every verbal or physical assault at the hands of himself and my father, Phillys
slightly more careful with me, more protective. Gentler. He wants me spared his fate. For this
reason, though he may be a born loser, I see Philly as the ultimate winner. I feel lucky to have
him as my older brother. Feeling lucky to have an unlucky older brother? Is that possible?
Does that make sense? Another defining contradiction.
PHILLY AND I spend all our free time together. He picks me up at school on his scooter
and we go riding home across the desert, talking and laughing above the engines insect
whine. We share a bedroom at the back of the house, our sanctuary from tennis and Pops.
Philly is as fussy about his stuff as I am about mine, so he paints a white line down the center
of the room, dividing it into his side and mine, ad court and deuce court. I sleep in the deuce
court, my bed closest to the door. At night, before we turn out the lights, we have a ritual Ive
come to depend on. We sit on the edges of our beds and whisper across the line. Philly, seven
years older, does most of the talking. He pours out his heart, his self-doubts and disappointments.
He talks about never winning. He talks about being called a born loser. He talks
about needing to borrow money from Pops so that he can continue to play tennis, to keep trying
to turn pro. Pops, we both agree, is not a man you want holding your marker.
Of all the things that trouble Philly, however, the great trauma of his life is his hairline. Andre,
he says, Im going bald. He says this in the same way he would tell me the doctor has
given him four weeks to live.
But he wont lose his hair without a battle. Baldness is one opponent Philly will fight with
all hes got. He thinks the reason hes going bald is that hes not getting enough blood to his
scalp, so every night, at some point during our bedtime talks, Philly stands upside down. He
puts his head on the mattress and lifts his feet, balancing himself against the wall. I pray it will
work. I plead with God that my brother, the born loser, wont lose this one thing, his hair. I lie
to Philly and tell him that I can see his miracle cure working. I love my brother so much, Id
say anything if I thought it would make him feel better. For my brothers sake, Id stand on my
own head all night.
After Philly tells me his troubles, I sometimes tell him mine. Im touched by how quickly he
refocuses. He listens to the latest mean thing Pops said, gauges my level of concern, then
gives me the proportionate nod. For basic fears, a half nod. For big fears, a full nod with a
patented Philly frown. Even when upside down, Philly says as much with one nod as most
people say in a five-page letter.
One night Philly asks me to promise him something.
Sure, Philly. Anything.
Dont ever let Pops give you any pills.
Pills?
Andre, you have to hear what I am telling you. This is really important.
OK, Philly, I hear you. Im listening.
Next time you go away to nationals, if Pops gives you pills, dont take them.
He already gives me Excedrin, Philly. He makes me take Excedrin before a match, because
its loaded with caffeine.
Yeah, I know. But these pills Im talking about are different. These pills are tiny, white,
round. Dont take them. Whatever you do.
What if Pops makes me? I cant say no to Pops.
Yeah. Right. OK, let me think.
Philly closes his eyes. I watch the blood rushing to his forehead, turning it purple.
OK, he says. I got it. If you have to take the pills, if he makes you take them, play a bad
match. Tank. Then, as you come off the court, tell him you were shaking so bad that you
couldnt concentrate.
OK. But Phillywhat are these pills?
Speed.
Whats that?
A drug. Gives you lots of energy. I just know hes going to try to slip you some speed.
How do you know, Philly?
He gave it to me.
Sure enough, at the nationals in Chicago my father gives me a pill. Hold out your hand, he
says. This will help you. Take it.
He puts a pill on my palm. Tiny. White. Round.
I swallow the pill and feel OK. Not much different. Slightly more alert. But I pretend to feel
very different. My opponent, an older kid, poses no challenge, and still I carry him, drag out
points, hand him several games. I make the match look tougher than it is. Walking off the
court I tell my father I dont feel right, I want to pass out, and he looks guilty.
OK, he says, rubbing his hand across his face, thats not good. We wont try that again.
I phone Philly after the tournament and tell him about the pill.
He says, I fucking knew it!
I did just what you told me to do, Philly, and it worked.
My brother sounds the way I imagine a father is supposed to sound. Proud of me and
scared for me at the same time. When I return from nationals I grab him and hug him and we
spend my first night home locked in our room, whispering across the white line, cherishing our
rare victory over Pops.
A short time later I play an older opponent and beat him. Its a practice match, no big deal,
and Im much better than the opponent, but once again I carry him, drag out points, make the
match look tougher than it is, just as I did in Chicago. Walking off Court 7 at Cambridgethe
same court on which I beat Mr. BrownI feel devastated, because my opponent looks devastated.
I should have tanked all the way. I hate losing, but I hate winning this time because
the defeated opponent is Philly. Does this devastated feeling prove I dont have the killer instinct?
Confused, sad, I wish I could find that old guy, Rudy, or the other Rudy before him,
and ask them what it all means.
IM PLAYING A TOURNAMENT at the Las Vegas Country Club, vying for a chance to go
to the state championship. My opponent is a kid named Roddy Parks. The first thing I notice
about him is that he too has a unique father. Mr. Parks wears a ring with an ant frozen inside
a large gumdrop of yellow amber. Before the match starts, I ask him about it.
You see, Andre, when the world ends in a nuclear holocaust, ants will be the only things
that survive. So Im planning for my spirit to go into an ant.
Roddy is thirteen, two years older than I, and big for his age, with a military crew cut. But
he looks beatable. Right away I see holes in his game, weaknesses. Then, somehow, he fills
in the holes, papers over the weaknesses. He wins the first set.
I talk to myself, tell myself to suck it up, dig in. I take the second set.
Bearing down now, I play smarter, quicker. I feel the finish line. Roddy is mine, hes toast.
What kind of name is Roddy anyway? But a few points slip away, and now Roddy is raising
his arms above his head, hes won the third set, 75, and the match. I look into the stands for
my father, and hes staring down, concerned. Not angryconcerned. Im concerned too, but
damned angry also, sick with self-loathing. I wish I were the frozen ant in Mr. Parkss ring.
Im saying hateful things to myself as I pack my tennis bag. Out of nowhere a boy appears
and interrupts my rant.
Hey, he says, dont sweat it. You didnt play your best today.
I look up. The boy is slightly older than I, a head taller, wearing an expression that I dont
like. Theres something different about his face. His nose and mouth are out of alignment.
And, the capper, hes wearing a fruity shirt with a little man playing polo? I want no part of
him.
Who the fuck are you? I say.
Perry Rogers.
I turn back to my tennis bag.
He wont take a hint. He drones on about how I didnt have my best game, how much better
I am than Roddy, how Ill beat Roddy the next time, blah, blah. Hes trying to be nice, I
guess, but hes coming off like a know-it-all, like some kind of Bjrn Borg Jr., so I stand and
pointedly do an about-face. The last thing I need is a consolation speech, which is more pointless
than a consolation trophy, especially from a kid with a man playing polo on his chest.
Slinging my tennis bag over my shoulder I tell him: What the fuck do you know about tennis?
Later I feel bad. I shouldnt have been so harsh. Then I find out the kid is a tennis player,
that he was competing in the same tournament. I also hear hes got a crush on my sister
Tami, which is undoubtedly why he talked to me in the first place. Trying to get close to Tami.
But if I feel guilty, Perry is pissed. Word spreads along the Vegas teenager grapevine:
Watch your back. Perry is gunning for you. Hes telling everyone that you disrespected him,
and the next time he sees you, hes going to kick your ass.
WEEKS LATER TAMI SAYS the whole gang is going to see a horror flick, all the older
kids, and she asks if I want to go along.
That Perry kid going?
Maybe.
Yeah, Ill go.
I love horror movies. And I have a plan.
Our mother drives us to the theater early so we can buy popcorn and licorice and find the
perfect seats, dead center, middle row. I always sit dead center, middle row. Best seats in the
house. I put Tami to my left and save the seat to my right. Sure enough, here comes Preppy
Perry. I jump to my feet and wave. Hey Perry! Over here!
He turns, squints. I can see hes caught off guard by my friendliness. Hes trying to analyze
the situation, weigh his response. Then he smiles, visibly releases whatever anger hes
been holding. He saunters down the aisle and slides down our row, throwing himself into the
seat next to me.
Hey Tami, he says across me.
Hey Perry.
Hey Andre.
Hey Perry.
Just as the lights go down and the first coming attraction starts we give each other a look.
Peace?
Peace.
The movie is Visiting Hours. Its about a psycho who stalks a lady journalist, sneaks into
her house, kills her maid, then for some reason puts on lipstick and pops out when the lady
journalist comes home. She fights free, and somehow gets to a hospital, where she thinks
shes safe, but of course the psycho is hiding in the hospital, trying to find the lady journalists
room, killing everyone who gets in his way. Cheesy, but satisfyingly creepy.
When scared, I react like a cat thrown into a room full of dogs. I freeze, dont move a
muscle. But Perry apparently is the high-strung type. As the suspense builds, he twitches and
fidgets and spills soda on himself. Every time the killer jumps out of a closet, Perry jumps out
of his seat. Several times I turn to Tami and roll my eyes. I dont tease Perry about his reaction,
however. I dont even mention it when the lights come on. I dont want to break our fragile
peace accord.
We roll out of the theater and decide the popcorn and Cokes and Twizzlers werent
enough. We head across the street to Winchells and buy a box of French crullers. Perry gets
his covered with chocolate. I get mine with rainbow sprinkles. We eat the donuts at the
counter, talking. Perry sure can talk. Hes like a lawyer before the Supreme Court. Then, in
the middle of a fifteen-minute sentence, he stops and asks the guy behind the counter, Is this
place open twenty-four hours?
Yup, the counter guy says.
Seven days a week?
Uh-huh.
Three hundred sixty-five days a year?
Yeah.
Then why are there locks on the front door?
We all turn and look. What a brilliant question! I start laughing so hard that I have to spit
out my cruller. Rainbow sprinkles are falling from my mouth like confetti. This might be the
funniest, smartest thing anyones ever said. Certainly the funniest, smartest thing said by anyone
in this particular Winchells. Even the donut guy has to smile and admit: Kid, thats a
head-scratcher.
Isnt life just like that? Perry says. Full of Winchells locks and other stuff you cant explain?
You said it.
I always thought I was the only one who noticed. But heres a kid who not only notices, he
points that stuff out. When my mother comes to pick up me and Tami, Im sad to say goodbye
to my new friend Perry. I even find myself less annoyed by his polo shirt.
I ASK MY FATHER if I can sleep over at Perrys house.
No fucking way, he says.
He doesnt know Perrys family from a hole in the ground. And he doesnt trust anyone he
doesnt know. My father is suspicious of everyone in the world, especially the parents of our
friends. I dont bother asking why, and I dont waste my breath arguing. I just invite Perry to
our house for a sleepover.
Perry is extremely polite with my parents. Hes agreeable with my siblings, especially
Tami, though shes gently discouraged his crush. I ask if he wants a quick tour. Sure thing, he
says, so I show him the room I share with Philly. He laughs at the white stripe down the
middle. I show him the court out back. He takes a turn hitting with the dragon. I tell him how
much I hate the dragon, how I used to think it was a living, breathing monster. He looks sympathetic.
Hes seen enough horror flicks to know that monsters come in all shapes and sizes.
Since Perry is a fellow connoisseur of horror, Ive got a surprise for him. Ive scored a beta
copy of The Exorcist. After seeing him jump out of his skin at Visiting Hours, I cant wait to see
how he reacts to a genuine horror classic. After everyones asleep we slide the movie into the
machine. I suffer a minor aneurysm with every rotation of Linda Blairs head, but Perry doesnt
flinch once. Visiting Hours gives him the shakes, but The Exorcist leaves him cold? I think:
This dude marches to his own drummer.
Afterward, we sit up drinking sodas and talking. Perry agrees that my fathers scarier than
anything Hollywood can offer, but he says his father is twice as scary. His father, he says, is
an ogre, a tyrant, and a narcissistthe first time Ive heard this word.
Perry says, Narcissist means he thinks only about himself. It also means his son is his
personal property. He has a vision of how his sons life is going to be, and he couldnt care
less about his sons vision of that future.
Sounds familiar.
Perry and I agree that life would be a million times better if our fathers were like other kids
fathers. But I hear an added note of pain in Perrys voice, because he says his father doesnt
love him. Ive never questioned my fathers love. I just wish it were softer, with more listening
and less rage. In fact, I sometimes wish my father loved me less. Maybe then hed back off,
let me make my own choices. I tell Perry that having no choice, having no say about what I do
or who I am, makes me crazy. Thats why I put more thought, obsessive thought, into the few
choices I do havewhat I wear, what I eat, who I call my friends.
He nods. He gets it.
At last, in Perry, I have a friend with whom I can share these deep thoughts, a friend I can
tell about the Winchells locks in my life. I talk to Perry about playing tennis, despite hating
tennis. Hating school, despite enjoying books. Feeling lucky to have Philly, despite his streak
of bad luck. Perry listens, patient as Philly, but more involved. Perry doesnt just talk, then
listen, then nod. He converses. He analyzes, strategizes, spit-balls, helps me come up with a
plan to make things better. When I tell Perry my problems, they sound jumbled and asinine at
first, but Perry has a way of rearranging them, making them sound logical, which feels like the
first step to making them solvable. I feel as if Ive been on a desert island, with no one to talk
to but the palm trees, and now a thoughtful, sensitive, like-minded castawayalbeit with a
stupid polo player on his shirthas come stumbling ashore.
Perry confides in me about his nose and mouth. He says he was born with a cleft palate.
He says its made him deeply self-conscious and painfully shy with girls. Hes had surgeries to
fix it, and faces one more surgery at least. I tell him its not that noticeable. He gets tears in
his eyes. He mumbles something about his father blaming him.
Most conversations with Perry eventually lead to fathers, and from fathers its a quick
segue to the future. We talk about the men were going to be once were rid of our fathers. We
promise each other that well be different, not just from our fathers but from all the men we
know, even the ones we see in movies. We make a pact that well never do drugs or drink alcohol.
And when were rich, we vow, well do what we can to help the world. We shake on it.
A secret handshake.
Perry has a long way to go to get rich. He never has a dime. Everything we do is my treat.
I dont have mucha modest allowance, plus what I hustle from guests at the casinos and
hotels. But I dont care; whats mine is Perrys, because Ive decided that Perry is my new
best friend. My father gives me five dollars every day for food, and I freely spend half on
Perry.
We meet every afternoon at Cambridge. After goofing off, hitting a few balls around, we go
for a snack. We slip out the back door, hop the wall, and race across the vacant lot to 7Eleven,
where we play video games and eat Chipwiches, paid for by me, until its time to go
home.
A Chipwich is a new ice cream sandwich Perry recently discovered. Vanilla ice cream
pressed between two doughy chocolate chip cookiesits the greatest food in the world, according
to Perry, whos a raging addict. He loves Chipwiches more than talking. He can talk
for an hour about the beauty of the Chipwichand yet a Chipwich is one of the few things
that can get him to stop talking. I buy him Chipwiches by the dozens, and I feel sorry for him
that he doesnt have enough money to feed his habit.
Were at 7-Eleven one day when Perry stops chewing his Chipwich and looks up at the
wall clock.
Shit, Andre, we better get back to Cambridge, my mothers coming early to get me.
Your mother?
Yeah. She said to be ready and waiting out front.
We haul ass across the vacant lot.
Uh-oh, Perry shouts, there she is!
I look up the street and see two cars cruising toward Cambridgea Volkswagen bug and
a convertible Rolls-Royce. I see the bug keep going past Cambridge, and I tell Perry to relax,
we have time. She missed the turn.
No, Perry says, come on, come on.
He turns on the jets, sprinting after the Rolls.
Hey! What the? Perry, are you kidding? Your mom drives a Rolls? Are yourich?
I guess so.
Why didnt you tell me?
You never asked.
For me, thats the definition of being rich: it doesnt cross your mind to mention it to your
best friend. And money is such a given you dont care how you come by it.
Perry, however, is more than rich. Perry is super-rich. Perry is Richie Rich. His father, a
senior partner at a major law firm, owns a local TV station. He sells air, Perry says. Imagine.
Selling air. When you can sell air, man, youve got it made. (Presumably his father gives him
air for an allowance.)
My father finally lets me visit Perrys house, and I discover that he doesnt live in a house,
in fact, but a mega-mansion. His mother drives us there in the Rolls, and my eyes get big as
we pass slowly up a massive front drive, around green rolling hills, then under enormous
shade trees. We stop outside a place that looks like Bruce Waynes stately manor. One entire
wing is set aside for Perry, including a teenagers dream room, featuring a ping-pong table,
pool table, poker table, big-screen TV, mini fridge, and drum set. Down a long hallway lies
Perrys bedroom, the walls of which are covered with dozens and dozens of Sports Illustrated
covers.
My head rotating on a swivel, I look at all the portraits of great athletes and I can only say
one word: Whoa.
Did this all myself, Perry says.
The next time Im at the dentist I tear off the covers of all the Sports Illustrateds in the waiting
room and stash them under my jacket. When I hand them to Perry, he shakes his head.
No, I have this one. And this one. I have them all, Andre. I have a subscription.
Oh. OK. Sorry.
Its not just that Ive never met a rich kid. Ive also never met a kid with a subscription.
IF WERE NOT HANGING OUT AT CAMBRIDGE, or at his mansion, Perry and I are talking
on the phone. Were inseparable. Hes crushed, therefore, when I tell him that Im going
away for a month, to play a series of tournaments in Australia. McDonalds is putting together
a team of Americas elite juniors, sending us to play Australias best.
A whole month?
I know. But I have no choice. My father.
Im not being entirely truthful. Im one of only two twelve-year-olds selected, so Im
honored, excited, if slightly on edge about traveling so far from homethe plane ride is fourteen
hours. For Perrys sake I downplay the trip. I tell him not to worry, Ill be back in no time,
and well have a Chipwich feast.
I fly alone to Los Angeles, and upon landing I want to go straight back to Vegas. Im
scared. Im not sure where Im supposed to go or how to find my way through the airport. I
feel as if I stick out in my warm-up suit with the McDonalds Golden Arches on the back and
my name on the chest. Now, off in the distance I see a group of kids wearing the same warm-
up suit. My team. I approach the one adult in the group and introduce myself.
He flashes a big smile. Hes the coach. My first real coach.
Agassi, he says. The hotshot from Vegas? Hey, glad to have you aboard!
During the flight to Australia, Coach stands in the aisle, telling us how the trip is going to
work. Were going to play five tournaments in five different cities. The most important tournament,
however, will be the third, in Sydney. Thats where well pit our best against the best
Australians.
There should be five thousand fans in the arena, he says, plus its going to be televised
throughout Australia.
Talk about pressure.
But heres the good news, Coach says. Every time you win a tournament, Ill let you have
one cold beer.
I win my first tournament, in Adelaide, no problem, and on the bus Coach hands me an
ice-cold Fosters Lager. I think of Perry and our pact. I think of how strange it is that Im twelve
and being served booze. But the beer can looks so frosty cold, and my teammates are watching.
Also, Im thousands of miles from homefuck it. I take a sip. Delicious. I drain it in four
gulps, then wrestle with my guilty conscience the rest of the afternoon. I stare out the window
as the outback crawls by and I wonder how Perry will take the news, if hell stop being my
friend.
I win three of the next four tournaments. Three more beers. Each more delicious than the
last. But with every sip, I taste the bitter dregs of guilt.
PERRY AND I FALL right back into our old routine. Horror movies. Long talks. Cambridge.
7-Eleven. Chipwiches. Every now and then, however, I look at him and feel the weight of my
betrayal.
Were walking from Cambridge to 7-Eleven and I cant hold it in any longer. The guilt is
eating away at me. Were each wearing headphones plugged into Perrys Walkman, listening
to Prince. Purple Rain. I tap Perry on the shoulder and tell him to take off his headphones.
Whats up?
I dont know how to say this.
He stares.
What is it?
Perry. I broke our pact.
No.
I had a beer in Australia.
Just one?
Four.
Four!
I look down.
He thinks. He stares off at the mountains. Well, he says, we make choices in life, Andre,
and youve made yours. I guess that leaves me on my own.
But a few minutes later, hes curious. He asks how the beers tasted, and again I cant lie. I
tell him they were great. I apologize again, but theres no point in pretending to be remorseful.
Perrys rightI had a choice, for once, and I made it. Sure, I wish I hadnt broken our pact,
but I cant feel bad about finally exercising free will.
Perry frowns like a father. Not like my father, or his father, but like a TV father. He looks as
if he should be wearing a cardigan sweater and smoking a pipe. I realize that the pact Perry
and I made, at its root, was a promise to become each others fathers. To raise each other. I
apologize once more, and I realize how much I missed Perry while I was gone. I make another
pact, with myself, that I wont leave home again.
MY FATHER ACCOSTS ME IN THE KITCHEN. He says we need to talk. I wonder if he
heard about the beer.
He tells me to sit at the table. He sits across from me. An unfinished Norman Rockwell
separates us. He describes a story he caught recently on 60 Minutes. It was all about a tennis
boarding school on the west coast of Florida, near Tampa Bay. The first school of its kind, my
father says. A boot camp for young tennis players, its run by a former paratrooper named
Nick Bollettieri.
So?
Soyoure going there.
What!
Youre not getting any better here in Las Vegas. Youve beaten all the local boys. Youve
beaten all the boys in the West. Andre, youve beaten all the players at the local college! I
have nothing left to teach you.
My father doesnt say the words, but its obvious: hes determined to do things differently
with me. He doesnt want to repeat the mistakes he made with my siblings. He ruined their
games by holding on too long, too tight, and in the process he ruined his relationship with
them. Things got so bad with Rita that shes recently run off with Pancho Gonzalez, the tennis
legend, whos at least thirty years her senior. My father doesnt want to limit me, or break me,
or ruin me. So hes banishing me. Hes sending me away, partly to protect me from himself.
Andre, he says, youve got to eat, sleep, and drink tennis. Its the only way youre going to
be number one.
I already eat, sleep, and drink tennis.
But he wants me to do my eating, sleeping, and drinking elsewhere.
How much does this tennis academy cost?
About $12,000 a year.
We cant afford that.
Youre only going for three months. Thats $3,000.
We cant afford that either.
Its an investment. In you. Well find a way.
I dont want to go.
I can see from my fathers face its settled. End of story.
I try to look on the bright side. Its only three months. I can take anything for three months.
Also, how bad could it be? Maybe it will be like Australia. Maybe it will be fun. Maybe there
will be unforeseen benefits. Maybe it will feel like playing for a team.
What about school? I ask. Im in the middle of seventh grade.
Theres a school in the next town, my father says. Youll go in the morning, for half a day,
then play tennis all afternoon and into the night.
Sounds grueling. A short time later my mother tells me that the 60 Minutes report was actually
an expos on this Bollettieri character, who was in essence running a tennis sweatshop
that employed child labor.
THEY GIVE A GOODBYE PARTY for me at Cambridge. Mr. Fong looks glum, Perry looks
suicidal, my father looks uncertain. We stand around eating cake. We play tennis with the bal
loons, then pop them with pins. Everyone pats me on the back and says what a blast Im go
ing to have.
I know, I say. Cant wait to mix it up with those Florida kids.
The lie sounds like a deliberate miss, like a ball off the wooden rim of my racket.
As the day of my departure draws closer, I dont sleep well. I wake up thrashing, sweating,
twisted up in the sheets. I cant eat. All at once the concept of homesickness makes perfect
sense. I dont want to leave my home, my siblings, my mother, my best friend. Despite the
tension of my home, the occasional terror, Id give anything to stay. For all the pain my father
has caused me, the one constant has been his presence. Hes always been there, at my
back, and now he wont be. I feel abandoned. I thought the one thing I wanted was to be free
of him, and now that hes sending me away, Im heartbroken.
I spend my last days at home hoping that my mother will come to my rescue. I look at her
imploringly, but she looks back with a face that says: Ive seen him break three kids. Youre
lucky to be getting out while youre whole.
My father drives me to the airport. My mother wants to go but cant miss a day of work.
Perry takes her place. He doesnt stop talking the whole way. I cant decide if hes trying to
cheer me up or himself. Its only three months, he says. Well write letters, postcards. Youll
see, its going to be fine. Youre going to learn so much. Maybe Ill even come visit.
I think about Visiting Hours, the cheesy horror movie we saw the night our friendship was
born. Perry is acting now the way he acted then, the way he always reacts to feartwitching,
jumping out of his seat. And Im reacting in my typical way. A cat thrown into a room full of
dogs.
5
THE AIRPORT SHUTTLE pulls into the compound just after sunset. The Nick Bollettieri
Tennis Academy, built on an old tomato farm, is nothing fancy, just a few outbuildings that
look like cell blocks. Theyre named like cell blocks too: B Building, C Building. I look around,
half expecting to find a guard tower and razor wire. More ominously, stretching off into the distance
I see row after row of tennis courts.
As the sun sinks beyond the inky black marshes, the temperature plummets. I huddle into
my T-shirt. I thought Florida was supposed to be hot. A staff member greets me as I step out
of the van and marches me straight to my barracks, which are empty and eerily quiet.
Where is everyone?
Study hall, he says. In a few minutes itll be free hour. Thats the hour between study hall
and bedtime. Why dont you go down to the rec center and introduce yourself to the others?
In the rec center I find two hundred wild boys, plus a few tough-looking girls, separated into
tight cliques. One of the largest cliques is pressed around a Nerf ping-pong table, scream
ing insults at two boys playing. I press my back against a wall and scan the room. I recognize
a few faces, including one or two from the Australia trip. That kid over thereI played him in
California. That evil-looking homey right thereI played a tough three-setter against him in
Arizona. Everyone looks talented, supremely confident. The kids are all colors, all sizes, all
ages, and from all around the world. The youngest is seven, the oldest nineteen. After ruling
Las Vegas my whole life, Im now a tiny fish in a vast pond. Or marsh. And the biggest of the
big fish are the best players in the countryteenage Supermen who form the tightest clique in
a far corner.
I try to watch the ping-pong game. Even there Im outclassed. Back home, nobody could
beat me at Nerf ping-pong. Here? Half these guys would cream me.
I cant imagine how Ill ever fit in at this joint, how Ill make friends. I want to go home, right
now, or at least phone home, but Id have to call collect and I know my father wouldnt accept
the charges. Just knowing I cant hear my mothers voice, or Phillys, no matter how much I
need to, makes me feel panicky. When free hour ends I hurry back to the barracks and lie on
my bunk, waiting to disappear into the black marsh of sleep.
Three months, I tell myself. Just three months.
PEOPLE LIKE TO CALL the Bollettieri Academy a boot camp, but its really a glorified
prison camp. And not all that glorified. We eat gruelbeige meats and gelatinous stews and
gray slop poured over riceand sleep in rickety bunks that line the plywood walls of our military-
style barracks. We rise at dawn and go to bed soon after dinner. We rarely leave, and we
have scant contact with the outside world. Like most prisoners we do nothing but sleep and
work, and our main rock pile is drills. Serve drills, net drills, backhand drills, forehand drills,
with occasional match play to establish the pecking order, strong to weak. Sometimes it feels
as though were gladiators, preparing underneath the Colosseum. Certainly the thirty-five instructors
who bark at us during drills think of themselves as slave drivers.
When were not drilling, were studying the psychology of tennis. We take classes on mental
toughness, positive thinking, and visualization. Were taught to close our eyes and picture
ourselves winning Wimbledon, hoisting that gold trophy above our heads. Then we go to aerobics,
or weight training, or out to the crushed-shell track, where we run until we drop.
The constant pressure, the cutthroat competition, the total lack of adult supervisionit
slowly turns us into animals. A kind of jungle law prevails. Its Karate Kid with rackets, Lord of
the Flies with forehands. One night two boys get into an argument in the barracks. A white
boy and an Asian boy. The white boy uses a racial slur, then walks out. For a full hour the Asian
boy stands in the middle of the barracks, stretching, shaking out his legs and arms, rolling
his neck. He runs through a progression of judo moves, then carefully, methodically tapes his
ankles. When the white boy returns, the Asian boy spins, whipsaws his leg through the air,
and unleashes a kick that shatters the white boys jaw.
The shocking part is that neither boy gets expelled, which greatly adds to the overall
sense of anarchy.
Another two boys have a low-grade, long-running feud. Its mostly taunts, teases, minor
stuffuntil one boy ups the ante. For days he urinates and defecates into a bucket. Then, late
one night, he bursts into the other boys barracks and dumps the bucket on his head.
The jungle feeling, the constant threat of violence and ambush, is reinforced, just before
lights out, by the sound of drums in the distance.
I ask one of the boys: What the hell is that?
Oh. Thats just Courier. He likes to pound a drum set his parents sent him.
Who?
Jim Courier. From Florida.
Within days I get my first glimpse of the warden, founder, and owner of the Nick Bollettieri
Tennis Academy. Hes fiftysomething, but looks 250, because tanning is one of his obsessions,
along with tennis and getting married. (Hes got five or six ex-wives, no one is quite
sure.) Hes soaked up so much sun, baked himself so deeply beneath so many ultraviolet
sunlamps, hes permanently altered his pigmentation. The one portion of his face that isnt the
color of beef jerky is his mustache, a black, meticulously trimmed quasi-goatee, only without
the chin hair, so it looks like a permanent frown. I see Nick striding across the compound, an
angry red man in wraparound shades, berating someone who jogs alongside, trying to keep
pace, and I pray that I never have to deal with Nick directly. I watch as he slides into a red
Ferrari and zooms away, leaving a dorsal fin of dust in his wake.
A boy tells me its our job to keep Nicks four sports cars washed and polished.
Our job? Thats bullshit.
Tell it to the judge.
I ask some of the older boys, some of the veterans, about Nick. Who is he? What makes
him tick? They say hes a hustler, a guy who makes a very nice living off tennis, but he
doesnt love the game or even know it all that well. Hes not like my father, captivated by the
angles and numbers and beauty of tennis. Then again, hes just like my father. Hes captivated
by cash. Hes a guy who flunked the exam for Navy pilots, dropped out of law school,
then landed one day on the idea of teaching tennis. Stepped in shit. Through a bit of hard
work, and a ton of luck, hes turned himself into this image of a tennis titan, mentor to prodigies.
You can learn a few things from him, the other kids say, but hes no miracle worker.
He doesnt sound like a guy who can make me stop hating the game.
IM PLAYING A PRACTICE MATCH, putting a fairly good whooping on a kid from the East
Coast, when I become aware that Gabriel, one of Nicks henchmen, is behind me, staring.
After a few more points Gabriel stops the match. He asks, Has Nick seen you play yet?
No, sir.
He frowns, walks off.
Later, over the loudspeaker that carries across all the courts of the Bollettieri Academy, I
hear:
Andre Agassi to the indoor supreme court! Andre Agassi, report to the indoor supreme
courtimmediately!
Ive never been to the indoor supreme court, and I cant imagine theres a good reason for
my being summoned now. I run there and find Gabriel and Nick, standing shoulder to
shoulder, waiting.
Gabriel says to Nick: Youve got to see this kid hit.
Nick strolls off into the shadows. Gabriel gets on the other side of the net. He puts me
through drills for half an hour. I sneak occasional glances over my shoulder: I can vaguely
make out the silhouette of Nick, concentrating, stroking his mustache.
Hit some backhands, Nick says. His voice is like sandpaper on Velcro.
I do as Im told. I hit backhands.
Now hit some serves.
I serve.
Come to the net.
I come to the net.
Thats enough.
He steps forward. Where are you from?
Las Vegas.
Whats your national ranking?
Number three.
How do I reach your father?
Hes at work. He works nights at the MGM.
How about your mother?
At this hour? Shes probably at home.
Come with me.
We walk slowly to his office, where he asks for my home number. Hes sitting in a tall
black leather chair, turned almost away from me. My face feels redder than his face looks. He
dials and speaks to my mother. She gives him my fathers number. He dials again.
Hes yelling. Mr. Agassi! Nick Bollettieri here! Right, right. Yes, well, listen to me. Im going
to tell you something very important. Your boy has more talent than anybody Ive ever seen
come through this academy. Thats right. Ever. And Im going to take him to the top.
What the hell is he talking about? Im only here for three months. Im leaving here in sixty-
four days. Is Nick saying he wants me to stay here? Live hereforever? Surely my father
wont go for that.
Nick says: Thats right. No, thats no issue. Im going to make it so you wont pay a penny.
Andre can stay, free of charge. Im tearing up your check.
My heart sinks. I know my father cant resist anything free. My fate is sealed.
Nick hangs up and spins toward me in his chair. He doesnt explain. He doesnt console.
He doesnt ask if this is what I want. He doesnt say a thing besides: Go back out to the
courts.
The warden has tacked several years to my sentence, and theres nothing to be done but
pick up my hammer and return to the rock pile.
EVERY DAY AT THE BOLLETTIERI ACADEMY starts with the stench. The surrounding
hills are home to several orange-processing plants, which give off a toxic smell of burned orange
peels. Its the first thing that hits me when I open my eyes, a reminder that this is real,
Im not back in Vegas, Im not in my deuce-court bed, dreaming. Ive never cared much for orange
juice, but after the Bollettieri Academy Ill never be able to look at a gallon of Minute
Maid again.
As the sun clears the marshes, burning off the morning mist, I hurry to beat the other boys
into the shower, because only the first boys get hot water. Actually, its not a shower, just a
tiny nozzle that shoots a narrow jet of painful needles, which hardly gets you wet, let alone
clean. Then we all rush to breakfast, served in a cafeteria so chaotic, its like a mental hospital
where the nurses forgot to hand out the meds. But youd better get there early or it might be
worse. The butter will be filled with everyone elses crumbs, the bread will be gone, the plastic
eggs will be ice.
Straight from breakfast we board a bus for school, Bradenton Academy, twenty-six
minutes away. I divide my time between two academies, both prisons, but Bradenton
Academy makes me more claustrophobic, because it makes less sense. At the Bollettieri
Academy, at least Im learning something about tennis. At Bradenton Academy, the only thing
I learn is that Im stupid.
Bradenton Academy has warped floors, dirty carpets, and a color scheme thats fourteen
shades of gray. There isnt one window in the building, so the light is fluorescent and the air is
stale, filled with a medley of foul odors, chiefly vomit, toilet, and fear. Its almost worse than
the scorched-orange smell back at the Bollettieri Academy.
Other kids, non-tennis kids from town, dont seem to mind. Some actually thrive at
Bradenton Academy, maybe because their life schedules are manageable. They dont balance
school with careers as semipro athletes. They dont contend with waves of homesickness
that rise and fall like nausea. They spend seven hours a day in class, then go home to
eat dinner and watch TV with their families. Those of us who commute from the Bollettieri
Academy, however, spend four and a half hours in class, then board the bus for the long slog
back to our full-time jobs, hitting balls until after dusk, at which time we collapse in heaps on
our wooden bunks, to grab a half hour of rest before returning to the original state of nature
that is the rec center. Then we nod over our textbooks for a few futile hours before free hour
and lights out. Were always behind on schoolwork and falling ever further behind. The system
is rigged, guaranteed to produce bad students as quickly and efficiently as it produces
good tennis players.
I dont like anything thats rigged, so I dont give much effort. I dont study. I dont do
homework. I dont pay attention. And I dont give a damn. In every class I sit quietly at my
desk, staring at my feet, wishing I were somewhere else, while the teacher drones on about
Shakespeare or Bunker Hill or the Pythagorean theorem.
The teachers dont care that Ive tuned them out, because Im one of Nicks Boys, and
they dont want to cross Nick. Bradenton Academy exists because the Bollettieri Academy
keeps sending it a bus full of paying customers every semester. The teachers know that their
jobs depend on Nick, so they cant flunk us, and we cherish our special status. We feel a
lordly sense of entitlement, never realizing that the thing to which were most entitled is the
thing were not gettingan education.
Inside the metal front doors of Bradenton Academy stands the office, the nerve center of
the school and the source of much pain. Report cards and threatening letters emanate from
the office. Bad boys are sent there. The office is also the lair of Mrs. G and Doc G, married
coprincipals of Bradenton Academy, and, I suspect, frustrated sideshow performers. Mrs. G is
a gangly woman with no midsection. She looks as if her shoulders have been set directly on
her hips. She tries to disguise this odd shape by wearing skirts, but this only accentuates the
problem. On her face she wears two gobs of blush and one smear of lipstick, a symmetrical
triad of three circles that she color-coordinates the way other people do their shoes and belt.
Her cheeks and mouth always match, and always almost distract you from the hump in her
back. Nothing Mrs. G wears, however, can distract you from her gargantuan hands. She has
mitts the size of rackets, and the first time she shakes my hand I think I might faint.
Old Doc G is half her size but has just as many body issues. Its not hard to see what they
first found in common. Frail, gamy, Doc G has a right arm thats been shriveled since birth. He
ought to hide this arm, keep it behind his back or shoved in a pocket. Instead he waves it
around, brandishes it like a weapon. He likes to take students aside for one-on-one chats,
and whenever he does so, he swings his bad arm up onto the students shoulder, setting it
there until hes said his piece. If this doesnt give you the heebie-jeebies, nothing will. Doc Gs
arm feels like a pork tenderloin lying on your shoulder, and hours later you can still feel it
there and you cant help but shiver.
Mrs. G and Doc G have instituted dozens of rules at Bradenton Academy, and one of the
most strictly enforced is their ban on jewelry. Thus, I go out of my way to pierce my ears. Its
an easy show of rebellion, which, as I see it, is my last resort. Rebellion is the one thing I get
to choose every day, and this rebellion comes with the added bonus that it represents a neat
little fuck-you to my father, whos always hated earrings on men. Many times Ive heard my
father say that earrings equal homosexuality. I cant wait for him to see mine. (I buy both
studs and dangly hoops.) Hell finally regret sending me thousands of miles from home and
leaving me here to be corrupted.
I make a feeble and insincere effort to hide my new accessory, wrapping a Band-Aid
around it. Mrs. G notices, of course, just as I hoped she would. She pulls me out of class and
confronts me.
Mr. Agassi, what is the meaning of that bandage?
I hurt my ear.
Hurt your? Dont be ridiculous. Remove that Band-Aid.
I pull off the Band-Aid. She sees the stud and gasps.
We do not allow earrings at Bradenton Academy, Mr. Agassi. The next time I see you, I
will expect the Band-Aid gone and the earring out.
By the end of the first semester Im close to failing all my classes. Except English. I show
a strange aptitude for literature, especially poetry. Memorizing famous poems, writing original
poems, it comes easily to me. Were assigned to write a short verse about our daily lives and I
set mine proudly on the teachers desk. She likes it. She reads it aloud in class. Some of the
other kids later ask me to ghostwrite their homework. I dash off their assignments on the bus,
no problem. The English teacher detains me after class and says I have real talent. I smile.
Its different from being told by Nick that I have talent. This feels like something Id like to pursue.
For a moment I imagine what it would be like to do something besides playing tennis
something I choose. Then I go to my next class, math, and the dream dies in a cloud of
algebra formulae. Im not cut out to be a scholar. The math teachers voice sounds as if its
coming from miles away. The next class, French, is worse. Im trs stupide. I transfer to Spanish,
where Im muy estpido. Spanish, I think, might actually shorten my life. The boredom,
the confusion, might cause me to expire in my chair. They will find me one day in my seat,
muerto.
Gradually school goes from being hard to being physically harmful. The anxiety of boarding
the bus, the twenty-six-minute ride, the inevitable confrontation with Mrs. G or Doc G, actually
make me ill. What I dread most is the moment, the daily moment, when Im exposed as
a loser. An academic loser. So great is this dread that over time Bradenton Academy modifies
my view of the Bollettieri Academy. I look forward to all those drills, and even the high-
pressure tournaments, because at least Im not at school.
Thanks to one particularly big tournament, I miss a major history test at Bradenton
Academy, a test I was sure to fail. I celebrate this dodging of a bullet by eviscerating my opponents.
But when I return to school my teacher says I have to take a makeup.
The injustice. I skulk down to the office for the makeup test. Along the way I duck into a
dark corner and prepare a cheat sheet, which I stash in my pocket.
There is only one other student in the office, a red-haired girl with a fat, sweaty face. She
doesnt blink, doesnt register my presence in any way. She seems to be in a coma. I fill out
the test, fast, copying from my cheat sheet. Suddenly I feel a pair of eyes on me. I look up,
and the red-haired girl is out of her coma, staring. She closes her book and strolls out. Quickly
I shove the cheat sheet into the crotch of my underwear. I tear another sheet of paper from
my notebook and, imitating a girlish handwriting, I write: I think youre cute! Give me a call! I
shove the paper in my front pocket just as Mrs. G storms in.
Pencil down, she says.
Soon after arriving at the Bollettieri Academy, I start to rebel.
Whats up, Mrs. G?
Are you cheating?
On what? This? If I were going to cheat on something it wouldnt be this. Ive got this history
stuff down cold. Valley Forge. Paul Revere. Piece of cake.
Empty your pockets.
I lay out a few coins, a pack of gum, the note from my imaginary admirer. Mrs. G picks up
the note and reads under her breath.
I say, Im thinking about what I should write back. Any ideas?
She scowls, walks out. I pass the test and chalk it up as a moral victory.
MY ENGLISH TEACHER is my only advocate. Shes also the daughter of Mrs. G and Doc
G, so she pleads with her parents that Im smarter than my grades and my behavior indicate.
She even arranges an IQ test and the results confirm her opinion.
Andre, she says, you need to apply yourself. Prove to Mrs. G that youre not who she
thinks you are.
I tell her that I am applying myself, that Im doing as well as I can under the circumstances.
But Im tired all the time from playing tennis, and distracted by the pressure of tournaments
and so-called challenges. Especially the challenges: once a month we play
someone above us in the pecking order. Id like any teacher to explain how youre supposed
to concentrate on conjugating verbs or solving for x when youre steeling yourself for a five-
set brawl with some punk from Orlando that afternoon.
I dont tell her everything, because I cant. Id feel like a sissy talking about my fear of
school, the countless times I sit in class drenched in sweat. I cant tell her about my trouble
concentrating, my horror of being called on, how this horror sometimes morphs into an air
bubble in my lower intestine, which grows and grows until I need to run to the bathroom.
Between classes Im often locked in a toilet stall.
Then theres the social anxiety, the doomed effort to fit in. At Braden-ton Academy, fitting
in takes money. Most of the kids are fashion plates, whereas I have three pairs of jeans, five
T-shirts, two pairs of tennis shoesand one cotton crewneck with gray and black squares. In
class, rather than thinking about The Scarlet Letter, Im thinking about how many days per
week I can get away with wearing my sweater, worrying about what Ill do when the weather
gets warm.
The worse I do in school, the more I rebel. I drink, I smoke pot, I act like an ass. Im dimly
aware of the inverse ratio between my grades and my rebellion, but I dont dwell on it. I prefer
Nicks theory. He says I dont do well in school because I have a hard-on for the world. It
might be the only thing hes ever said about me thats halfway accurate. (He typically de
scribes me as a cocky showboater who seeks the limelight. Even my father knows me better
than that.) My general demeanor does feel like a hard-onviolent, involuntary, unstoppable
and so I accept it as I accept the many changes in my body.
Finally, when my grades hit bottom, my rebellion reaches the breaking point. I walk into a
hair salon in the Bradenton Mall and tell the stylist to give me a mohawk. Razor the sides,
shave them to the scalp, and leave just one thick strip of spiked hair down the middle.
Are you sure, kid?
I want it high, and I want it spiky. Then dye it pink.
He works his shearer back and forth for eight minutes. Then he says, All done, and spins
me around in the chair. I look in the mirror. The earring was good, this is better. I cant wait to
see the look on Mrs. Gs face.
Outside the mall, while I wait for the bus back to the Bollettieri Academy, no one recognizes
me. Kids I play with, kids I bunk with, they look right past me. To the casual observer
Ive done something that seems like a desperate effort to stand out. But in fact Ive rendered
myself, my inner self, my true self, invisible. At least, that was the idea.
I FLY HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, and as the plane approaches the Strip, as the casinos
below the canting right wing twinkle like a row of Christmas trees, the flight attendant says
were stuck in a holding pattern.
Groans.
Since we know youre all itching to hit the casinos, she says, we thought it might be fun to
do a little gambling till were clear to land.
Cheers.
Lets everybody take out a dollar and put it in this airsick bag. Then write your seat number
on your ticket stub and throw it in this other airsick bag. Well pull out one ticket stub, and
that person will win the jackpot!
She collects everyones dollar while another flight attendant collects the ticket stubs. Now
she stands at the head of the plane and reaches in the bag.
And the grand prize goes to, drumroll please, 9F!
Im 9F. I won! I won! I stand and wave. The passengers turn and see me. More groans.
Great, the kid with the pink mohawk won.
The flight attendant reluctantly hands me the airsick bag full of ninety-six ones. I spend the
rest of the flight counting and recounting them, thanking my lucky stars for this horseshoe up
my ass.
My father, as expected, is horrified by my hair and earring. But he refuses to blame himself
or the Bollettieri Academy. He wont admit that sending me away was a mistake, and he
wont stand for any talk of my coming home. He simply asks if Im a faggot.
No, I say, then go to my room.
Philly follows. He compliments my new look. Even a mohawk beats bald. I tell him about
my windfall on the airplane.
Whoa! What are you going to do with all that cash?
Im thinking about spending it on an ankle bracelet for Jamie. Shes a girl who goes to
school with Perry. She let me kiss her the last time I was home. But I dont knowI desperately
need new clothes for school. I cant make it much farther with one gray-black sweater. I
want to fit in.
Philly nods. Tough call, bro.
He doesnt ask why, if I want to fit in, I got a mohawk and an earring. He treats my dilemma
as serious, my contradictions as coherent, and helps me work through the options. We
decide that I should spend the money on the girlfriend, forget about the new clothes.
The moment I have the anklet in my hands, however, Im filled with regret. I picture myself
back in Florida, rotating my few articles of clothing. I tell Philly, and he gives a half nod.
In the morning I open one eye and find Philly hovering over me, grinning. Hes staring at
my chest. I look down and find a stack of bills.
Whats this?
Went out and played cards last night, bro. Hit a lucky streak. Won $600.
Sowhats this?
Three hundred bucks. Go buy yourself some sweaters.
DURING SPRING BREAK my father wants me to play semipro tournaments, called satellites,
which are open qualification, meaning anyone can show up and play at least one match.
Theyre held in out-of-the-way towns, way out of the way, burgs like Monroe, Louisiana, and
St. Joe, Missouri. I cant travel by myself; Im just fourteen. So my father sends Philly along to
chaperone me. Also, to play. Philly and my father still cling to the belief that he can do
something with his tennis.
Philly rents a beige Omni, which quickly becomes a mobile version of our bedroom back
home. One side his, one side mine. We log thousands of miles, stopping only for fast-food
joints, tournament sites, and sleep. Our lodging is free, because in every town we stay with
strangers, local families who volunteer to host players. Most of the hosts are pleasant
enough, but theyre overly enthusiastic about the game. Its awkward enough to stay with
strangers, but its a chore to make tennis talk over pancakes and coffee. For me, that is. Philly
will talk to anyone, and I often have to nudge and pull him when its time to go.
Philly and I both feel like outlaws, living on the road, doing whatever we please. We throw
fast-food wrappers over our shoulders into the backseat. We listen to loud music, curse all we
want, say whatever is on our minds, without fear of being corrected or ridiculed. Still, we nev
er mention our very different goals for this trip. Philly wants only to earn one ATP point, just
one, so he can know what it feels like to be ranked. I want only to avoid playing Philly, in
which case Ill have to beat my beloved brother again.
At the first satellite I rout my opponent and Philly gets routed by his. Afterward, in the rental
car, in the parking garage beside the stadium, Philly stares at the steering wheel, looking
stunned. For some reason this loss hurt more than the others. He balls his fist and punches
the steering wheel. Hard. Then punches it again. He begins talking to himself, so low that I
cant hear. Now hes talking louder. Now hes shouting, calling himself a born loser, hitting the
steering wheel again and again. Hes hammering the wheel so hard that Im sure hes going
to break a bone in his hand. I think of our father, shadowboxing the steering wheel after
knocking out the trucker.
Philly says, It would be better if I broke my fucking fist! At least then it would all be over!
Dad was right. I am a born loser.
All at once he stops. He looks at me and becomes resigned. Calm. Like our mother. He
smiles; the storm has passed, the poison is gone.
I feel better, he says with a laugh and a snuffle.
Driving out of the parking garage, he gives me pointers on my next opponent.
DAYS AFTER I RETURN to the Bollettieri Academy, Im at the Bradenton Mall. I take a
chance and place a collect call home. Pfew: Philly answers. He sounds the way he did in the
parking garage.
So, he says. We got a letter from the ATP.
Yeah?
You want to know your ranking?
I dont knowdo I?
Youre number 610.
Really?
Six-ten in the world, bro.
Which means there are only 609 people better than me in the entire world. On planet
earth, in the solar system, Im number 610. I slap the wall of the phone booth and shout for
joy.
The line is silent. Then, in a kind of whisper, Philly asks, How does it feel?
I cant believe how thoughtless Ive been, shouting in Phillys ear when he must feel bitterly
disappointed. I wish I could throw half of my ATP points on his chest. In a tone of supreme
boredom, stifling a pretend yawn, I tell him: You know what? Its no big deal. Its overrated.
WHAT MORE CAN I DO? Nick, Gabriel, Mrs. G, Doc Gno one seems to notice my
antics anymore. Ive mutilated my hair, grown my nails, including one pinky nail thats two
inches long and painted fire-engine red. Ive pierced my body, broken rules, busted curfew,
picked fistfights, thrown tantrums, cut classes, even slipped into the girls barracks after
hours. Ive consumed gallons of whiskey, often while sitting brazenly atop my bunk, and as an
extra dash of audacity Ive built a pyramid from my dead soldiers. A three-foot tower of empty
Jack Daniels bottles. I chew tobacco, hardcore weed like Skoal and Kodiak, soaked in whiskey.
After losses I stick a plum-sized wad of chew inside my cheek. The bigger the loss, the
bigger the wad. What rebellion is left? What new sin can I commit to show the world Im unhappy
and want to go home?
Each week, the only time Im not plotting rebellion is free hour, when I can goof off in the
rec center, or Saturday night, when I can go to the Bradenton Mall and flirt with girls. That
adds up to ten hours per week that Im happy, or at least not wracking my brain to think up
some new form of civil disobedience.
When Im still fourteen the Bollettieri Academy hires a bus and ships us upstate to a major
tournament in Pensacola. The Bollettieri Academy travels several times each year to tournaments
like this one, throughout Florida, because Nick thinks theyre good tests. Measuring
sticks, he calls them. Florida is tennis heaven, Nick says, and if were better than Floridas
best, then we must be tops in the world.
I have no trouble reaching the final in my bracket, but the other kids dont fare as well.
They all get knocked out early. Thus theyre all forced to gather and watch my match. They
have no choice, nowhere else to go. When Im done, well get back on the bus, en masse,
and drive the twelve hours home to the Bollettieri Academy.
Take your time, the kids joke.
No one is eager to spend twelve more hours on that slow stinky bus.
For laughs, I decide to play the match in jeans. Not tennis shorts, not warm-up pants, but
torn, faded, dirty dungarees. I know it wont affect the outcome. The kid Im playing is a
chump. I can beat him with one hand tied behind my back, wearing a gorilla costume. For
good measure I pencil on some eyeliner and put in my gaudiest earrings.
I win the match in straight sets. The other kids cheer wildly. They award me bonus points
for style. On the ride back to the Bollettieri Academy I get extra attention, slaps on the back
and attaboys. I feel at last as though Im fitting in, becoming one of the cool kids, one of the
alphas. Plus I got the W.
The next day, right after lunch, Nick calls a surprise meeting.
Everyone gather around, he bellows.
He directs us to a back court with bleachers. When all two hundred full-time kids are
settled in and quiet he starts pacing before us, talking about what the Bollettieri Academy
means, how we should feel privileged to be here. He built this place from nothing, he says,
and hes proud to have it bear his name. The Bollettieri Academy stands for excellence. The
Bollettieri Academy stands for class. The Bollettieri Academy is known and respected the
world over.
He pauses.
Andre, would you stand up for a minute?
I stand.
All that Ive just said about this place, Andre, you have vi-o-lated. You have defiled this
place, shamed it with your little stunt yesterday. Wearing jeans and makeup and earrings during
your final? Boy, Im going to tell you something very important: If youre going to act like
that, if youre going to dress like a girl, then heres what Im going to do. In your next tournament
Im going to have you wear a skirt. Ive contacted Ellesse, and Ive asked them to send a
bunch of skirts for you, and you will wear one, yes sirree, because if thats who you are, then
that is how were going to treat you.
All two hundred kids are looking at me. Four hundred eyes, fixed tight on me. Many of the
kids are laughing.
Nick keeps going. Your free time, he says, is hereby revoked. Your free time is now my
time. Youre on detail, Mr. Agassi. Between nine and ten youll clean every bathroom on the
property. When the toilets are scrubbed, youll police the grounds. If you dont like it, well, its
simple. Leave. If youre going to act like you did yesterday, we dont want you here. If youre
incapable of showing that you care about this place as much as we do, buh-bye.
This last word, buh-bye, rings out, echoes across the empty courts.
Thats it, he says. Everyone get back to work.
All the kids scurry away. I stand stock still, trying to decide what to do. I could curse out
Nick. I could threaten to fight him. I could start bawling. I think of Philly, then Perry. What
would they have me do? I think of my father, sent to school in girl clothes when his mother
wanted to humiliate him. The day he became a fighter.
There is no more time to decide. Gabriel says my punishment begins right now. For the
rest of the afternoon, he sayson your knees. Weed.
AT DUSK, relieved of my weed sack, I walk to my room. No more indecision. I know exactly
what Im going to do. I throw my clothes in a suitcase and start for the highway. The
thought crosses my mind that this is Florida, any maniac halfwit could pick me up and Id never
be heard from again. But Id be better off with a maniac halfwit than with Nick.
In my wallet I have one credit card, which my father gave me for emergencies, and Im
thinking this is a bona fide Code Red. Im headed for the airport. By this time tomorrow Ill be
sitting in Perrys bedroom, telling him the story.
I keep my eyes peeled for searchlights. I listen for the yelps of distant bloodhounds. I stick
out my thumb.
A car pulls up. I open the door, wind up to toss my suitcase in the backseat. Its Julio, the
disciplinarian on Nicks staff. He says my father is on the phone back at the Bollettieri
Academy and wants to speak to menow.
Id prefer the bloodhounds.
I TELL MY FATHER that I want to come home. I tell him what Nick has done.
You dress like a fag, my father says. Sounds like you deserved it.
I move to Plan B.
Pops, I say, Nicks ruining my game. Its all about hitting from the baselinewe never
work on my net game. We never work on serve and volley.
My father says hell talk to Nick about my game. He also says Nick has given his assurance
that Ill only be punished for a few weeks, to prove that Nick is in charge of the place.
They cant have one kid flouting the rules. They need to maintain some show of discipline.
In conclusion my father says again that Im staying. I have no choice. Click. Dial tone.
Julio shuts the door. Nick takes the receiver from my hand and says my father told him to
take away my credit card.
No way Im giving up my credit card. My only means of ever getting out of here? Over my
dead body.
Nick tries to negotiate with me and I suddenly realize: He needs me. He sent Julio after
me, he phoned my father, now hes trying to get my credit card? He told me to leave, and
when I left, he fetched me back. I called his bluff. Despite the trouble I cause, Im apparently
worth something to this guy.
BY DAY, IM THE MODEL PRISONER. I pick weeds, clean toilets, wear the proper tennis
clothes. By night Im the masked avenger. I steal a master key to the Bollettieri Academy, and
after everyones asleep I go marauding with a group of other disgruntled inmates. While I confine
my vandalism to minor stuff, like throwing shaving cream bombs, my cohorts spray walls
with graffiti, and on the door to Nicks office they paint Nick the Dick. When Nick has the door
repainted, they do it again.
My primary cohort on these late-night sprees is Roddy Parks, the boy who beat me that
long-ago day when Perry introduced himself. Then Roddy gets caught. His bunkmate drops a
dime. I hear that Roddys been expelled. So now we know what it takes to get expelled. Nick
the Dick. To his credit, Roddy takes the fall. He doesnt rat out anyone.
Aside from petty vandalism, my main act of insurrection is silence. I vow that, as long as I
live, Ill never speak to Nick. This is my code, my religion, my new identity. This is who I am,
the boy who wont speak. Nick, of course, doesnt notice. He strolls by the courts and says
something to me and I dont answer. He shrugs. But other kids see me not answer. My status
rises.
One reason for Nicks oblivion is that hes busy organizing a tournament, which he hopes
will attract top juniors from throughout the nation. This gives me a great idea, another way to
stick it to Nick. I pull aside one of his staff and mention a kid back in Vegas whod be perfect
for the tournament. Hes unbelievably talented, I say. He gives me problems whenever we
play.
Whats his name?
Perry Rogers.
Its like laying fresh bait in a Nick trap. Nick lives to discover new stars and showcase
them in his tournaments. New stars generate buzz. New stars add to the aura of the Bollettieri
Academy, and bolster Nicks image as the great tennis mentor. Sure enough, days later,
Perry receives a plane ticket and a personal invite to the tournament. He flies down to Florida
and takes a cab to the Bollettieri Academy. I meet him in the compound and we throw our
arms around each other, cackling at the fast one were pulling on Nick.
Who do I have to play?
Murphy Jensen.
Oh no. Hes great!
Dont worry about it. Thats not for a few days. For now, lets party.
One of the many perks for kids playing in the tournament is a field trip to Busch Gardens
in Tampa. On the bus to the amusement park I bring Perry up to speed, tell him about my
public humiliation, describe how miserable I am at the Bollettieri Academy. And at Bradenton
Academy. I tell him Im close to failing. Thats where I lose him. For once hes not able to
make my problem sound coherent. He loves school. He dreams of attending a fine Eastern
college, then law school.
I change the subject. I grill him about Jamie. Did she ask about me? How does she look?
Does she wear my ankle bracelet? I tell Perry I want to send him back to Vegas with a special
present for Jamie. Maybe something nice from Busch Gardens.
That would be cool, he agrees.
Were not at Busch Gardens ten minutes before Perry sees a booth filled with stuffed animals.
On a high shelf sits an enormous black-and-white panda, its legs sticking left and right,
its tiny red tongue hanging out.
Andreyou need to get Jamie that!
Well, sure, but its not for sale. You have to win the grand prize to get that panda, and no
one wins this game. Its rigged. I dont like things that are rigged.
Nah. You just have to toss two rubber rings around the neck of a Coke bottle. Were athletes.
Weve got this.
We try for half an hour, scattering rubber rings all over the booth. Not one ring comes
close to lassoing a Coke bottle.
OK, Perry says. Heres what we do. You distract the lady running the booth, Ill sneak
back there and put two of these rings on the bottles.
I dont know. What if we get caught?
But then I remember: Its for Jamie. Anything for Jamie.
I call out to the booth lady: Excuse me, maam, I have a question.
She turns. Yes?
I ask something inane about the rules of ringtoss. In my peripheral vision I see Perry tiptoe
into the booth. Four seconds later he leaps back.
I won! I won!
The booth lady spins around. She sees two Coke bottles with rubber rings around their
necks. She looks shocked. Then skeptical.
Now wait just a minute, kid
I won! Give me my panda!
I didnt see
Thats your problem if you didnt see. Thats not the rule, you have to see. Where does it
say you have to see? I want to talk to your supervisor! Get Mr. Busch Gardens himself down
here! Im taking this whole amusement park to court. What kind of a gyp is this? I paid a dollar
to play this game, and thats an implied contract. You owe me a panda. Im suing. My father is
suing. You have exactly three seconds to get me my panda, which I won fair and fucking
square!
Perry is doing what he loves, talking. Hes doing what his father does, selling air. And the
booth lady is doing what she hates, manning a booth at an amusement park. Its no contest.
She doesnt want any trouble and she doesnt need this headache. With a long stick she
snatches down the big panda and forks it over. Its nearly as tall as Perry. He grabs it like a giant
Chipwich and we run off before she changes her mind.
For the rest of the night were a threesome: Perry, me, and the panda. We bring the panda
to the snack bar, into the boys room, on the roller coaster. Its like were babysitting a comatose
fourteen-year-old. A real panda couldnt be more trouble. When the time comes to
board the bus, were both weary and glad to dump the panda in its own seat, which it fills. Its
girth is as shocking as its height.
I say, I hope Jamie appreciates this.
Perry says, Shes going to love it.
A little girl sits behind us. Shes eight or nine. She cant take her eyes off the panda. She
coos and pets its fur.
What a pretty panda! Where did you get it?
We won it.
What are you going to do with it?
Im giving it to a friend.
She asks to sit with the panda. She asks if she can cuddle it. I tell her to help herself.
I hope Jamie likes the panda half as much as this girl does.
PERRY AND I are hanging out in the barracks the next morning when Gabriel pokes his
head in.
The Man wants to see you.
What about?
Gabriel shrugs.
I walk slowly, taking my time. I stop at the door to Nicks office and with a thin smile I remember.
Nick the Dick. Youll be missed, Roddy.
Nick is sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his tall black leather chair.
Andre, come in, come in.
I sit in a wooden chair across from him.
He clears his throat. I understand, he says, that you were at Busch Gardens yesterday.
Did you have fun?
I say nothing. He waits. Then clears his throat again.
Well, I understand you came home with a very large panda.
I continue to stare straight ahead.
Anyway, he says, my daughter apparently has fallen in love with that panda. Ha ha.
I think of the little girl on the bus. Nicks daughterof course. How could I have missed
that?
She cant stop talking about it, Nick says. So heres the thing. Id like to buy that panda
from you.
Silence.
You hear me, Andre?
Silence.
Can you understand?
Silence.
Gabriel, why isnt Andre saying anything?
Hes not speaking to you.
Since when?
Gabriel frowns.
Look, Nick says, just tell me how much you want for it, Andre.
I dont move my eyes.
I know. Why dont you write down how much you want for it?
He slides a piece of paper toward me. I dont move.
How about if I give you $200.
Deep silence.
Gabriel tells Nick that hell talk to me later about the panda.
Yeah, Nick says. OK. Have a think about it, Andre.
YOULL NEVER BELIEVE THIS, I tell Perry at the barracks. He wanted the Panda. For his
daughter. That little girl on the bus was Nicks daughter.
Youre kidding. And what did you say?
I said nothing.
What do you mean, nothing?
Vow of silence, remember? Forever.
Andre, you misplayed that. No, no, thats a miss. Youve got to revisit this, quickly. Heres
the play. You take the panda, you give it to Nick and tell him you dont want his money, you
just want an opportunity to succeed and get out of this place. You want wild cards, bids to
tournaments, different rules to live by. Better food, better everything. Above allyou dont
want to go to school. This is your chance to break free. Youve got real leverage now.
I cant give that fucking guy my panda. I just cant. Besides, what about Jamie?
Well worry about Jamie later. This is your future were talking about. You have to give that
panda to Nick!
We talk until long after lights out, arguing in heated whispers. Finally Perry convinces me.
So, he says, yawning, youre going to give it to him tomorrow.
No. Bullshit. Im going to his office right now. Im going to let myself in with the master key,
then put the panda on Nicks tall leather chair, ass up.
THE NEXT MORNING, before breakfast, Gabriel comes for me again.
Office. On the double.
Nick is in his chair. The panda is now in the corner, leaning, staring into space. Nick looks
at the panda, then me. He says, You dont talk. You wear makeup. You wear jeans in a tournament.
You get me to invite your friend Perry to the tourney, even though he cant play, he
can barely chew gum and walk at the same time. And that hair. Dont get me started on that
hair. And now you give me something I ask for, but you break into my office in the middle of
the night and put it ass-up in my fucking chair? How the fuck did you get in my office? Jesus,
boy, what is your problem?
You want to know what my problem is?
Even Nick is shocked by the sound of my voice.
I shout, You are my fucking problem. You. And if you havent figured that out, then youre
stupider than you look. Do you have any idea what its like here? What its like to be three
thousand miles from home, living in this prison, waking up at six thirty, having thirty minutes to
eat that shitty breakfast, getting on that broken-down bus, going to that lousy school for four
hours, hurrying back and having thirty minutes to eat more crap before going on the tennis
court, day after day after day? Do you? The only thing you have to look forward to, the only
real fun you have every week, is Saturday night at the Bradenton Malland then that gets
taken away! You took that from me! This place is hell, and I want to burn it down!
Nicks eyes are wider than the pandas. But hes not angry. Or sad. Hes mildly pleased,
because this is the only language he understands. He reminds me of Pacino in Scarface,
when a woman tells him, Who, why, when, and how I fuck is none of your business, and Pacino
says, Now youre talking to me, baby.
Nick, I realize, likes it rough.
OK, he says, you made your point. What do you want?
I hear Perrys voice.
I want to quit school, I say. I want to start doing correspondence school, so I can work on
my game full-time. I want your help, instead of the bullshit youve been giving me. I want wild
cards, bids to tournaments. I want to take real steps toward turning pro.
Of course none of this is really what I want. Its what Perry tells me I want, and its better
than what Ive got. Even as I demand it, I feel ambivalent. But Nick looks at Gabriel, and Gabriel
looks at me, and the panda looks at all of us.
Ill think about it, Nick says.
HOURS AFTER PERRY LEAVES FOR VEGAS, Nick sends word via Gabriel that my first
wild card will be the big tournament at La Quinta. Also, hes going to get me into the next Florida
satellite. Furthermore, Im to consider myself hereby dismissed and excused from
Bradenton Academy. Hell set up a correspondence program of some sort, when he gets
around to it.
Gabriel walks off, smirking. You won, kid.
I watch everyone else board the bus for Bradenton Academy, and as it rumbles away,
spewing black smoke, I sit on a bench, basking in the sunshine. I tell myself: Youre fourteen
years old, and you never have to go to school again. From now on, every morning will feel like
Christmas and the first day of summer vacation, combined. A smile spreads across my face,
my first in months. No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers dirty looks. Youre
free, Andre. Youll never have to learn anything again.
I PUT IN MY EARRING and run down to the hard courts. The morning is mine, mine, and I
spend it hitting balls. Hit harder. I hit for two hours, channeling my newfound freedom into
every swing. I can feel the difference. The ball explodes off my racket. Nick appears, shaking
his head. I pity your next opponent, he says.
Meanwhile, back in Vegas, my mother begins correspondence school on my behalf. Her
first actual correspondence is a letter to me, in which she says that her son might not go to
college, but hes damn sure going to graduate high school. I write back and thank her for doing
my homework and taking my tests. But when she earns the degree, I add, she can keep it.
In March 1985, I fly to Los Angeles and stay with Philly, whos living in someones guest
cottage, giving tennis lessons, searching for what he wants to do with his life. He helps me
train for La Quinta, one of the years biggest tournaments. The guest cottage is tiny, smaller
than our room back in Vegas, smaller than our rented Omni, but we dont mind, were thrilled
to be reunited, hopeful about my new direction. Theres just one problem: We have no money.
We subsist on baked potatoes and lentil soup. Three times a day we bake two potatoes and
heat a can of generic lentil soup. We then pour the soup over the potatoes and
voilbreakfast, lunch, or dinner is served. The whole meal costs eighty-nine cents and
keeps hunger at bay for about three hours.
THE DAY BEFORE THE TOURNAMENT, we drive Phillys beat-up jalopy over to La
Quinta. The car produces enormous clouds of black smoke. It feels like driving in a portable
summer storm.
Maybe we should stick a potato in the tailpipe, I tell Philly.
Our first stop is the grocery store. I stand before the bin of potatoes and my stomach rolls.
I cant face another spud. I walk off, wander up and down the aisles, and find myself in the
frozen-food section. My eye lands on one particularly enticing treat. Oreo ice cream sandwiches.
I reach for them like a sleepwalker. I take a box of ice cream sandwiches from the
case and meet my brother in the express lane. Slipping behind him I gently set the ice cream
sandwiches on the conveyor belt.
He looks down, then looks at me.
We cant afford that.
Ill have this instead of my potato.
He picks up the box, looks at the price, lets out a low whistle. Andre, this costs as much as
ten potatoes. We cant.
I know. Fuck.
Walking back to the frozen-food case, I think: I hate Philly. I love Philly. I hate potatoes.
Woozy with hunger, I go out and beat Broderick Dyke in the first round at La Quinta, 64,
64. In the second round I beat Rill Baxter, 62, 61. In the third round I beat Russell
Simpson, 63, 63. Then I win my first round in the main draw against John Austin, 64, 61.
Down a break in the first set, I come storming back. Im fifteen years old, beating grown men,
beating them senseless, churning my way through the ranks. Everywhere I walk people are
pointing at me, whispering. There he is. Thats the kid I was telling you aboutthe prodigy.
Its the prettiest word Ive ever heard applied to me.
Prize money for reaching the second round at La Quinta, is $2,600. But Im an amateur,
so I get nothing. Still, Philly learns that the tournament will reimburse players for expenses.
We sit in his jalopy and make up an itemized list of imaginary expenses, including our imaginary
first-class flight from Vegas, our imaginary five-star-hotel room, our imaginarily lavish restaurant
meals. We think were shrewd, because our expenses equal exactly $2,600.
Philly and I have the balls to ask for so much because were from Vegas. Weve spent our
childhoods in casinos. We think were born bluffers. We think were high rollers. After all, we
did learn to double down before we were potty-trained. Recently, while walking through
Caesars, Philly and I passed a slot machine just as it began to play that old Depression-era
song Were in the Money. We knew the song from Pops, so we felt it was a sign. It didnt occur
to us that the slot machine played that song all day long. We sat down at the nearest
blackjack tableand won. Now, with the same swagger born of navet, I walk our list of expenses
into the office of the tournament director, Charlie Pasarell, while Philly waits in the car.
Charlie is a former player. In fact, back in 1969 he played Pancho Gonzalez in the longest
mens singles match ever at Wimbledon. Pancho is now my brother-in-lawhe recently married
Rita. Another sign that Philly and I are in the money. But the biggest sign of all: one of
Charlies oldest friends is Alan King, who hosted the very same Vegas tournament where I
saw Caesar and Cleopatra and the wheelbarrow full of silver dollars, where I worked as a ball
boy with Wendi, where I first stepped onto a professional tennis court in an official capacity.
Signs, signs, everywhere signs. I place the list on Charlies desk and stand back.
Huh, Charlie says, looking over the list. Very interesting.
Sorry?
Expenses dont usually work out so neat.
I feel a hot flash.
Your expenses, Andre, are exactly the same amount as the prize money youd be able to
collect if you were a pro.
Charlie looks at me over the top of his glasses. I feel my heart shrivel to the size of a lentil.
I consider making a run for it. I imagine Philly and me living in that guest cottage for the rest of
our lives. But Charlie suppresses a smile, reaches into a strongbox, and removes a wad of
bills.
Heres two grand, kid. Dont grind me for the other six hun.
Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.
I run outside and dive into Phillys car. He peels out as if weve just held up the First Bank
of La Quinta. I count out $1,000 and throw it at my brother.
Your cut of the loot.
What? No! Andre, you worked hard for this, bro.
Are you kidding? We worked. Philly, I couldnt have done this without you! Impossible!
Were in this together, man.
In the back of our minds were both thinking of the morning I woke up with $300 on my
chest. Were also thinking of all those nights, sitting in the ad courtdeuce court of our bedroom,
sharing everything. He leans over, while driving, and gives me a hug. Then we talk
about where were going to eat dinner. Were drooling as we bandy names of restaurants
about. In the end we agree that this is a special occasion, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, which
calls for something truly fancy.
Sizzler.
I can already taste that rib eye, Philly says.
Im not going to bother with a plate. Im just going to shove my head into the salad bar.
They have an all-you-can-eat shrimp special.
Theyre going to be sorry they ever came up with that idea!
You said it, bro!
We gnaw through the La Quinta Sizzler, not leaving a single seed or crouton in our wake,
then sit around and stare at the money we have left over. We line up the bills, stack them,
stroke them. We talk about our new buddy, Benjamin Franklin. Were so drunk on calories, we
break out the steam iron and run it lightly over each bill, gently smoothing out the wrinkles in
Bens face.
I CONTINUE TO LIVE AND TRAIN at the Bollettieri Academy, with Nick as my coach and
sometime travel companion, though he feels more like a sounding board. And, honestly, a
friend. Our makeshift truce has turned into a surprisingly harmonious working relationship.
Nick respects the way I stood up to him, and I respect him for being true to his word. Were
working hard to achieve a common goal, to conquer the tennis world. I dont expect much
from Nick in the way of Xs and Os; I look to him for cooperation, not information. Meanwhile,
he looks to me for headline-generating wins which help his academy. I dont pay him a salary,
because I cant, but its understood that when I turn pro Ill give him bonuses based on what I
earn. He considers this more than generous.
Early spring, 1986. I tramp all over Florida, playing a series of satellite tournaments.
Kissimmee. Miami. Sarasota. Tampa. After a year of working hard, focusing exclusively on
tennis, I play well, making it to the fifth tournament of the series, the Masters. I reach the final
and, though I lose, Im entitled to a finalist check of $1,100.
I want to take it. I yearn to take it. Philly and I sure could use the money. Still, if I take that
check Im a professional tennis player, forever, no turning back.
I phone my father back in Vegas and ask him what I should do.
My father says, What the hell do you mean? Take the money.
If I take the money, theres no turning back. Im pro.
So?
If I cash this check, Pops, thats it.
He acts as if we have a bad connection.
Youve dropped out of school! You have an eighth-grade education. What are your
choices? What the hell else are you going to do? Be a doctor?
None of this comes as news, but I hate the way he puts it.
I tell the tournament director Ill take the money. As the words leave my mouth I feel a
shelf of possibilities fall away. I dont know what those possibilities might be, but thats the
pointI never will know. The man hands me a check, and as I walk out of his office I feel as if
Im starting down a long, long road, one that seems to lead into a dark, ominous forest.
Its April 29, 1986. My sixteenth birthday.
In disbelief, all day long, I tell myself: Youre a professional tennis player now. Thats what
you are. Thats who you are. No matter how many times I say it, it just doesnt sound right.
The one unequivocally good thing about my decision to turn pro is that my father sends
Philly on the road with me full-time, to help with the minutiae, the endless details and arrangements
of being a pro, from renting cars to reserving hotel rooms to stringing rackets.
You need him, my father says. But all three of us know that Philly and I need each other.
The day after I turn pro, Philly gets a call from Nike. They want to meet with me about an
endorsement deal. Philly and I meet the Nike man in Newport Beach, at a restaurant called
the Rusty Pelican. His name is Ian Hamilton.
I call him Mr. Hamilton, but he says I should call him Ian. He smiles in a way that makes
me trust him instantly. Philly, however, remains wary.
Boys, Ian says, I think Andre has a very bright future.
Thank you.
Id like Nike to be a part of that future, to be a partner in that future.
Thank you.
Id like to offer you a two-year contract.
Thank you.
During which time Nike will provide all your gear, and pay you $20,000.
For both years?
For each year.
Ah.
Philly jumps in. What would Andre have to do in exchange for this money?
Ian looks confused. Well, he says. Andre would have to do what Andre has been doing,
son. Keep being Andre. And wear Nike stuff.
Philly and I look at each other, two Vegas kids who still think they know how to bluff. But
our poker faces are long gone. We left them back at Sizzler. We cant believe this is happening,
and we cant pretend to feel otherwise. At least Philly still has the presence of mind to ask
Ian if we may be excused. We need a few moments in private to discuss his offer.
We speed-walk to the back of the Rusty Pelican and dial my father from the pay phone.
Pops, I whisper, Philly and I are here with the guy from Nike and hes offering me $20,000.
What do you think?
Ask for more money.
Really?
More money! More money!
He hangs up. Philly and I rehearse what were going to say. I play me, he plays Ian. Men
passing us on their way in and out of the mens room think were doing a skit. At last we walk
casually back to the table. Philly spells out our counteroffer. More money. He looks grave. He
looks, I cant help but notice, like my father.
OK, Ian says. I think we can manage that. I have the budget for $25,000 for the second
year. Deal?
We shake his hand. Then we all walk out of the Rusty Pelican. Philly and I wait for Ian to
drive off before jumping up and down, singing Were in the Money.
Can you believe this is happening?
No, Philly says. Honestly? No, I cant.
Can I drive back to L.A.?
No. Your hands are shaking. Youll plow us straight into a median, and we cant have that.
Youre worth twenty grand, bro!
And twenty-five next year.
All the way back to Phillys place, item one on our agenda is what model of cool but cheap
car were going to buy. The main thing is to buy a car with a tailpipe that doesnt blow black
clouds. Pulling up to Sizzler in a car that doesnt smokenow that would be the height of luxury.
MY FIRST TOURNAMENT as a pro is in Schenectady, New York. I reach the final of the
$100,000 tournament, then lose to Ramesh Krishnan, 62, 63. I dont feel bad, however.
Krishnan is great, better than his ranking of forty-something, and Im an unknown teenager,
playing in the final of a fairly important tournament. Its that ultimate raritya painless loss. I
feel nothing but pride. In fact, I feel a trace of hope, because I know I could have played better,
and I know Krishnan knows.
Next I travel to Stratton Mountain, Vermont, where I beat Tim Mayotte, whos ranked number
twelve. In the quarterfinal I play John McEnroe, which feels like playing John Lennon. The
man is a legend. Ive grown up watching him, admiring him, though Ive often rooted against
him, because his archrival, Borg, was my idol. Id love to beat Mac, but this is his first tournament
after a brief hiatus. Hes well rested, raring to go, and he was recently ranked number
one in the world. Moments before we take the court I wonder why a player as polished and
accomplished as Mac needs a hiatus. Then he shows me. He demonstrates the virtue of rest.
He beats me soundly, 63, 63. During the loss, however, I manage to hit one atomic winner,
a forehand return of Macs serve that explodes past him. At the post-match news conference,
Mac announces to reporters: Ive played Becker, Connors, and Lendl, and no one ever hit a
return that hard at me. I never even saw the ball.
This one quote, this ringing endorsement of my game from a player of Macs status, puts
me on the national map. Newspapers write about me. Fans write to me. Philly suddenly finds
himself deluged with requests for interviews. He giggles every time he fields another.
Nice to be popular, he says.
My ranking, meanwhile, keeps pace with my popularity.
I GO TO MY FIRST U.S. OPEN in the late summer of 1986, feeling eager for the step up
in competition. Then I see the New York skyline from the airplane window and my eagerness
evaporates. Its a beautiful sight, but intimidating for someone who grew up in the desert. So
many people. So many dreams.
So many opinions.
Up close, at street level, New York is less intimidating than irritating. The nasty smells, the
ear-splitting soundsand the tipping. Raised in a house that depended on tips, I believe in
tips, but in New York the tip takes on a brand new dimension. It costs me a hundred dollars
just to get from the airport to my hotel room. By the time Ive greased the palm of the cabbie,
the doorman, the bellhop, and the concierge, Im tapped out.
Also, Im late for everything. I continually underestimate the time it takes to travel in New
York from Point A to Point B. One day, right before the start of the tournament, Im due to
practice at two oclock. I leave my hotel in what I think is plenty of time to reach the arena in
Flushing Meadows. I board a charter bus outside the hotel, and by the time we navigate the
midtown gridlock and cross the Triborough Im horribly late. A woman tells me theyve given
away my court.
I stand before her, pleading for another practice time.
Who are you?
I show her my credentials, flash a weak smile.
Behind her is a chalkboard, covered with a sea of players names, which she consults
skeptically. I think of Mrs. G. She runs her fingers up and down the left column.
OK, she says. Four oclock, Court 8.
I peer at the name of the player Ill be practicing with.
Im sorry. I cant practice with that guy. Im possibly going to play that guy in the second
round.
She consults the chalkboard again, sighing, annoyed, and now I wonder if Mrs. G has a
long-lost sister. At least Im no longer rocking a mohawk, which would make me even more
offensive to this woman. On the other hand, my current hairstyle is only slightly less outrageous.
A fluffy, spiky, two-toned mullet, with black roots and frosted tips.
OK, she says. Court 17, five oclock. But youll have to share with three other guys.
I tell Nick: It feels as if Im in over my head in this town.
Nah, he says. Youll be fine.
The whole place looks a lot better from a distance.
What doesnt?
In the first round I face Jeremy Bates, from Great Britain. Were on a back court, far from
the crowds and the main action. Im excited. Im proud. Then Im terrified. I feel as if its the final
Sunday of the tournament. My butterflies are flying in tight formation.
Because its a Grand Slam, the energy of the match is different from anything Ive experienced.
More frenetic. The play is moving at warp speed, a rhythm with which Im unfamiliar.
Plus, the day is windy, so points seem to be flying past like the gum wrappers and dust. I
dont understand whats happening. This doesnt even feel like tennis. Bates isnt a better
player than I, but hes playing better, because he came in knowing what to expect. He beats
me in four sets, then looks up at my box, where Philly is sitting with Nick, and shoves his fist
into the crook of his arm, the international sign for Up yours. Apparently Bates and Nick have
a history.
I feel disappointed, slightly embarrassed. But I know that I wasnt prepared for my first
U.S. Open or New York. I see a gap between where I am and where I need to be, and I feel
reasonably confident that I can close that gap.
Youre going to get better, Philly says, putting an arm around me. Its just a matter of time.
Thanks. I know.
And I do know. I really do. But then I begin to lose. Not just lose, but lose badly. Weakly.
Miserably. In Memphis I get knocked out in the first round. In Key Biscayne, first round again.
Philly, I say, whats going on? I have no clue out there. I feel like a hacker, a weekend
player. Im lost.
The low point is at the Spectrum in Philadelphia. Its not a tennis facility but a converted
basketball arena, and barely that. Cavernous, poorly lit, its got two tennis courts, side by side,
and two matches taking place simultaneously. At the same moment Im returning serve,
somebody is returning serve in the next court, and if his serve goes wide at the same moment
mine kicks, we both need to worry about colliding head-on. My concentration is fragile enough
without factoring in collisions with other players. I dont know yet how to tune out distractions.
After one set I cant think and cant hear anything but my own heartbeat.
Also, my opponent is bad, which puts me at a disadvantage. Im at my worst against lesser
opponents. I play down to their level. I dont know how to maintain my game while adjusting
for an opponents, which feels like inhaling and exhaling at the same time. Against great players
I rise to the challenge. Against bad players I press, which is the tennis term for not letting
things flow. Pressing is one of the deadliest things you can do in tennis.
Philly and I stagger back to Vegas. Were discouraged, but a more immediate problem is
that were broke. Ive made no money in months, and with all the traveling and hotels, all the
rental cars and restaurant meals, Ive burned through nearly all my Nike money. From the airport
I drive straight to Perrys house. We hole up in his bedroom with a couple of sodas. As
soon as his door is closed I feel safer, saner. I notice that the walls are plastered with a few
dozen more covers of Sports Illustrated. I study the faces of all the great athletes, and I tell
Perry that I always believed Id be a great athlete, whether I wanted to be one or not. I took it
for granted. It was my life, and though I hadnt chosen it, my sole consolation was its certainty.
At least fate has a structure. Now I dont know what the future holds. Im good at one
thing, but it looks as though Im not as good at that one thing as I thought. Maybe Im finished
before Ive started. In which case, what the hell are Philly and I going to do?
I tell Perry that I want to be a normal sixteen-year-old, but my life keeps getting more abnormal.
Its abnormal to be humiliated at the U.S. Open. Its abnormal to run around the Spectrum
worrying about a head-on collision with some giant Russian. Its abnormal to be shunned
in locker rooms.
Why are you shunned?
Because Im sixteen and in the top hundred. Also, Nick isnt well liked, and Im associated
with Nick. I have no friends, no allies. I have no girlfriend.
Jamie and I are done. My latest crush, Jillian, another schoolmate of Perrys, doesnt return
my calls. She wants a boyfriend who isnt on the road all the time. I cant blame her.
Perry says, I had no idea you were dealing with all this.
But heres the topper, I tell him. Im broke.
What happened to the twenty grand from Nike?
Travel. Expenses. Its not just me on the road, its Philly, Nickit adds up. When youre
not winning it adds up faster. You can burn through twenty grand fast.
Can you ask your father for a loan?
No. Absolutely not. Help from him comes with a cost. Im trying to break free of him.
Andre, everything will be fine.
Yeah, sure.
Really, its about to get so much better. Before you know it, youre going to be winning
again. Blink your eyes and your face will be on one of these Sports Illustrated covers.
Pff.
It will! I know it. And Jillian? Please. Shes small time. Youll always have girl problems.
Thats the nature of the beast. But soon the girl giving you problems will beBrooke Shields.
Brooke Shields? Where do you get Brooke Shields?
He laughs.
I dont know, I just read about her in Time. Shes graduating from Princeton. Shes the
most beautiful woman in the world, shes brilliant, shes famous, and someday youre going to
date her. Dont get me wrong, your life might never be normalbut soon the abnormal will be
cool.
Buoyed by Perry, I go to Asia. I have just enough cash to get Philly and me there and
back. I play the Japan Open, win a few matches before falling to Andrs Gmez in the quarters.
I then go to Seoul, where I reach the final. I lose, but my share of the prize money is
$7,000, enough to fund another three months of searching for my game.
As Philly and I land in Vegas, I feel relieved. I feel buoyant. Our father is meeting us at the
airport, and I tell Philly as we walk through McCarran International Airport that Ive made a
momentous decision. Im going to hug Pops.
Hug him? What for?
I feel good. Im happy, damn it. Why not? Im going to do it. You only live once.
Our father is at the gate, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. I rush toward him, wrap
my arms around him, and squeeze. He doesnt move. He stiffens. It feels like hugging the pi
lot.
I release him and tell myself Ill never try that again.
PHILLY AND I GO TO ROME in May 1987. Im in the main draw, so our rooms will be
comped. We can upgrade from the dump Philly booked, which doesnt have TVs or shower
curtains, to the swank Cavalieri, which sits atop a main hill overlooking the city.
In our free days before the tournament we get out and see the sights. We go to the Sistine
Chapel and gaze at the frescoes of Christ handing St. Peter the keys to the kingdom of Heaven.
We stare at Michelangelos ceiling and learn from the tour guide that he was a tormented
perfectionist, eaten up with rage whenever he discovered that his workor even materials on
which he planned to workhad the tiniest flaws.
We spend a day in Milan, stopping in churches and museums. We stand for half an hour
before Leonardo da Vincis The Last Supper. We learn about da Vincis notebooks, with their
minute observations of the human form, and their futuristic plans for helicopters and toilets.
Both of us are floored that one man could have been so inspired. To be inspired, I tell
Phillythats the secret.
The Italian Open is on red clay, a surface that feels unnatural to me. Ive only played on
green clay, which is sort of fast. Red clay, I tell Nick, is hot glue and wet tar laid across a bed
of quicksand. You cant put a guy away on this red-clay shit, I complain at our first practice.
He smirks. Youre going to be fine, he says. You just have to get used to it. Dont be impatient,
dont try to finish every point.
I dont have the slightest idea what he means. I lose in the second round.
We fly to Paris for the French Open. More red clay. I manage to win my first-rounder, but
get spanked in the second. Again, Philly and I try to see something of the city, to improve
ourselves. We go to the Louvre. The sheer number of paintings and sculptures daunts us. We
dont know where to turn, how to stand. We cant comprehend all that were seeing. We pass
from room to room, dumbstruck. Then we come to a piece that we understand all too well. Its
a painting from the Italian Renaissance and it depicts a young man, naked, standing on a cliff.
With one hand he clutches a bare, breaking tree limb. With the other he holds a woman and
two infants. Wrapped around his neck is an old man, perhaps his father, who also grasps a
sack of what looks like money. Below them lies an abyss strewn with the bodies of those who
couldnt hold on. Everything depends on this one naked mans strengthhis grip.
The longer you look, I tell Philly, the tighter that old guys arm around the heros neck
feels.
Philly nods. He looks up at the man on the cliff and says softly: Hang in there, bro.
IN JUNE 1987 we go to Wimbledon. Im scheduled to play a Frenchman, Henri Leconte,
on Court 2, known as the Graveyard Court because so many players have suffered fatal
losses there. Its my first time at the most hallowed venue in tennis, and from the moment we
arrive I dislike it. Im a sheltered teenager from Las Vegas with no education. I reject all thats
alien, and London feels as alien as a place can be. The food, the buses, the venerable traditions.
Even the grass of Wimbledon smells different from the grass back home, what little
there is of it.
More off-putting, Wimbledon officials appear to take a haughty, high-handed pleasure in
telling players what to do and what not to do. I resent rules, but especially arbitrary rules. Why
must I wear white? I dont want to wear white. Why should it matter to these people what I
wear?
Above all, I take offense at being barred and blocked and made to feel unwanted. I need
to show a badge to get into the locker roomand not the main locker room at that. Im playing
in this tournament, but Im treated as an intruder, not even allowed to practice on the courts
where Ill be competing. Im restricted to indoor courts up the street. Consequently the first
time I ever hit a ball on grass is the first time I play Wimbledon. And what a shock. The ball
doesnt bounce right, doesnt bounce at all, because this grass isnt grass, but ice slathered
with Vaseline. And Im so afraid of slipping that I tiptoe. When I look around, to see if the British
fans have noticed my discomfort, I get a scare: theyre right on top of me. The building is
like a dollhouse. Add my name to the list of those whove expired on Graveyard Court. Leconte
euthanizes me. I tell Nick that Im never coming back. Ill hug my father again before I
embrace Wimbledon.
STILL IN A FOUL MOOD, I travel several weeks later to Washington, D.C. In the first
round, playing Patrick Kuhnen, I come up empty. Bone dry. After the long slog across Europe
I have nothing left. The travel, the losses, the stress, its all sapped me. Plus, the day is oppressively
hot and Im not physically fit. Im wholly unprepared, so I become unpresent. When
were tied at one set apiece, I leave the court, mentally. My mind departs my body and goes
floating out of the arena. Im long gone when the third set starts. I lose 60.
I walk to the net and shake Kuhnens hand. He says something, but I cant see or hear
him. Hes a blob of energy at the end of a tube. I grab my tennis bag and stumble out of the
arena. I walk across the street, into Rock Creek Park, into some woods, and when I feel sure
no one is around, I berate the trees.
I cant take this shit anymore! Im fucking done! I quit!
I keep walking, walking, until I come to a clearing, where I find myself surrounded by a
group of homeless men. Some are sitting on the ground, some are stretched out on logs,
sleeping. Two are playing cards. They all look like trolls in a fairy tale. I walk up to one who
seems fairly alert. I unzip my bag and remove several Prince rackets.
Here, man, you want these? Do you? Because I dont have any use for them anymore.
The man isnt sure whats happening, but hes pretty confident that hes finally met
someone crazier than himself. His buddies shuffle over and I tell them, Gather round, fellas,
gather round. It might be a hundred degrees in the shade, but its Christmas Eve.
I dump out my tennis bag, pull out the rest of the rackets, each one worth hundreds of dollars,
and pass them around.
Here, help yourselves! I sure as hell wont be needing them!
Then, reveling in how much lighter my tennis bag feels, I walk to the hotel where Philly
and I are staying. I sit on one bed and Philly sits on the other, just like old times, in more ways
than one. I tell him Ive had it. I cant do this anymore.
He doesnt argue. He understands. Who better to understand? We knuckle down to details,
making a plan. How to tell Nick, how to tell my father, how I can earn a living.
What do you want to do instead of playing tennis?
I dont know.
We go out for dinner, talk it over, analyze where I stand financiallya few hundred dollars
above zero. We joke that were getting close to potato-and-lentil-soup territory.
Back at the hotel the phone in our room is flashing. I have one message. The organizers
of a tennis exhibition in North Carolina phoned to say a player canceled on them. They want
to know if I can play. If I do, theyll guarantee me $2,000.
Philly agrees it would be nice to walk away from tennis with a little coin in my pocket.
OK, I say. One last tournament. I better get some more rackets.
IN THE FIRST ROUND I draw a kid named Michael Chang. I grew up playing him. I
played him all through juniors, and Ive never lost to him. Ive never even had problems with
him. Also, hes only fifteen, two years younger than I. He comes up to my navel. So this is just
what the doctor ordered for my bruised psyche. A preordained beat-down. I walk onto the
court, smiling.
Chang, however, has undergone some kind of metamorphosis since our last meeting.
Hes made a quantum leap in his game, and now he plays like a flea on speed. It takes
everything Ive got to beat him. Still, I do beat him. My first win in months. I decide to postpone
my retirement. Just a few more weeks. I tell Philly I want to go to Stratton Mountain,
where I did well last year. Stratton will be a fitting place for my last hurrah.
We fly up to Vermont with two fellow players, Peter Doohan and Kelly Evernden. Kelly
says he grabbed the Stratton draw right before we left.
Anyone want to hear who hell be playing?
I do.
No, Andre. You dont.
Uh-oh. Who did I draw?
Luke Jensen.
Fuck.
Lukes the best junior in the world, by far the most promising kid on the tour. I sink in my
seat and watch the clouds. Should have quit while I was ahead. Should have retired after
Chang.
LUKE SERVES BOTH lefty and righty, which is why they call him Dual Hand Luke, and he
can bring it 130 miles an hour from either side. But today, against me, his first serve is off,
and I cane his second. Im more surprised than he is when I scrape by him in three sets and
advance.
Next up is Pat Cashwho just won Wimbledon, twelve days after I met my demise on
Graveyard Court. Cash is a machine, a finely tuned athlete who moves well and covers the
net like a hydra. I dont even think about beating him, only about holding my own. But in the
early going I find that he doesnt have a lot of top on his ball, so Im getting nice, clean, eye-
level looks, hitting one winner after another. Since I have no chance to win, since I want only
to be credible, Im free, loose, and this makes Cash tight. He appears shocked by whats unfolding.
Hes missing first serves, which lets me cheat in a half step, put everything Ive got
behind my return. Every time I hit a ball past him, Cash glares across the net with an expression
that says, This wasnt in the plan. Youre not supposed to be doing this.
Foolishly, somewhat arrogantly, he spends more and more time at the net looking surprised,
rather than going back to the baseline and thinking up a new strategy. After one of my
better returns, he hits a so-so volley, and I pass him again. He stands with his hands on his
hips, staring at me, radiating a sense of injustice.
Keep staring, I think. Keep it up.
Toward the end hes giving me painfully easy targets, making his ball so beautifully hit-
table, so marvelously strikable, that it all seems unfair. I have a legit chance of hitting a winner
on every point. I just wanted to leave a mark, but Im leaving a gash. I score a shocking upset,
76, 76.
Stratton Mountain, I conclude, is my magic mountain. My anti-Wimbledon. Last year I
played above my level here, now Im playing twice as well. The setting is breathtaking, laid
backand quintessentially American. Unlike those snooty Brits, these Strattonites know me,
or at least the idealized me I want them to know. They dont know about my struggles of the
last twelve months, about my giving rackets to homeless men, about my pending retirement.
And if they knew they wouldnt hold it against me. They cheered me during my match with
Jensen, but after I outclass Cash, they adopt me. This guy is our guy. This guy does well
here. Inspired by their raucous encouragement, I reach the semis against Ivan Lendl, whos
ranked number one. My biggest match ever. My father flies in from Vegas.
An hour before the match, Lendl is walking around the locker room wearing only his tennis
shoes. Seeing him so relaxed, so remarkably nude, right before facing me, I know whats
coming. The beat-down to end all beat-downs. I lose in three sets. Still, I walk away feeling
encouraged, because I won the second set. For half an hour, I gave the best in the world all
he wanted. I can build on that. I feel good.
That is, until I see what Lendl has to say about me in the newspapers. Asked about my
game, he sniffs: A haircut and a forehand.
9
I FINISH 1987 WITH A BANG. I win my first tournament as a pro, in Itaparica, Brazil, all
the more impressive because I do it before a crowd of initially hostile Brazilians. After I beat
their top player, Luiz Mattar, the fans dont seem to hold a grudge. In fact they make me an
honorary Brazilian. They rush the court, hoist me on their shoulders, throw me in the air.
Many have come to the arena straight from the beach. Theyre slathered with cocoa butter,
and consequently so am I. Women in bikinis and thongs cover me with kisses. Music plays,
people dance, someone hands me a bottle of champagne and tells me to spray it into the
crowd. The carnival atmosphere is the perfect complement to my inner Mardi Gras. I finally
broke through. I won five matches in a row. (To win a slam, I realize with some alarm, Ill need
to win seven.)
A man hands me the winners check. I have to look twice at the number. In the amount of:
$90,000.
With the check still folded in my jeans pocket, I stand two days later in my fathers living
room and employ a bit of remedial psychology. Pops, I say, how much do you think Im going
to make next year?
Ho ho, he says, beaming. Millions.
Goodthen you wont mind if I buy a car.
He frowns. Checkmate.
I know just the kind I want. A white Corvette with all the extras. My father insists that he
and my mother go with me to the dealership, to make sure the salesman doesnt screw me. I
cant say no. My father is my landlord and keeper. I no longer live full-time at the Bolletieri
Academy, so once again I live under my fathers roof, and thus under his control. Im traveling
the world, making good money, winning a measure of fame, and yet my old man essentially
keeps me on an allowance. Its inappropriate, but hell, my whole life is inappropriate. Im only
seventeen, not ready to live on my own, barely ready to stand alone on a tennis court, and yet
I was just in Rio, holding a girl in a thong with one hand and a $90,000 check with the other.
Im an adolescent whos seen too much, a man-child without a checking account.
At the car dealership my father goes back and forth with the salesman, and the negotiation
quickly turns contentious. Why am I not surprised? Every time my father makes a new
offer the salesman walks off to consult his manager. My father clenches and unclenches his
fists.
The salesman and my father eventually agree on a price. Im seconds from owning my
dream car. My father puts on his glasses, gives the paperwork a last look. He runs his finger
down the itemized list of charges. Wait, whats this? A charge for $49.99?
Small fee for the paperwork, the salesman says.
Aint my fucking paper. Thats your fucking paper. Pay for your own fucking paper.
The salesman doesnt care for my fathers tone. Hard words are exchanged. My father
gets that look in his eye, the same look he had before dropping the trucker. Just the sight of
all these cars is giving him the old road rage.
Pops, the car costs $37,000, and youre flipping out about a $50 fee?
Theyre screwing you, Andre! Theyre screwing me. The world is trying to screw me!
He storms out of the salesmans office and into the main showroom, where the managers
sit along a high counter. He screams at them: You think youre safe back there? You think
youre safe behind that counter? Why dont you come out from behind there?
His dukes are up. Hes ready to fight five men at once.
My mother puts an arm around me and says the best thing we can do now is go outside
and wait.
We stand on the sidewalk and watch my fathers tirade through the plate-glass window of
the dealership. Hes pounding the desk. Hes waving his hands. Its like watching a terrible silent
movie. Im mortified, but also slightly envious. I wish I possessed some of my fathers
rage. I wish I could tap into it during tough matches. I wonder what I could do in tennis if I
could access that rage and aim it across the net. Instead, whatever rage I have, I turn on myself.
Mom, I ask, how do you take it? All these years?
Oh, she says, I dont know. He hasnt gone to jail yet. And nobodys killed him yet. I think
were pretty lucky, all things considered. Hopefully well get through this incident without either
of those two things happening, and move on.
Along with my fathers rage, I wish I had a fraction of my mothers calm.
Philly and I go back to the dealership the next day. The salesman hands me the keys to
my new Corvette, but treats me with pity. He says Im nothing like my father, and though he
means it as a compliment, I feel vaguely offended. Driving home, the thrill of my new Corvette
is dampened. I tell Philly that things are going to be different from now on. Weaving in and out
of traffic, gunning the engine, I tell him: The time has come. I need to take control of my
money. I need to take control of my fucking life.
IM RUNNING OUT of steam in long matches. And for me every match is long, because
my serve is average. I cant serve my way out of trouble, I get no easy points off my serve, so
every opponent takes me the full twelve rounds. My knowledge of the game is improving, but
my body is breaking down. Im skinny, brittle, and my legs give out quickly, followed in short
order by my nerve. I tell Nick that Im not fit enough to compete with the best in the world. He
agrees. Legs are everything, he says.
I find a trainer in Vegas, a retired military colonel named Lenny. Tough as burlap, Lenny
curses like a sailor and walks like a pirate, the result of being shot in a long-ago war he
doesnt like to talk about. After one hour with Lenny I wish someone would shoot me. Few
things give Lenny more pleasure than abusing me and hurling obscenities at me in the process.
In December 1987 the desert turns unseasonably cold. The blackjack dealers wear Santa
hats. The palm trees are strung with lights. The hookers on the Strip wear Christmas ornaments
for earrings. I tell Perry I cant wait for this new year. I feel strong. I feel as if Im starting
to get tennis.
I win the first tournament of 1988, in Memphis, and the ball sounds alive as it leaves my
racket. Im growing into my forehand. Im hitting the ball through opponents. Each one turns to
me with a look that says, Where the hell did that come from?
I notice something on the faces of fans too. The way they watch me and ask for my autograph,
the way they scream as I enter an arena, makes me uncomfortable, but also satisfies
something deep inside me, some hidden craving I didnt know was there. Im shybut I like
attention. I cringe when fans start dressing like mebut I also dig it.
Dressing like me in 1988 means wearing denim shorts. Theyre my signature. Theyre synonymous
with me, mentioned in every article and profile. Oddly, I didnt choose to wear them;
they chose me. It was 1987, in Portland, Oregon. I was playing the Nike International Challenge
and Nike reps invited me up to a hotel suite to show me the latest demos and clothing
samples. McEnroe was there, and of course he was given first choice. He held up a pair of
denim shorts and said, What the fuck are these?
My eyes got big. I licked my lips and thought, Whoa. Those are cool. If you dont want
those, Mac, Ive got dibs.
The moment Mac set them aside, I scooped them up. Now I wear them at all my matches,
as do countless fans. Sportswriters murder me for it. They say Im trying to stand out. In
factas with my mohawkIm trying to hide. They say Im trying to change the game. In fact
Im trying to prevent the game from changing me. They call me a rebel, but I have no interest
in being a rebel, Im only conducting an everyday, run-of-the-mill teenage rebellion. Subtle
distinctions, but important. At heart, Im doing nothing more than being myself, and since I
dont know who that is, my attempts to figure it out are scattershot and awkwardand, of
course, contradictory. Im doing nothing more than I did at the Bollettieri Academy. Bucking
authority, experimenting with identity, sending a message to my father, thrashing against the
lack of choice in my life. But Im doing it on a grander stage.
Whatever Im doing, for whatever reasons, it strikes a chord. Im routinely called the savior
of American tennis, whatever that means. I think it has to do with the atmosphere at my
matches. Besides wearing my outfits, fans come sporting my hairdo. I see my mullet on men
and women. (It looks better on the women.) Im flattered by the imitators, embarrassed, thoroughly
confused. I cant imagine all these people trying to be like Andre Agassi, since I dont
want to be Andre Agassi.
Now and then I start to explain this in an interview, but it never comes out right. I try to be
funny, and it falls flat or offends someone. I try to be profound, and I hear myself making no
sense. So I stop, fall back on pat answers and platitudes, tell journalists what they seem to
want to hear. Its the best I can do. If I cant understand my motivations and demons, how can
I hope to explain them to journalists on deadline?
To make matters worse, journalists write down exactly what I say, while Im saying it, word
for word, as if this represented the literal truth. I want to tell them, Hold it, dont write that
down, Im only thinking out loud here. Youre asking about the subject I understand
leastme. Let me edit myself, contradict myself. But there isnt time. They need black-andwhite
answers, good and evil, simple plot lines in seven hundred words, and then theyre on
to the next thing.
Eighteen years old, wearing a frosted mullet and denim
shorts, my first signature look
If I had time, if I were more self-aware, I would tell journalists that Im trying to figure out who I
am, but in the meantime I have a pretty good idea of who Im not. Im not my clothes. Im certainly
not my game. Im not anything the public thinks I am. Im not a showman simply because
I come from Vegas and wear loud clothes. Im not an enfant terrible, a phrase that appears
in every article about me. (I think you cant be something you cant pronounce.) And, for
heavens sake, Im not a punk rocker. I listen to soft, cheesy pop, like Barry Manilow and
Richard Marx.
Of course the key to my identity, the thing I know about myself but cant bring myself to tell
journalists, is that Im losing my hair. I wear it long and fluffy to conceal its rapid departure.
Only Philly and Perry know, because theyre fellow sufferers. In fact Philly recently flew to
New York to meet with an owner of Hair Club for Men, to buy himself a few toupees. Hes finally
given up on the headstands. He phones to tell me about the astonishing variety of toupees
the Hair Club offers. Its a hair smorgasbord, he says. Its like the salad bar at Sizzler,
only all hair.
I ask him to pick one up for me. Every morning I find a little more of my identity on my pillow,
in my sink, in my drain.
I ask myself: Youre going to wear a hairpiece? During tournaments?
I answer: What choice do I have?
AT INDIAN WELLS, in February 1988, I blaze my way to the semis, where I meet Boris
Becker, from West Germany, the most famous tennis player in the world. He cuts an imposing
figure, with a shock of hair the color of a new penny and legs as wide as my waist. I catch him
at the peak of his powers, but win the first set. Then I lose the next two, including a hard,
tough third. We walk off the court glowering at each other like rutting bulls. I promise myself I
wont lose to him the next time we meet.
In March, at Key Biscayne, I face an old schoolmate from the Bollettieri Academy, Aaron
Krickstein. Were often compared to each other, because of our connection with Nick and our
precocious skills. Im up two sets to none and then wear out. Krickstein wins the next two
sets. As the fifth set starts Im cramping. Im still not where I need to be, physically, to reach
the next level. I lose.
I go to Isle of Palms, near Charleston, and win my third tournament. In the middle of the
tournament I turn eighteen. The tournament director rolls a cake out to center court, and
everyone sings. Ive never liked birthdays. No one ever took note of my birthday when I was
growing up. But this feels different. Im legal, everyone keeps saying. In the eyes of the law,
youre a grown-up.
Then the law is an ass.
I go to New York City, the Tournament of Champions, a significant milestone because its
a clash of the top players in the world. Once more I square off against Chang, whos developed
a bad habit since we last met. Every time he beats someone, he points to the sky. He
thanks Godcredits Godfor the win, which offends me. That God should take sides in a
tennis match, that God should side against me, that God should be in Changs box, feels
ludicrous and insulting. I beat Chang and savor every blasphemous stroke. Then I take revenge
on Krickstein. In the final I face Slobodan Zivojinovic, a Serb better known for his
doubles play. I beat him in straight sets.
Im winning more often. I should be happy. Instead Im uptight, because its over. Ive enjoyed
a triumphant hard-court season, my body wants to keep playing on hard courts, but clay
season is starting. The sudden switch from one surface to another changes everything. Clay
is a different game, thus your game must become different, and so must your body. Instead of
sprinting from side to side, stopping short and starting, you must slide and lean and dance.
Familiar muscles now play supporting roles, dormant muscles dominate. Its painful enough,
under the best of circumstances, that I dont know who I am. To suddenly become a different
person, a clay person, adds another degree of frustration and anxiety.
A friend tells me that the four surfaces in tennis are like the four seasons. Each asks
something different of you. Each bestows different gifts and exacts different costs. Each radically
alters your outlook, remakes you on a molecular level. After three rounds of the Italian
Open, in May 1988, Im no longer Andre Agassi. And Im no longer in the tournament.
I go to the 1988 French Open expecting more of the same. Walking into the locker room at
Roland Garros, I see all the clay experts leaning against the walls, leering. Dirt rats, Nick calls
them. Theyve been here for months, practicing, waiting for the rest of us to finish hard courts
and fly into their clay lair.
Disorienting as the new surface is, Paris itself is more of a shock to the system. The city
has all the same logistical problems of New York and London, the large crowds and cultural
anomalies, but with an added language barrier. Also, the presence of dogs in restaurants unsettles
me. The first time I walk into a caf, on the Champs-lyses, a dog raises its leg and
unleashes a stream of pee against the table next to mine.
Roland Garros provides no escape from the strangeness. Its the only place Ive ever
played that reeks of cigars and pipes. While Im serving, at a critical point in a match, a finger
of pipe smoke curls under my nose. I want to find the person smoking that pipe and admonish
him, and yet I dont want to find that person, because I cant imagine what sort of gnarled hob-
bit is sitting at an outdoor tennis match puffing on a pipe.
Despite my unease, I manage to beat my first three opponents. I even beat the great clay
master Guillermo Prez-Roldn in the quarterfinal. In the semis I run into Mats Wilander. Hes
ranked number three in the world, but to my mind hes the player of the moment. When one of
his matches is on TV, I stop whatever Im doing and watch. Hes on his way to an astounding
year. Hes already won the Australian Open and is the favorite to win this tournament. I manage
to take him to a fifth set, then lose 60, cramping badly.
I remind Nick that Im skipping Wimbledon. I say, Why switch to grass and expend all that
energy? Lets take a month off, rest, get ready for the hard courts of summer.
Hes more than happy not to go to London. He doesnt like Wimbledon any more than I do.
Besides, he wants to hurry back to the U.S. and find me a better trainer.
NICK HIRES A CHILEAN STRONGMAN named Pat who never asks me to do anything
hes not willing to do himself, which I respect. But Pat also has a habit of spitting on me when
he talks, and leaning over me while Im lifting weights, drizzling sweat on my face. I feel as if I
should show up for Pats workout sessions in a plastic poncho.
The mainstay of Pats training regimen is a brutal daily run up and down a hill outside Vegas.
The hill is remote and sunbaked, and gets hotter as you near the top, as if its an active
volcano. Its also an hour from my fathers house, which seems unnecessarily far. Nothing like
driving to Reno for a run. Pat insists, however, that this hill is the answer to all my physical
problems. When we get to the base and pile out of the car, he starts running straight up, and
orders me to follow. Within minutes Im holding my side, sweat rolling off me. By the time we
reach the summit I cant breathe. According to Pat, this is good. This is healthy.
A battered truck appears one day as Pat and I crest the hill. An ancient Native American
man climbs out. He comes toward us with a pole. If he wants to kill me, I wont be able to fend
him off, because I cant lift my arms. And I wont be able to run away, because I cant draw
breath.
The man asks, What are you doing here?
Were training. What are you doing here?
Catching me some rattlesnakes.
Rattlesnakes! There are rattlesnakes out here?
Theres training out here?
When I stop laughing the Indian says, more or less, that I must have been born with a
horseshoe up my ass, because this is Rattlesnake Fucking Hill. He catches twelve rattlers
every day on this hill, and he expects to catch twelve more this morning. Its a flat-out miracle
that I havent stepped on one, big and plump and ready to strike.
I look at Pat, and feel an urge to spit on him.
IN JULY I GO to Argentina as one of the youngest men ever to play for the U.S. Davis
Cup team. I play well against Martn Jaite, from Argentina, and the crowd gives me its
grudging respect. Im leading two sets to none, ahead 40 in the third, waiting for Jaites
serve. Im hunched against the cold, because its the dead of winter in Argentina. The temperature
must be thirty degrees. Jaite hits a let serve, then hits a bending unreturnable serve that
I reach up and catch with my hand. A riot breaks out. The crowd thinks Im trying to show up
their countryman, disrespecting him. They boo me for several minutes.
The next days newspapers kill me. Rather than defend myself, I react with truculence. I
say Ive always wanted to do something like that. The truth is, I was just cold and not thinking.
I was being stupid, not cocky. My reputation takes a major hit.
THE CROWD AT STRATTON MOUNTAIN welcomes me days later, however, like a prodigal.
I play to please them. I play to thank them for banishing the memory of Argentina.
Something about these people, these emerald mountains, this Vermont airI win the tournament.
I wake soon after to discover that Im number four in the world. But Im too spent to celebrate.
Between Pat and Davis Cup and the grind of the tour, Im sleeping twelve hours a
night.
I fly to New York in the late summer to play a minor tournament in New Jersey, a tune-up
for the 1988 U.S. Open. I reach the final and face Tarango. I beat him soundly, a delicious
victory, because I can still close my eyes and see Tarango cheating me when I was eight. My
first loss. Ill never forget. Each time I hit a winner I think, Fuck you, Jeff. Fuck. You.
At the U.S. Open I reach the quarters. Im due to face Jimmy Connors. Before the match I
approach him meekly in the locker room and remind him that we once met. In Las Vegas? I
was four? You were playing at Caesars Palace? We hit some balls together?
Nope, he says.
Oh. Well. Actually, we met again, several times, when I was seven. I used to deliver rackets
to you? My father strung your rackets whenever you came to town, and Id bring them to
you at your favorite restaurant on the Strip?
Nope, he says again, then lies back on a bench and pulls a long white towel over his legs
and closes his eyes.
Dismissed.
This gibes with everything Ive heard about Connors from other players. Asshole, they
say. Rude, condescending, egomaniac prick. But I thought hed treat me differently, I thought
hed show me some love, given our longtime connection.
Just for that, I tell Perry, Im beating this guy in three easy setsand hes going to win no
more than nine games.
The crowd is pulling for Connors. Its the opposite of Stratton. Here, Im cast as the bad
guy. Im the impertinent upstart who dares to oppose the elder statesman. The crowd wants
Connors to defy the odds, and Father Time, and Im standing in the way of that dream scenario.
Each time they cheer I think: Do they realize what this guy is like in the locker room? Do
they know what his peers say about him? Do they have any concept of how he responds to a
friendly hello?
Im cruising, winning easily, when a man in the upper bleachers calls out, Cmon, Jimmy,
hes a punkyoure a legend! The words hang in midair for a moment, bigger and louder than
the Goodyear Blimp overhead, and then twenty thousand fans guffaw. Connors cracks a sly
smile, nods, and hits a ball as a souvenir to the man who yelled.
Now the crowd erupts. A standing ovation.
Running on adrenaline and anger, I punk the legend in the final set, 61.
After the match, I tell reporters about my pre-match prediction, and then they tell Connors.
He says: I enjoy playing guys who could be my children. Maybe hes one of them. I spent
a lot of time in Vegas.
In the semis I lose again to Lendl. I take him to a fourth set, but hes too strong. Trying to
wear him out, I wear myself out. Despite the best efforts of Limping Lenny and Pat the Spitting
Chilean, Im not able to stay with a man of Lendls caliber. I tell myself that when I get
back to Vegas, the search must continue for someone, anyone, who can make me battle
ready.
BUT NO ONE CAN MAKE me ready for the battle with the media, because its not really a
battle, its a massacre. Each day brings another anti-Agassi screed in another magazine or
newspaper. A dig from a fellow player. A diatribe from a sportswriter. A fresh piece of libel,
served up as analysis. Im a punk, Im a clown, Im a fraud, Im a fluke. I have a high ranking
because of a conspiracy, a cabal of networks and teenagers. I dont rate the attention I get
because I havent won a slam.
Millions of fans like me, apparently. I get potato sacks full of fan mail, including naked pictures
of women with their phone numbers scrawled along the margin. And yet each day Im
vilified because of my look, because of my behavior, because of no reason at all. I absorb the
role of villain-rebel, accept it, grow into it. The role seems like part of my job, so I play it. Before
long, however, Im being typecast. Im to be the villain-rebel forever, in every match and
every tournament.
I turn to Perry. I fly back east and visit him for a weekend. Hes studying business at Georgetown.
We go out for big dinners, and he takes me to his favorite local bar, the Tombs, and
over beers he does what Perry has always done. He reshapes my anguish, makes it more logical
and articulate. If Im a returner, hes a reworder. First, he redefines the problem as a ne
gotiation between me and the world. Then he clarifies the terms of the negotiation. He grants
that its horrible to be a sensitive person whos publicly excoriated every day, but he insists its
only temporary. Theres a time limit to this torture. Things will get better, he says, the moment
I start to win Grand Slams.
Win? Whats the point? Why should winning change peoples minds about me? Win or
lose, Ill still be the same person. Thats why I need to win? To shut people up? To satisfy a
bunch of sportswriters and reporters who dont know me? Those are the terms of this negotiation?
PHILLY SEES THAT IM SUFFERING, that Im searching. Hes searching too. Hes been
searching all his life, and recently hes stepped up the search. He tells me hes been going to
a church, or a kind of church, in an office complex on the west side of Vegas. Its nondenominational,
he says, and the pastor is different.
He drags me to the church and I have to admit, hes right, the pastor, John Parenti, is different.
He wears jeans, a T-shirt and he has long, sandy-brown hair. Hes more surfer than
pastor. Hes unconventional, which I respect. Hesno other way to say ita rebel. I also like
his prominent aquiline nose, his sad canine eyes. Above all, I like the casual vibe of his service.
He simplifies the Bible. No ego, no dogma. Just common sense and clear thinking.
Parenti is so casual, he doesnt want to be called Pastor Parenti. He insists we call him
J.P. He says he wants his church to feel unlike a church. He wants it to feel like a home
where friends gather. He doesnt have any answers, he says. He just happens to have read
the Bible a few dozen times, front to back, and he has some observations to share.
I think he has more answers than hes letting on. And I need answers. I consider myself a
Christian, but J.P.s church is the first one where Ive felt truly close to God.
I attend with Philly every week. We time our arrival so that we walk in just as J.P. starts
talking, and we always sit in the back, slouched low, so we dont get recognized. One Sunday
Philly says he wants to meet J.P. I hang back. Part of me would like to meet J.P. too, but part
of me is wary of strangers. Ive always been shy, but the recent avalanche of bad press has
made me borderline paranoid.
Days later Im driving around Vegas, feeling gutted after reading the latest attacks on me. I
find myself parked outside J.P.s church. Its late, all the lights are offexcept one. I peer in
the window. A secretary is doing some paperwork. I knock at the door and tell the woman I
need to speak with J.P. She says hes at home. She doesnt say, Where you should be. With
a shaky voice I ask if she could please phone him. I really need to talk to him. To somebody.
She dials J.P. and hands me the receiver.
Hello? he says.
Hi. Yes. You dont know me. My name is Andre Agassi, Im a tennis player, and, well, its
just
I know you. Ive seen you in church the last six months. I recognized you, of course. I just
didnt want to bother you.
I thank him for his discretion, for respecting my privacy. I havent been getting that kind of
respect lately. I say, Look, I wonder if we could spend some time together. Talk.
When?
Now?
Oh. Well, I guess I could come down to the office and meet you.
With all due respect, can I come to wherever you are? I have a fast car, and I think I can
get there faster than you can get here.
He pauses. OK, he says.
Im there in thirteen minutes. He meets me on his doorstep.
Thanks for agreeing to see me. I feel like I have nowhere else to turn.
What is it you need?
I wonder if we can just, um, get to know each other?
He smiles. Listen, he says, I dont do father figure real well.
I nod, laugh at myself. I say, Right, right. But maybe you could give me some assignments?
Life assignments? Reading assignments?
Like a mentor?
Yeah.
I dont do mentor real well either.
Oh.
Talking, listening, fellowshipthose things I can do.
I frown.
Look, J.P. says, my life is as screwed up as the next guys. Maybe more. I cant offer
much in the way of shepherding. Im not that kind of pastor. If youre looking for advice, Im
sorry. If youre looking for a friend, that we can do, maybe.
I nod.
He holds open the door, asks if Id like to come in. But I ask if hed like to go for a drive. I
think better when I drive.
He cranes his neck and sees my white Corvette. It looks like a small private plane parked
in his driveway. The color drains a bit from his face.
I drive J.P. all over Vegas, up and down the Strip, then into the mountains that circle the
town. I show him what the Vette can do, open up the engine on a lonely stretch of highway,
then open up myself. I tell him my story, in a ragged and disorderly fashion, and he has
Perrys knack for saying it all back to me, artfully reworded. He understands my contradictions,
and reconciles a few of them.
Youre a kid who still lives with his parents, he says, but youre known around the planet.
Thats got to be hard. Youre trying to express yourself freely and creatively and artistically,
and youre slammed at every turn. Thats very hard.
I tell him about the knock on me, that Ive snuck up on my high ranking, that Ive never
beaten anyone good, that Ive been lucky. Horseshoe up my ass. He says Im experiencing
backlash, and never even got to enjoy the lash.
I laugh.
He says it must be bizarre to have strangers think they know me, and love me beyond
reason, while others think they know me and resent me beyond reasonall while Im a relative
stranger to myself.
What makes it perverse, I tell him, is that it all revolves around tennis, and I hate tennis.
Right, sure. But you dont actually hate tennis.
Yes. Yes, I do.
I talk about my father. I tell J.P. about the yelling, the pressure, the rage, the abandonment.
J.P. gets a funny look on his face. You do realize, dont you, that God isnt anything like
your father? You know thatdont you?
I almost drive the Corvette onto the shoulder.
God, he says, is the opposite of your father. God isnt mad at you all the time. God isnt
yelling in your ear, harping on your imperfections. That voice you hear all the time, that angry
voice? Thats not God. Thats still your father.
I turn to him: Do me a favor? Say that again.
He does. Word for word.
Say it once more.
He does.
I thank him. I ask about his own life. He tells me that he hates what he does. He cant
abide being a pastor. He no longer wants to be responsible for peoples souls. Its a roundthe-
clock job, he says, and it leaves him no time for reading and reflection. (I wonder if this is
a slight jab at me.) Hes also hounded by death threats. Prostitutes and drug pushers come to
his church and reform, and then their pimps and junkies and families, whove depended on
that stream of income, blame J.P.
What do you think youd like to do instead?
Actually, Im a songwriter. A composer. Id like to make music for a living.
He says hes written a song, When God Ran, thats a huge hit on the Christian charts. He
sings a few bars. He has a nice voice and the song is moving.
I tell him that if he wants it bad enough, and works hard enough, hell succeed.
When I start talking like a motivational speaker, I know Im tired. I look at my watch. Three
in the morning. Wow, I say, stifling a yawn, if you dont mind, can you just drop me off at my
parents house? I live right up here at the corner and Im exhausted. I cant drive another
minute. Take my car, take yourself home, bring it back to me when you can.
I dont want to take your car.
Why not? Fun car. Goes like the wind.
I see that. But what if I wreck it?
If you wreck it, as long as youre okay, I would laugh. I dont give a shit about the car.
How long do you want me toI mean, when should I bring it back?
Whenever.
He brings it back the next day.
Driving to church in this thing was awkward enough, he says, tossing me the keys. But,
Andre, I officiate at funerals. You cannot drive up to a funeral in a white Corvette.
I INVITE J.P. TO MUNICH for Davis Cup. I look forward to Davis Cup, because its not
about me, its about country. I imagine its as close as Ill ever get to playing on a team, so I
expect the trip to be a pleasant diversion, the matches to be easy, and I want to share the experience
with my new friend.
Early on I find myself pitted against Becker, whos attained godlike status in West Germany.
The fans are bringing down the house, twelve thousand Germans cheering his every
swing, booing me. And yet Im unfazed, because Im in a zone. Maybe not the zone, but my
zone. I cant miss. Also, I promised myself months ago that Id never again lose to Becker,
and Im making good on that promise. I jump out to a two-set lead. J.P. and Philly and Nick
are the only people cheering for me, and I can hear them. A fine day in Munich.
Then I lose my concentration, followed by my confidence. I drop a game and head for my
chair during the changeover, discouraged.
Suddenly several German officials are gabbling at me. Theyre calling me back onto the
court.
The game isnt over.
Come back, Mr. Agassi, come back.
Becker giggles. The audience roars with laughter.
I walk back onto the court, feeling my eyes throb. Once again Im at the Bollettieri
Academy, being humiliated by Nick in front of the other kids. I have enough trouble being
laughed at in the press, but I cant handle being laughed at in person. I lose the game. I lose
the match.
Showered, climbing into a car outside the arena, I ignore J.P. and turn to Nick and Philly. I
tell them: The first person who talks to me about tennis is fired.
I SIT ON THE BALCONY of my Munich hotel room, alone, staring out over the city.
Without thinking, I begin lighting things on fire. Paper, clothes, shoes. For years this has been
one of my furtive ways of coping with extreme stress. I dont do it consciously. An impulse
comes over me and I reach for the matches.
Just as Ive got a small bonfire going, J.P. appears. He watches, then calmly adds a piece
of hotel stationery to my bonfire. Then a napkin. I add the room-service menu. We feed the
bonfire for fifteen minutes, neither of us saying a word. As the last flame dies down he asks,
Do you want to go for a walk?
We wind our way through the beer gardens of downtown Munich. Everywhere we look,
people are being boisterous, festive. Theyre drinking from one-liter tankards, singing and
laughing. The laughter gives me the shakes.
We come to a large stone bridge with a cobblestone walkway. We cross. Far below is a
rushing river. At the apex of the bridge we stop. No one is around. The singing and laughter
have subsided. We hear nothing but the rushing water. I stare into the river and ask J.P.:
What if Im no good? What if today wasnt a bad day, but my best day? Im always making excuses
when I lose. I could have beaten him if such-and-such. If Id wanted it. If Id had my A
game. If Id gotten the calls. But what if Im playing my best, and I care, and I want it, and Im
still not the best in the world?
Wellwhat if?
I think Id rather die.
I lean against the railing, sobbing. J.P. has the decency, the wisdom, to say and do nothing.
He knows there is nothing to say, nothing to do, but to wait for this fire to burn out.
I FACE CARL-UWE STEEB, another German, the following afternoon. Spent, physically
and emotionally, I play Steeb exactly the wrong way. Yes, Im attacking his backhand, which
is his weakest shot, but Im doing it with pace. If I were to give him no pace, hed have to generate
his own, and his backhand would be much weaker. His greatest flaw would be on display.
Using my pace, however, he can hit a low slice that stays down on this fast surface. Im
making him better than he is, all because Im trying to hit bigger than I need to, trying to be
perfect. With a cordial smile Steeb accepts my gifts, settling into his legs and his Agassiaugmented
backhand, having a marvelous time. Later, the captain of the Davis Cup team accuses
me of tanking, as does a prominent sportswriter.
PART OF THE PROBLEM with my game in 1989 is my racket. Ive always used a Prince,
but Nick has convinced me to sign with a new company, Donnay. Why? Because Nicks got
money troubles, and for delivering me to Donnay he gets a lucrative contract for himself.
Nick, I tell himI love my Prince.
You could play with a broomstick, he says. It wouldnt matter.
Now, with the Donnay, I feel as if I am playing with a broomstick. I feel as if Im playing
left-handed, as if Ive suffered a brain injury. Everything is slightly off. The ball doesnt listen to
me. The ball doesnt do what I say.
Im in New York, hanging out with J.P. Its well after midnight. Were sitting in a seedy deli
with garish fluorescent lights and loud countermen arguing in several Eastern European languages.
Were each having a cup of coffee and Im holding my head in my hands, telling J.P.
over and over: When I hit the ball with this new racket, I dont know where its going.
Youll find a solution, J.P. says.
How? What?
I dont know. But you will. This is a momentary crisis, Andre. One of many. As sure as
were sitting here, there will be others. Bigger, smaller, and everything in between. Treat this
crisis as practice for the next crisis.
And then the crisis is resolved during a practice. Days later, Im in Florida, hitting at the
Bollettieri Academy and someone hands me a new Prince. I hit three balls, just three, and its
something like a religious experience. Every ball goes like a laser to the spot where I want it
to go. The court opens before me like Xanadu.
I dont care about any deals, I tell Nick. I cant sacrifice my life to a deal.
Ill handle it, he says.
He doctors a Prince racket, stencils it to look like a Donnay, and I cruise to several easy
victories at Indian Wells. I lose in the quarters, but I dont care, because I have my racket
back, my game back.
The next day, three Donnay execs descend on Indian Wells.
This is unacceptable, they say. Its clear to everyone that youre playing with a doctored
Prince. Youre going to ruin us. Youre going to be liable for the destruction of our company.
Your racket is going to be liable for the destruction of me.
Seeing that Im unrepentant, and not budging, the Donnay execs say theyll build me a
better racket. They go away and duplicate a Prince, just as Nick did, but make it look more
convincing. I take my faux Donnay to Rome and play a kid I recognize from juniors, Pete
Something. Sampras, I think. Greek kid from California. When I played him in juniors, I beat
him handily. I was ten, he was nine. The next time I saw him was some months ago, at a tournament.
I cant recall which one. I was sitting on a beautiful grassy hill beside my hotel, just
after winning my match. Philly and Nick were sitting alongside me. We were stretched out, enjoying
the fresh air, and watching Pete, whod just taken a beating in his match. He was on
the hotel court for a post-match practice, and nearly every ball he hit looked bad. He missed
three of every four swings. His backhand was awkward, and one-handed, which was new.
Someone had tinkered with his backhand, and it was clearly going to cost him a career.
This guy will never make it on the tour, Philly said.
Hell be lucky to qualify into tournaments, I said.
Whoever did that to his game should be ashamed, Nick said.
They should be indicted, Philly said. He has all the physical gifts. Hes six foot one, moves
great, but someone has turned him into a mess. Someone is responsible for that shit.
Someone should pay.
At first I was taken aback by Phillys vehemence. Then I realized: Philly was projecting. He
was seeing himself in Pete. He knew what it was like to try and fail to make it on tour, particularly
with an involuntary one-handed backhand. In Petes plight, in Petes fate, Philly saw his
own.
Now, in Rome, I see that Pete has improved since that day, but not much. He has a big
serve, but not extraordinary, not a Becker serve. He has a fast arm, good action, an easy motion,
and comes close to his spots. He wants to ace you out wide, and when he misses its not
by muchhes not one of these players who try to ace you out wide and serve it by mistake
into your chest. His real problem comes after his serve. Hes inconsistent. He cant keep three
balls in a row between the lines. I beat him, 62, 61, and as I walk off the court I think to myself
that hes got a long and painful slog ahead. I feel bad for the guy. He seems like a good
soul. But I dont expect to see him again on the tour, ever.
I go on to reach the final. I face Alberto Mancini. Strong, stocky, with tree-trunk legs, he
pounds the ball with tremendous weight, penetration, and a tornado spin that causes it to hit
your racket like a medicine ball. I have match point against him in the fourth set, but I lose the
pointthen fall apart. Somehow I lose the match.
Back in my hotel I sit in my room for hours, watching Italian TV, setting things on fire.
People, I think, dont understand the pain of losing in a final. You practice and travel and grind
to get ready. You win for one week, four matches in a row. (Or, at a slam, two weeks, six
matches.) Then you lose that final match and your name isnt on the trophy, your name isnt in
the record books. You lost only once, but youre a loser.
I go to the 1989 French Open and in the third round I face Courier, my schoolmate from
the Bollettieri Academy. Im the chalk, the heavy favorite, but Courier scores the upset, then
rubs my nose in it. He pumps his fist, glares at me and Nick. Moreover, in the locker room, he
makes sure everyone sees him lacing up his running shoes and going for a jog. Message:
Beating Andre just didnt provide enough cardio.
Later, when Chang wins the tournament, and thanks Jesus Christ for making the ball go
over the net, I feel sickened. How could Chang, of all people, have won a slam before me?
Again, I skip Wimbledon. I hear another chorus of jeers from the media. Agassi doesnt
win the slams he enters, and then he skips the slams that matter most. But it feels like a drop
in the ocean. Im becoming desensitized.
EVEN THOUGH IM A PUNCHING BAG for sportswriters, big companies beg me to pose
with their products. In the middle of 1989 one of my corporate sponsors, Canon, schedules a
series of photo shoots, including one in the wilds of Nevada, in the Valley of Fire. I like the
sound of that. I walk every day through a valley of fire.
Since the ad campaign is for a camera, the director wants a colorful setting. Vivid, he
says. Cinematic. He builds an entire tennis court in the middle of the desert, and as I watch
the workmen I cant help thinking of my father building his tennis court in his desert. Ive come
a long way. Or have I?
For a full day the director films me playing tennis by myself, the flame-red mountains and
orange rock formations in the background. Im weary, sunburned, ready for a break, but the
director isnt done with me. He tells me to take off my shirt. Im known for taking off my shirt,
in moments of teenage exuberance, and throwing it into crowds.
Then he wants to film me in a cave, hitting a ball at the camera, as if to shatter the lens.
Then, at Lake Mead, we film several scenes against the watery backdrop.
It all seems silly, goofy, but harmless.
Back in Vegas we do a series of shots on the Strip, then around a swimming pool. As luck
would have it, they choose the pool at good old Cambridge Racquet Club. Finally, we set up
for one last shot at a Vegas country club. The director puts me in a white suit, then has me
drive up to the front portico in a white Lamborghini. Step out of the car, he says, turn to the
camera, lower your black sunglasses, and say, Image Is Everything.
Image Is Everything?
Yes. Image Is Everything.
Between takes I look around and in the crowd of spectators I see Wendi, the former
ballgirl, my childhood crush, all grown up. Now shes definitely come a long way since the
Alan King tournament.
Shes carrying a suitcase. Shes just dropped out of college and shes just come home.
You were the first person I wanted to see, she says.
She looks beautiful. Her brown hair is long, curly, and her eyes are impossibly green.
Shes all I can think about while the director is ordering me around. As the sun goes down,
the director yells, Cut! Thats a wrap! Wendi and I jump into my new Jeep, the doors and top
off, and go roaring away like Bonnie and Clyde.
Wendi says, What was that slogan they kept making you say into the camera?
Image Is Everything.
Whats that supposed to mean?
Beats me. Its for a camera company.
WEEKS LATER I BEGIN TO HEAR this slogan twice a day. Then six times a day. Then
ten. It reminds me of those Vegas windstorms, the kind that begin with a faint, ominous rustling
of leaves, and ultimately turn into high-pitched, gale-force, three-day blows.
Overnight the slogan becomes synonymous with me. Sportswriters liken this slogan to my
inner nature, my essential being. They say its my philosophy, my religion, and they predict its
going to be my epitaph. They say Im nothing but image, I have no substance, because I
havent won a slam. They say the slogan is proof that Im just a pitchman, trading on my
fame, caring only about money and nothing about tennis. Fans at my matches begin taunting
me with the slogan. Come on, Andreimage is everything! They yell this if I show any emotion.
They yell it if I show no emotion. They yell it when I win. They yell it when I lose.
This ubiquitous slogan, and the wave of hostility and criticism and sarcasm it sets off, is
excruciating. I feel betrayedby the advertising agency, the Canon execs, the sportswriters,
the fans. I feel abandoned. I feel the way I did when I arrived at the Bollettieri Academy.
The ultimate indignity, however, is when people insist that Ive called myself an empty image,
that Ive proclaimed it, simply because I spoke the line in a commercial. They treat this ridiculous
throwaway slogan as if its my Confession, which makes as much sense as arresting
Marlon Brando for murder because of a line he uttered in The Godfather.
As the ad campaign widens, as this insidious slogan creeps its way into every article
about me, I change. I develop an edge, a mean streak. I stop giving interviews. I lash out at
linesmen, opponents, reporterseven fans. I feel justified, because the world is against me,
the world is trying to screw me. Im becoming my father.
When crowds boo, when they yell, Image is everything, I yell back. As much as you dont
want me here, thats how much I dont want to be here! In Indianapolis, after a particularly bad
loss, and a sonorous booing, a reporter asks me what went wrong. You didnt seem like yourself
today, he says with a smile that isnt a smile. Something bothering you?
I tell him, in so many words, to kiss my ass.
No one counsels me that you should never snap at reporters. No one bothers to explain
that snapping, baring your fangs, makes reporters more rabid. Dont show them fear, but dont
show them your fangs, either. Even if someone were to give me this sensible advice, I dont
know that I could take it.
Instead I hide. I act like a fugitive, and my accomplices in seclusion are Philly and J.P. We
go every night to an old coffee shop on the Strip, a place called the Peppermill. We drink bottomless
cups of coffee and eat slabs of pie and talk and talkand sing. J.P. has made the
leap from pastor to composer-musician. Hes moved to Orange County and rededicated his
life to music. Along with Philly we belt out our favorite songs until the other customers at the
Peppermill turn and stare.
J.P. is also a frustrated comedian, a devotee of Jerry Lewis, and he slips in and out of
slapstick routines that leave Philly and me weak from laughter. We then try to out-slapstick
J.P. We dance around the waitress, crawl along the floor, and eventually the three of us are
laughing so hard that we cant breathe. I laugh more than Ive laughed since I was a boy, and
even though its tinged with hysteria, the laughter has healing properties. For a few hours, late
at night, laughter makes me feel like the old Andre, whoever that is.
10
NOT FAR FROM MY FATHERS HOUSE is the sprawling concrete campus of the University
of NevadaLas Vegas, which in 1989 is gaining a reputation for its sports teams. The
basketball squad is a powerhouse, with NBA-ready stars, and the football team is vastly improved.
The Runnin Rebels are known for their speed and superb conditioning. Plus, theyre
the Rebelsthats my kind of mascot. Pat says there might be someone at UNLV who can
help me get in shape when hes not in town.
We drive to the campus one day and make our way to the gym, a new building that I find
as daunting as the Sistine Chapel. So many perfect bodies. So many full-grown men. Im five
foot eleven, 148 pounds, and my Nike clothes hang off me. I tell myself this was a mistake.
Apart from feeling woefully undersized, I still feel edgy in a school, any kind of school.
Pat, who am I kidding? I dont belong here.
Were here, he says, spitting.
We find the office of the schools strength coach. I tell Pat to wait, Ill go in and talk to the
guy. I poke my head in the doorway, and there, across the office, in the far corner, behind a
desk the size of my Corvette, I see a real-life giant. He looks like the statue of Atlas fronting
Rockefeller Center, which I saw during my first U.S. Open, except this Atlas has long black
hair and black eyes as large and round as the weights neatly stacked in the gym. He looks as
if hell flatten the first person who disturbs him.
I jump back through the doorway.
You go, Pat.
He walks in. I hear him say something. I hear a deep baritone rumble in response. It
sounds like a truck engine. Then Pat calls to me.
I hold my breath and again go through the doorway.
Hello, I say.
Hello, the giant says.
Um, yeah, well, my name is Andre Agassi. I play tennis, and uhh, I live here in Vegas,
and
I know who you are.
He stands. Hes six feet tall, with a chest at least fifty-six inches around. For a moment I
think he might tip the desk over in anger. Instead he comes around from behind and extends
his hand. The largest hand Ive ever seen. A hand that goes with his shoulders, biceps, and
legs, also record-setters in my personal experience.
Gil Reyes, he says.
Nice to meet you, Mr. Reyes.
Call me Gil.
OK. Gil. I know you must be very busy. I dont want to take up your time. I was just wondering
that is, Pat and I were wonderingif we could talk to you about using your facilities
now and then. Im really struggling to improve my conditioning.
Sure, he says. His voice makes me think of the bottom of the ocean and the core of the
earth. But its also a voice as soft as it is deep.
He shows us around, introduces us to several student-athletes. We talk about tennis, basketball,
the differences, the similarities. Then the football team walks in.
Excuse me, Gil says. I need to speak with the fellas. Make yourself at home. Use
whatever machines or weights you want to use. But please, be careful. And be discreet.
Technically speaking, you know, its against the rules.
Thank you.
Pat and I do a few bench presses, leg lifts, sit-ups, but Im more interested in watching Gil.
The football players gather before him and gaze up at him with awe. Hes like a Spanish general
addressing his conquistadors. He gives them their orders. Youtake this bench.
Yougrab that machine. Youthat squat rack. While hes speaking, no one looks away. He
doesnt demand their attention, he simply compels it. Lastly, he tells them to gather round,
closer, reminds them that hard work is the answer, the only answer. Everyone bring it in.
Hands together. One two threeRebels!
They break, then fan out and hit the weights. Im reminded how much better off Id be on a
team.
PAT AND I GO BACK to the gym at UNLV every day, and while doing curls and bench
presses I can feel Gil keeping tabs on us. I sense that hes noting my bad form. I sense that
the other athletes are noticing too. I feel amateurish, and often want to leave, but Pat always
stops me.
After a few weeks, Pat needs to fly back east. Family emergency. I knock at the door to
Gils office and tell him that Pat is gone, but he left a regimen for me to follow. I hand Gil the
piece of paper with Pats regimen and ask if he might be willing to help me go through it.
Sure, Gil says. But he sounds put-upon.
With each exercise, Gil arches an eyebrow. He looks over Pats regimen, turns the paper
in his hands, frowns. I encourage him to tell me whats on his mind, but he only frowns more
deeply.
He asks, Whats the point of this exercise?
Im not sure.
Tell me again, how long have you been doing this?
Long time.
I beg him to speak his mind.
I dont want to step on anybodys toes, he says. I dont want to speak out of turn. But I
cant lie to you: if somebody can write down your routine on a piece of paper, it isnt worth the
piece of paper its written on. Youre asking me to put you through a workout here that leaves
no room for where you are, how youre feeling, what you need to focus on. It doesnt allow for
change.
That makes sense. Could you help me? Maybe give me some tips?
Well, look, what are your goals?
I tell him about my recent loss to Alberto Mancini, from Argentina. He out-physicalled me,
pushed me around like an old-time bully at the beach kicking sand in my face. I had the match
won, I had my foot on the mans neck, but I couldnt finish him off. I was serving for the match,
and Mancini broke me, then won the tiebreak, then broke me three times in the fifth set. I had
nothing left. I need to get strong so that I never let that happen again. Losing is one thing; being
outgunned is another. I cant bear that feeling anymore.
Gil listens, not moving, not interrupting, soaking it all in.
That fuzzy ball takes some fuzzy bounces, I tell him, and I cant control it all the time. But
one thing I think maybe I can control is my body. At least, I could, maybe, if I had the right information.
Gil fills his fifty-six-inch chest with air and then breathes out slowly. He says, Whats your
schedule?
Ill be gone the next five weeks. Summer hard courts. But when I get back, Id really consider
it an honor if we could work together.
All right, Gil says. Well figure something out. Good luck on your road trip. Ill see you
when you get back.
AT THE 1989 U.S. OPEN I play Connors again in the quarters. Its the first five-set win of
my career, after five straight losses. Somehow it only earns me a new wave of criticism: I
should have finished Connors off in three. Someone claims to have heard me yelling to Philly
in my box: Im going to take him five sets and give him some pain!
Mike Lupica, a columnist for the New York Daily News, points to my nineteen unforced errors
in the third set and says I carried Connors merely to prove that I was tough enough to go
the distance. If theyre not trashing me for losing on purpose, theyre ragging me for the way I
win.
WHEN I WALK BACK INTO the gym, I see from Gils face that hes been expecting me.
We shake hands. The start of something.
He walks me over to the weight racks and tells me that many of the exercises Ive been
doing are wrong, dead wrong, but the way Ive been doing them is worse. Im courting disaster.
Im going to hurt myself.
He gives me a fast primer on the mechanics of the body, the physics and hydraulics and
architecture of human anatomy. To know what your body wants, he says, to understand what
it needs and what it doesnt, you need to be part engineer, part mathematician, part artist, part
mystic.
I dont fare well in lectures, but if all lectures were like Gils, Id still be in school. I soak up
every fact, every insight, confident that Ill never forget a single word.
Its amazing, Gil says, how many fallacies there are about the human body, how little we
know about our own bodies. For instance: guys do incline benches for their upper pecs. Its
not an efficient use of time, he says. I havent done an incline in thirty years. Is it possible that
my chest would be bigger if I did inclines?
No, sir.
The step-ups youre doing, the exercises where you hold a heavy weight on your back as
you walk upstairs? Youre asking for a catastrophic injury. Youre lucky you havent already
ruined your knee.
How so?
Its all about angles, Andre. At one angle, youre engaging your quad. Fine, great. At another
angle, youre engaging your knee, putting loads of pressure on that knee. Engage that
knee too many timesitll break off the engagement.
The best exercises, he says, exploit gravity. He tells me how to use gravity and resistance
to break down a muscle, so it will come back stronger. He shows me how to do a proper, safe
bicep curl. He walks me over to a dry-erase board and diagrams my muscles, arms, joints,
tendons. He talks about a bow and arrow, shows me the pressure points along a bow as its
pulled taut, then uses this model to explain my back, why it hurts after matches and workouts.
I tell him about my spine, my spondylolisthesis, the vertebra thats out of sync. He jots a
note, says hell look up the condition in the medical books and learn all about it for me.
Bottom line, he says, if you keep doing what youre doing, youre going to have a short career.
Big-time back problems, knee problems. Plus, keep doing curls the way I saw you doing
them, youre going to have elbow problems.
While spelling it all out, Gil sometimes literally spells it out. He likes to emphasize a point
by spelling the key word. He likes to break words down for me, crack them open, reveal the
knowledge inside, like the meat inside a nut. Calorie, for instance. He says it comes from the
Latin calor, which is a measure of heat. People think calories are bad, Gil says, but calories
are just measures of heat, and we need heat. With food, you feed your bodys natural furnace.
How can that be bad? Its when you eat, how much you eat, the choices you
makethats what makes all the difference.
People think eating is bad, he says, but we need to stoke our internal fire.
Yes, I think. My internal fire needs stoking.
Speaking of heat, Gil mentions casually that he hates the warm weather. He cant bear it.
Hes unusually sensitive to high temperatures, and his idea of torture is sitting under the direct
sun. He turns up the air-conditioning.
I make a note.
I tell him about running with Pat on Rattlesnake Hill, how I feel Ive hit a plateau. He asks,
How much do you run every day?
Five miles.
Why?
I dont know.
Have you ever run five miles in a match?
No.
How often in a match do you run more than five steps in one direction before stopping?
Not very.
I dont know anything about tennis, but it seems to me that, by the third step, youd better
be thinking about stopping. Otherwise youre going to hit the ball and keep running, which
means youll be out of position for your next shot. The trick is to throttle down, then hit, then
slam on the brakes, then hustle back. The way I see it, your sport isnt about running, its
about starting and stopping. You need to focus on building the muscles necessary for starting
and stopping.
I laugh and tell him that might be the smartest thing Ive ever heard anyone say about tennis.
When its time to lock up for the night, I help Gil clean the gym, turn off the lights. We sit in
my car and talk. Eventually, he notices that my teeth are chattering.
Doesnt this fancy car have a heater?
Yes.
Why dont you turn it on?
Because you said youre sensitive to heat.
He stammers. He says he cant believe I remembered. And he cant bear to think Ive
been suffering all this time. He turns up the car heater full blast. We continue talking, and
soon I notice that beads of sweat are forming on Gils brow and upper lip. I turn off the heat
and roll down the windows. We talk for another half hour, until he notices that Im starting to
turn blue. He turns on the heater full blast. In this way, back and forth, we talk, and demonstrate
our respect for each other, until the early hours of the morning.
I tell Gil a little about my story. My father, the dragon, Philly, Perry. I tell him about being
banished to the Bollettieri Academy. Then he tells me his story. He talks about growing up
outside Las Cruces, New Mexico. His people were farmworkers. Pecans and cotton. Hard
work. Wintertime, pick the pecans. Summertime, cotton. Then they moved to East LA., and
Gil grew up fast on the hard streets.
It was war, he says. I got shot. Still have the bullet hole in my leg. Also, I didnt speak English,
only Spanish, so Id sit in school, self-conscious, not talking. I learned English by reading
Jim Murray in the Los Angeles Times and listening to Vin Scully calling Dodger games on the
radio. I had a little transistor. KABC, every night. Vin Scully was my English teacher.
After mastering English, Gil decided to master the body God gave him.
He says, Only the strong survive, right? Well, we couldnt afford weights in our neighborhood,
so we made our own. Guys whod been in the joint showed us how. For instance, we
filled coffee cans with cement, stuck them on the ends of a pole, and thats how we made a
bench press. We used milk crates for the actual bench.
He tells me about getting his black belt in karate. He tells me about some of his twenty-
two professional fights, including one in which he got his jaw shattered. But I wasnt knocked
out, he says proudly.
When its time to say goodnight, because the sky is growing lighter, I reluctantly shake
Gils hand and tell him Ill be back tomorrow.
I know, he says.
I WORK WITH GIL throughout the fall of 1989. The gains are big, and our bond is strong.
Eighteen years older than I, Gil can tell that hes a father figure. On some level I also sense
that Im the son he never had. (He has three children, all daughters.) Its one of the few things
that go unspoken between us. Everything else gets hashed out, spelled out.
Gil and his wife, Gaye, have a lovely tradition. Thursday nights, everyone in the family can
order whatever they want for dinner and Gaye will cook it. One daughter wants hot dogs?
Fine. Another wants chocolate chip pancakes? No problem. I make a habit of stopping by
Gils house on Thursdays, eating off everyones plates. Before long Im eating at Gils every
other night. When its late, when I dont feel like driving home, I crash on his floor.
Gil has another tradition. No matter how uncomfortable a person looks, if theyre asleep,
they cant be all that uncomfortable, you should leave them be. So he never wakes me. He
just throws a light afghan over me and lets me sleep until morning.
Listen, Gil says one day, we love having you here, you know that. But I have to ask.
Good-looking kid, wealthy kid, kid who can be lots of placesand yet you come to my house
for Thursday-night hot dogs. You sleep curled on my floor.
I like sleeping on floors. My back feels better.
Im not talking about the floor. I mean, here. Are you sure you want to behere? You
must have better places to be.
Cant think of anywhere else Id rather be, Gil.
He gives me a hug. I thought I knew what a hug was, but youve really never been hugged
until youve been hugged by a man with a fifty-six-inch chest.
On Christmas Eve, 1989, Gil asks if Id like to come over to the house, celebrate the holiday
with his family.
Thought youd never ask.
While Gaye bakes cookies, while their daughters are upstairs sleeping, Gil and I sit on the
living-room floor putting together toys and train sets from Santa. I tell Gil that I dont know
when Ive felt so peaceful.
You wouldnt be happier at a party? With friends?
Im right where I want to be.
I stop putting together the toy in my hand and fix Gil with a look. I tell him my life has never
for one day belonged to me. My life has always belonged to someone else. First, my father.
Then Nick. And always, always, tennis. Even my body wasnt my own until I met Gil, who is
doing the one thing fathers are supposed to do. Making me stronger.
So being here, Gil, with you and your family, I feel for the first time in my life that Im where
I belong.
Enough said. Ill never ask again. Merry Christmas, son.
IF I MUST PLAY TENNIS, the loneliest sport, then Im sure as hell going to surround myself
with as many people as I can off the court. And each person will have his specific role.
Perry will help with my disordered thoughts. J.P. will help with my troubled soul. Nick will help
with the basics of my game. Philly will help with details, arrangements, and always have my
back.
Sportswriters rip me about my entourage. They say I travel with all these people because
it feeds my ego. They say I need this many people around me because I cant be alone.
Theyre half right. I dont like to be alone. But these people around me arent an entourage,
theyre a team. I need them for company, for counsel, and for a kind of rolling education.
Theyre my crew, but also my gurus, my blue-ribbon panel. I study them and steal from them.
I take an expression from Perry, a story from J.P., an attitude or gesture from Nick. I learn
about myself, create myself, through imitation. How else could I do it? I spent my childhood in
an isolation chamber, my teen years in a torture chamber.
In fact, rather than make my team smaller, I want to grow it. I want to add Gil, formally. I
want to hire him, full-time, to help me with my strength and conditioning. I phone Perry at
Georgetown and tell him my problem.
What problem? he says. You want to work with Gil? So hire Gil.
But Ive got Pat. The Spitting Chilean. I cant just fire the guy. I cant fire anyone. And even
if I could, how do I then ask Gil to leave a high-profile, high-paying job with UNLVto work
exclusively for me? Who the fuck am I?
Perry tells me to have Nick reassign Pat to work with the other tennis players Nick
coaches. Then, he says, sit down with Gil and put it to him. Let him decide.
In January 1990 I ask Gil if he would do me the great honor of working with me, traveling
with me, training me.
Leave my job here at UNLV?
Yes.
But I dont know anything about tennis.
Dont worry, I dont either.
He laughs.
Gil, I think I can accomplish a lot. I think I can dothings. But after our short time together,
Im reasonably certain that I can only do them with your help.
He doesnt need a hard sell. Yes, he says. I would like to work with you.
He doesnt ask how much Ill pay him. He doesnt mention the word money. He says were
two kindred spirits, embarking on a great adventure. He says hes known it almost from the
day we met. He says I have a destiny. He says Im like Lancelot.
Whos that?
Sir Lancelot. You know, King Arthur. Knights of the Round Table. Lancelot was Arthurs
greatest knight.
Did he kill dragons?
Every knight kills dragons.
There is only one obstacle in our path. Gil doesnt have a gym at his house. Hell need to
convert his garage into a full-scale gymwhich will take lots of time, because he wants to
build the weight machines himself.
Build them?
I want to weld the metal, make the ropes and pulleys, with my own hands. I dont want to
leave anything to chance. I wont have you injured. Not on my watch.
I think of my father, building his ball machines and blowers, and wonder if this is the one
and only thing he and Gil have in common.
Until Gils gym is complete, we continue to work out at UNLV. He keeps his job, works
with the Rebels basketball team through a brilliant season, culminating in a blowout win over
Duke for the national title. When his duties are done, when his home gym is almost done, Gil
says hes ready.
Andre, now, are you ready? One last time, are you sure you want to do this?
Gil, I am more sure about this than Ive ever been about anything Ive ever done.
Me too.
He says hes going to drive to the college this morning and turn in his keys.
Hours later, as he walks outside the college, there I am, waiting. He laughs when he sees
me, and we go for cheeseburgers, to celebrate new beginnings.
SOMETIMES A WORKOUT WITH GIL is actually a conversation. We dont touch a single
weight. We sit on the free benches and free-associate. There are many ways, Gil says, of getting
strong, and sometimes talking is the best way. When hes not teaching me about my
body, Im teaching him about tennis, the life on tour. I tell him how the game is organized, the
circuit of minor tournaments and the four majors, or Grand Slams, that all players use as
yardsticks. I tell him about the tennis calendar, how we start the year on the other side of the
world, at the Australian Open, and then just chase the sun. Next comes clay season, in
Europe, which culminates in Paris with the French Open. Then comes June, grass season,
and Wimbledon. I stick out my tongue and make a face. Then come the dog days, the hard-
court season, which concludes with the U.S. Open. Then the indoor seasonStuttgart, Paris,
the World Championships. Its all very Groundhog Day. Same venues, same opponents, only
the years and scores are different, and over time the scores all run together like phone numbers.
I try to tell Gil about my psyche. I start at the beginning, the central truth.
He laughs. You dont actually hate tennis, he says.
I do, Gil, I really do.
He gets a look on his face, and I wonder if hes thinking he might have quit his job at UNLV
too soon.
If thats true, he says, why play?
Im not suited for anything else. I dont know how to do anything else. Tennis is the only
thing Im qualified for. Also, my father would have a fit if I did anything different.
Gil scratches his ear. This is a new one on him. Hes known hundreds of athletes, but hes
never known one who hated athletics. He doesnt know what to say. I reassure him that
theres nothing to be said. I dont understand it myself. I can only tell him how it is.
I also tell Gil about the Image Is Everything debacle. I feel, somehow, that he needs to
know, so hell understand what hes got himself into. The whole thing still makes me angry,
but now the anger has seeped down deep. Hard to talk about, hard to reach. It feels like a
spoonful of acid in the pit of my stomach. Hearing about it, Gil feels angry too, but he has less
trouble accessing his anger. He wants to act on it, right now. He wants to punch out an advertising
exec or two. He says: Some slap-dick on Madison Avenue puts together a silly ad
campaign, and gets you to say a line into a camera, and it means something about you?
Millions of people think so. And say so. And write so.
They took advantage of you, he says. Plain and simple. Not your fault. You didnt know
what you were saying, you didnt know how it would be taken and twisted and misinterpreted.
Our talks carry beyond the weight room. We go out for dinner. We go out for breakfast.
Were on the phone six times a day. I call Gil late one night and we talk for hours. As the conversation
winds down he says, Do you want to come over tomorrow and get in a workout?
Id love to, but Im in Tokyo.
Weve been talking for three hours and youre in Tokyo? I thought you were across town. I
feel guilty, man. Ive been keeping you all this.
He stops himself. He says, You know what? I dont feel guilty. Nah. I feel honored. You
needed to talk to me, and it doesnt matter if youre in Tokyo or Timbuktu. I get it. All right,
man, I get it.
From the start, Gil keeps a careful record of my workouts. He buys a brown ledger and
marks down every rep, every set, every exerciseevery day. He records my weight, my diet,
my pulse, my travel. In the margins he draws diagrams and even pictures. He says he wants
to chart my progress, compile a database he can refer to in the coming years. Hes making a
study of me, so he can rebuild me from the ground up. Hes like Michelangelo appraising a
block of marble, but hes not put off by my flaws. Hes like da Vinci getting it all down in his
notebooks. I see in Gils notebooks, in the care he takes with them, in the way he never skips
a day, that I inspire him, and this inspires me.
It goes without saying that Gil will travel with me to many tournaments. He needs to watch
my conditioning in matches, monitor my food, make sure Im always hydrated. (But not just
hydrated. Gil has a special concoction of water, carbs, salt, and electrolytes that I need to
drink the night before every match.) His training doesnt end on the road. If anything, it becomes
more important on the road.
Our first trip together, we agree, will be February 1990, to Scottsdale. I tell Gil well need
to be there a couple of nights before the tournament starts, for the hit-and-giggle.
Hit-and-what?
Its an exhibition with some celebrities to raise money for charity, to make corporate sponsors
feel good, to entertain the fans.
Sounds fun.
Whats more, I tell him, were going to drive over in my new Corvette. I cant wait to show
him how fast it goes.
But when I pull up to Gils house I realize that I might not have thought this all the way
through. The car is very small, and Gil is very big. The car is so small that it makes Gil look
twice as big. He contorts himself to fit into the passenger side, and even then he needs to tilt
sideways, and even then his head touches the roof. The Corvette looks as if, at any moment,
it might burst apart.
Seeing Gil squished and uncomfortable, Im motivated to go very fast. Of course I dont
need extra motivation in the Corvette. The car is supersonic. We crank the music and fly out
of Vegas, across Hoover Dam, down toward the craggy Joshua tree forests of northwest Arizona.
We decide to stop for lunch outside Kingman. The prospect of food, combined with the
speed of the Corvette, and the loud music, and the presence of Gil, makes me mash the gas.
We hit Mach 1. I see Gil make a face and twirl a finger. I look in the rearview mirrora highway
patrol car inches from my back fender.
The patrolman quickly gives me a speeding ticket.
Not my first, I tell Gil, who shakes his head.
In Kingman we stop at Carls Jr. and eat an enormous lunch. We both love to eat, and we
both have a secret weakness for fast food, so we fall off the nutrition wagon, ordering French
fries, then ordering seconds, refilling our sodas. When I squeeze Gil back into the Corvette I
realize were well behind schedule. We need to make up time. I floor it and zoom back onto
U.S. 95. Two hundred miles to Scottsdale. Two hours of driving.
Twenty minutes later, Gil makes the same twirling gesture.
A different patrolman this time. He takes my license and registration and asks, Have you
received a speeding ticket recently?
I look at Gil. He frowns.
Well, if you consider an hour ago recent, then yes, Officer, I have.
Wait right here.
He walks back to his car. One minute later, he returns.
The judge wants you back in Kingman.
Kingman? What?
Come with me, sir.
Come withwhat about the car?
Your friend can drive it.
But, but, cant I just follow you?
Sir, you are going to listen to everything I say and do everything I say and thats why
youre not going back to Kingman in handcuffs. You will sit in the back of my car and your
friend will follow us. Now. Step out.
Im in the back of a police car, Gil following in a Corvette that fits him like a whalebone corset.
Were in the middle of nowhere and Im hearing the crazy-ass plinking banjos from Deliverance.
It takes forty-five minutes to reach Kingman Municipal Court. I follow the patrolman into
a side door and find myself before the small, elderly judge, who wears a cowboy hat and a
belt buckle the size of a pie tin.
The banjos are getting louder.
I look around for a certificate on the wall, something to prove that this is in fact a courthouse
and hes a real judge. All I see are heads of dead animals.
The judge begins by rattling off a series of random questions.
Youre playing in Scottsdale?
Yes, sir.
Youve played that tournament before?
Uhyes, sir.
What kind of draw do you have?
Pardon?
Who do you play in the first round?
The judge, it turns out, is a tennis fan. Also, hes followed my career closely. He thinks I
shouldve beaten Courier at the French Open. He has a slew of opinions about Connors,
Lendl, Chang, the state of the game, the scarcity of great American players. After sharing his
opinions with me, liberally, for twenty-five minutes, he asks, Would you mind signing
something for my kids?
No problem, sir. Your honor.
I sign everything he puts before me, then await sentencing.
All right, the judge says. I sentence you to go give em hell down in Scottsdale.
Sorry? I dont under. I mean, your honor, I drove back here, thirty-some miles, sure I
was going to be sent to jail, or at least fined.
No! No, no, no, I just wanted to meet you. But youd better have your friend out there drive
you to Scottsdale, because one more ticket today and I will have to keep you in Kingman until
the cows come home.
I walk out of the courthouse but sprint to the Corvette, where Gil is waiting. I tell him the
judge is a tennis buff who wanted to meet me. Gil thinks Im lying. I beg him to please just
drive us away from this courthouse. He pulls awayslowly. Under normal circumstances, Gil
is a cautious driver. But so unnerved is he by our run-in with Arizona law enforcement that he
keeps the car in sixth gear and goes fifty-four miles per hour all the way to Scottsdale.
Naturally Im late to the hit-and-giggle. As we roll into the parking lot of the stadium, I pull
on my tennis gear. We stop at the security hut and tell the guard Im expected, Im one of the
players. He doesnt believe me. I show him my drivers license, which I feel fortunate to still
have in my possession. He waves our car through.
Gil says, Dont worry about the car, Ill take care of it. Just go.
I grab my tennis bag and sprint through the parking lot. Gil tells me later that when I
entered the arena, he heard the applause. The windows of the Corvette were rolled up, but he
still heard the crowd. In that moment he had a sense of what Id been trying to tell him. After
the command performance for the Old West judge, after hearing the stadium greet my arrival
with a frenzied roar, he understood. He confesses that until this trip, he didnt realize the life
was soinsane. He really didnt know what he was signing on for. I tell him that makes two of
us.
WE HAVE A WONDERFUL TIME in Scottsdale. We learn about each other, fast, the way
you learn about people on the road. During one midday match I halt play and wait for a tournament
official to hurry an umbrella over to where Gil is sitting. Hes in direct sunlight, perspiring
fiercely. When the official hands Gil the umbrella, Gil looks confused. Then he looks down,
sees me waving, understands. He flashes a fifty-six-inch smile, and we both laugh.
We go to dinner one night at the Village Inn. Its late, were eating a combo platter of dinner
and breakfast. Four guys burst into the restaurant and sit one booth away. They talk and
laugh about my hair, my clothes.
Probably gay, one says.
Definitely homo, says his buddy.
Gil clears his throat, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, tells me to enjoy the rest of my
meal. Hes done.
Arent you going to eat, Gilly?
No, man. Last thing I want during a fight is a full stomach.
When Im finished, Gil says he has some business to take care of at the next table. If anything
happens, he says, I shouldnt worryhe knows the way home. He stands very slowly.
He sidles over to the four guys. He leans on their table. The table groans. He fans his chest in
their faces and says, You enjoy ruining peoples meals? Thats how you like to spend your
time, huh? Gee, Im going to have to try that myself. What are you having there? Hamburger?
He picks up the mans burger and eats half in one bite.
Needs ketchup, Gil says, his mouth full. You know what? Now Im thirsty. I think Ill take a
sip of your soda. Yeah. And then I think Ill spill it all over the table as I set it down. I wantI
wantone of you to try to stop me.
Gil takes a long sip, then slowly, almost as slowly as he drives, pours the rest of the soda
over the table.
Not one of the four guys moves.
Gil sets down the empty glass and looks at me. Andre, are you ready to go?
I DONT WIN THE TOURNAMENT, but it doesnt matter. Im content, happy as we start
back on the road to Vegas. Before leaving town we stop for a bite at Joes Main Event. We
talk about all thats happened in the last seventy-two hours, and we agree that this trip feels
like the start of a bigger trip. In his da Vinci notebook Gil draws a picture of me in handcuffs.
Outside, we stand in the parking lot and look at the stars. I feel such overwhelming love,
and gratitude, for Gil. I thank him for all hes done, and he tells me I never need to thank him
again.
Then he gives a speech. Gil, who learned English from newspapers and baseball games,
delivers a flowing, lilting, poetic monologue, right outside Joes, and one of the great regrets
of my life is that I dont have a tape recorder with me. Still, I remember it nearly word for word.
Andre, I wont ever try to change you, because Ive never tried to change anybody. If I
could change somebody, Id change myself. But I know I can give you structure and a blueprint
to achieve what you want. Theres a difference between a plow horse and a racehorse.
You dont treat them the same. You hear all this talk about treating people equally, and Im
not sure equal means the same. As far as Im concerned, youre a racehorse, and Ill always
treat you accordingly. Ill be firm, but fair. Ill lead, never push. Im not one of those people
who expresses or articulates feelings very well, but from now on, just know this: Its on, man.
It is on. You know what Im saying? Were in a fight, and you can count on me until the last
man is standing. Somewhere up there is a star with your name on it. I might not be able to
help you find it, but Ive got pretty strong shoulders, and you can stand on my shoulders while
youre looking for that star. You hear? For as long as you want. Stand on my shoulders and
reach, man. Reach.
AT THE 1990 FRENCH OPEN I make headlines by wearing pink. Its on the front page of
the sports pages, and in some cases the news pages. Agassi in the Pink. Specifically, pink
compression pants under acid-washed shorts. I tell reporters: Its not pink, its technically Hot
Lava. Im astonished by how much they care. Im astonished by how much I care that they get
it right. But my feeling is, let them write about the color of my shorts rather than the flaws in
my character.
Gil and Philly and I dont want to deal with the press, the crowds, Paris. We dont enjoy
feeling alien, getting lost, having people stare at us because we speak English. So we lock
ourselves in my hotel room, turn up the air-conditioning and send out for McDonalds and Burger
King.
Nick, however, gets a nasty case of cabin fever. He wants to go out, see the sights. Guys,
he says, were in Paris! Eiffel Tower? The frickin Louvre?
Been there, done that, Philly says.
I dont want to go near the Louvre. And I dont have to. I can close my eyes and see the
scary painting of the man hanging from the cliff while his father clutches at his neck and his
other loved ones hang from his limbs.
I tell Nick, I dont want to see anything or anyone. I just want to win this fucking thing and
go home.
I MARCH THROUGH THE EARLY ROUNDS, playing well, and then run into Courier
again. He wins the first set in a tiebreak but falters and gives me the second. I take the third
and then, in the fourth, he curls up and dies, 60. His face turns red. His face turns Hot Lava.
I want to tell him: I hope that was enough cardio for you. But I dont. Maybe Im maturing.
Without question Im getting stronger.
Next up is Chang. The defending champ. I play with a chip on my shoulder, because I still
cant believe hes won a slam before me. I envy his work ethic, admire his court discipline
but I just dont like the guy. He continues to say without compunction that Christ is on
his side of the court, a blend of egotism and religion that chafes me. I beat him in four.
In the semis I play Jonas Svensson. He has a massive serve that kicks like a mule, and
hes never afraid to come to the net. He plays better on fast surfaces, however, so I feel good
about catching him on the clay. Since he has a big, looping forehand, I decide early that Im
going to bum-rush his backhand. Again and again I go to that vulnerable backhand, seizing a
quick lead, 51. Svensson doesnt recover. Set, Agassi. In the second set I grab a 40 lead.
He breaks back to 34. Thats as close as I let him get. To his credit, he finds a ray of confidence
and wins the third set. Normally Id be rattled. But this year I look to my box and see Gil.
I replay his parking lot speech, and win the fourth set, 63.
Im in the finalat last. My first final at a slam. Im facing Gmez, from Ecuador, whom I
just beat weeks ago. Hes thirty, on the verge of retiringin fact, I thought he was retired. At
last, the newspapers say, Agassi is going to realize his potential.
THEN, CATASTROPHE STRIKES. The night before the final, Im taking a shower and I
feel the hairpiece Philly bought me suddenly disintegrate in my hands. I must have used the
wrong kind of conditioner. The weave is coming undonethe damned thing is falling apart.
In a state of abject panic I summon Philly to my hotel room.
Fucking disaster, I tell him. My hairpiecelook!
He examines it.
Well let it dry, then clip it in place, he says.
With what?
Bobby pins.
He runs all over Paris looking for bobby pins. He cant find any. He phones me and says,
What the hell kind of city is this? No bobby pins?
In the hotel lobby he bumps into Chris Evert and asks her for bobby pins. She doesnt
have any. She asks why he needs them. He doesnt answer. At last he finds a friend of our
sister Rita, who has a bag full of bobby pins. He helps me reconfigure the hairpiece and set it
in place, and keeps it there with no fewer than twenty bobby pins.
Will it hold? I ask.
Yeah, yeah. Just dont move around a lot.
We both laugh darkly.
Of course I could play without my hairpiece. But after months and months of derision, criticism,
mockery, Im too self-conscious. Image Is Everything? What would they say if they
knew Ive been wearing a hairpiece all this time? Win or lose, they wouldnt talk about my
game. They would talk only about my hair. Instead of a few kids at the Bollettieri Academy
laughing at me, or twelve thousand Germans at Davis Cup, the whole world would be laughing.
I can close my eyes and almost hear it. And I know I cant take it.
WARMING UP BEFORE THE MATCH, I pray. Not for a win, but for my hairpiece to stay
on. Under normal circumstances, playing in my first final of a slam, Id be tense. But my tenuous
hairpiece has me catatonic. Whether or not its slipping, I imagine that its slipping. With
every lunge, every leap, I picture it landing on the clay, like a hawk my father shot from the
sky. I can hear a gasp going up from the crowd. I can picture millions of people suddenly
leaning closer to their TVs, turning to each other and in dozens of languages and dialects
saying some version of: Did Andre Agassis hair just fall off?
My game plan for Gmez reflects my jangled nerves, my timidity. Knowing he doesnt
have young legs, knowing hell fold in a fifth set, I plan to stretch out the match, orchestrate
long rallies, grind him down. As the match begins, however, its clear that Gmez also knows
his age, and thus hes trying to speed everything up. Hes playing quick, risky tennis. He wins
the first set in a hurry. He loses the second set, but also in a hurry. Now I know that the
longest well be out here is three hours, rather than four, which means conditioning wont play
a role. This is now a shot-making match, the kind Gmez can win. With two sets completed,
and not much time off the clock, Im facing a guy whos going to be fresh throughout, even if
we go five.
Of course my game plan was fatally flawed from the start. Pathetic, really. It couldnt work,
no matter how long the match, because you cant win the final of a slam by playing not to
lose, or waiting for your opponent to lose. My attempt to orchestrate long rallies merely emboldens
Gmez. Hes a veteran who knows this might be his last shot at a slam. The only way
to beat him is to take away his belief and his desire, by being aggressive. When he sees me
playing conservative, orchestrating instead of dominating, it gives him heart.
He wins the third set. As the fourth set begins I realize Ive made yet another miscalculation.
Most players, when they tire late in a match, lose some zip on their serve. They have
trouble getting up high on tired legs. But Gmez has a slingshot serve. He never gets up high
on his legs. He leans into the ball. When he tires, therefore, he leans that much more, and his
natural slingshot action becomes more pronounced. Ive been waiting for his serve to weaken,
and instead its getting sharper.
Upon winning the match, Gmez is exceedingly gracious and charming. He weeps. He
waves to the cameras. He knows hell be a national hero in his native Ecuador. I wonder what
its like in Ecuador. Maybe Ill move there. Maybe thats the only place Ill be able to hide from
the shame I feel at this moment. I sit in the locker room, head bowed, imagining what the hundreds
of columnists and headline writers will say, not to mention my peers. I can hear them
now. Image Is Everything, Agassi Is Nothing. Mr. Hot Lava Is a Hot Mess.
Philly walks in. I see in his eyes that he doesnt just sympathizehe lives it. This was his
defeat too. He aches. Then he says the right thing, striking the right tone, and I know Ill always
love him for it.
Lets get the fuck outta this town.
GIL PUSHES THE BIG TROLLEY with our bags through Charles de Gaulle Airport. Im
walking a step ahead. I stop to look at the Arrivals and Departures. Gil keeps going. The trolley
has a sharp metal edge, and it pushes into my soft, exposed AchillesIm wearing loafers
with no socks. A jet of my blood spurts onto the glassy floor. Then another. The Achilles is
gushing. Gil hurries to get a bandage out of his bag, but I tell him to relax, take his time. Its
good, I say. Its fitting. There should be a pint of my blood from my Achilles heel on the floor
before we leave Paris.
I SKIP WIMBLEDON AGAIN, train hard with Gil all summer. His home garage is finished,
filled with a dozen handmade machines and many other unique touches. In the window hes
mounted a massive air-conditioner. On the floor hes nailed a spongy Astroturf. And in the
corner hes put an old pool table. We shoot nine-ball between reps and sets. Many nights
were in the gym until four in the morning, Gil searching for new ways to build up my mind, my
confidence, along with my body. Hes shaken by the French Open, as am I. One morning, before
the sun comes up, he passes along some words his mother always tells him.
Qu lindo es soar despierto, he says. How lovely it is to dream while you are awake.
Dream while youre awake, Andre. Anybody can dream while theyre asleep, but you need to
dream all the time, and say your dreams out loud, and believe in them.
In other words, when in the final of a slam, I must dream. I must play to win.
I thank him. I give him a gift. Its a necklace with a gold pyramid, and inside the pyramid
are three hoops. It represents the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I designed it, had a
jeweler in Florida make it for me, and I have an earring that matches.
He puts it around his neck, and I can tell it will be a cold day in hell before he takes it off.
With Gil in the desert outside Las Vegas, not long after we
started working together full-time in 1990
Gil likes to yell at me when Im working out, but its nothing like my fathers yelling. Gil yells
love. If Im trying to set a new personal best, if Im preparing to lift more than Ive ever lifted,
he stands in the background and yells, Come on, Andre! Lets go! Big Thunder! His yelling
makes my heart club against my ribs. Then, for an added dash of inspiration, hell sometimes
tell me to step aside, and hell lift his personal best550 pounds. Its an awesome sight to
see a man put that much iron above his chest, and it always makes me think that anything is
possible. How beautiful to dream. But dreams, I tell Gil, in one of our quiet moments, are so
damned tiring.
He laughs.
I cant promise you that you wont be tired, he says. But please know this. Theres a lot of
good waiting for you on the other side of tired. Get yourself tired, Andre. Thats where youre
going to know yourself. On the other side of tired.
Under Gils care and close supervision I pack on ten pounds of muscle by August 1990.
We go to New York for the U.S. Open and I feel lean and rangy and dangerous. I take out Andrei
Cherkasov, from the Soviet Union, in an easy three-setter. I punch and scratch my way to
the semis, beat Becker in four furious sets, and still have plenty of rocket fuel in my tank. Gil
and I drive back to the hotel and watch the other mens semi to see who Ill get tomorrow.
McEnroe or Sampras.
It doesnt seem possible, but the kid I thought Id never see again has reconstituted his
game. And hes giving McEnroe the fight of his life. Then I realize hes not giving McEnroe a
fightMcEnroe is giving him a fight, and losing. My opponent tomorrow, incredibly, will be
Pete.
The camera moves close on Petes face, and I see that he has nothing left. Also, the commentators
say his heavily taped feet are covered with blisters. Gil makes me drink Gil Water
until Im ready to throw up, and then I go to bed with a smile, thinking about all the fun Im going
to have, running Petes ass off. Ill have him sprinting from side to side, left to right, from
San Francisco to Bradenton, until those blisters bleed. I think of my fathers old maxim: Put a
blister on his brain. Calm, fit, cocksure, I sleep like a pile of Gils dumbbells.
In the morning I feel ready to play a ten-setter. I have no hairpiece issuesbecause Im
not wearing my hairpiece. Im using a new, low-maintenance camouflaging system that involves
a thicker headband and brightly colored highlights. Theres simply no way I can lose to
Pete, that hapless kid I watched with sympathy last year, that poor klutz who couldnt keep
the ball in the court.
Then a different Pete shows up. A Pete who doesnt ever miss. Were playing long points,
demanding points, and hes flawless. Hes reaching everything, hitting everything, bounding
back and forth like a gazelle. Hes serving bombs, flying to the net, bringing his game right to
me. Hes laying wood to my serve. Im helpless. Im angry. Im telling myself: This is not happening.
Yes, this is happening.
No, this cannot be happening.
Then, instead of thinking how I can win, I begin to think of how I can avoid losing. Its the
same mistake I made against Gmez, with the same result. When its all over I tell reporters
that Pete gave me a good old-fashioned New York street mugging. An imperfect metaphor.
Yes, I was robbed. Yes, something that belonged to me was taken away. But I cant fill out a
police report, and there is no hope of justice, and everyone will blame the victim.
HOURS LATER MY EYES FLY OPEN. Im in bed at the hotel. It was all a dream. For a
splendid half second I believe that I must have fallen asleep on that breezy hill while Philly
and Nick were laughing about Petes ruined game. I dreamed that Pete, of all people, was
beating me in the final of a slam.
But no. Its real. It happened. I watch the room slowly grow lighter, and my mind and spirit
grow palpably darker.
13
EVER SINCE WENDI CAME to watch me film the Image Is Everything commercial, she
and I have been a couple. She travels with me, takes care of me. Were a perfect match, because
we grew up together, and we figure we can keep growing up together. We come from
the same place, want the same things. We love each other madly, though we agree that ours
should be an open relationshipher word. She says were too young to make a commitment,
too confused. She doesnt know who she is. She grew up Mormon, then decided she didnt
believe the tenets of that religion. She went to college, then discovered that it was the completely
wrong college for her. Until she knows who she is, she says, she cant give herself to
me completely.
In 1991 were in Atlanta with Gil, celebrating my twenty-first birthday. Were in a bar, a
seedy old place in Buckhead, with cigarette-scorched pool tables and plastic beer mugs. The
three of us are laughing, drinking, and even Gil, who never touches the stuff, is letting himself
get tipsy. To record this night for posterity, Wendi has brought her camcorder. She hands it to
me and tells me to film her shooting baskets at one of those tented arcade games. Shes going
to school me, she says. I film her shooting for three seconds and then let the camera pan
slowly down her body.
Andre, she says, please get the camera off my ass.
In comes a mob of loudmouths. Roughly my age, they look like a local football or rugby
team. They make several rude remarks about me, then focus their attention on Wendi.
Theyre drunk, crude, trying to embarrass me in front of her. I think of Nastase, doing the
same thing fourteen years ago.
The rugby team slaps a stack of quarters on the edge of our pool table. One of them says,
We got next. They walk off, smirking.
Gil puts down his plastic mug, picks up the quarters, and walks slowly to a vending machine.
He buys a bag of peanuts and comes back to the table. Slowly he works his way
through the peanuts, never taking his eyes off the rugby players, until they wisely decide to try
another bar.
Wendi giggles and suggests that, in addition to his many functions and duties, Gil should
be my bodyguard.
He already is, I tell her. And yet that word doesnt cut it. That word isnt adequate to what
he is. Gil guards my body, my head, my game, my heart, my girlfriend. Hes the one immovable
object in my life. Hes my life guard.
I particularly enjoy when peoplereporters, fans, kooksask Gil if hes my bodyguard. A
smile always plays across his lips as he says, Touch him and find out.
AT THE 1991 FRENCH OPEN I batter my way through six rounds and reach the final. My
third slam final. Im facing Courier, and Im favored. Everyone says Ill beat him. I say Ill beat
him. I need to beat him. I cant imagine what it would feel like to make three slam finals in a
row and not win.
The good news is, I know how to beat Courier. I beat him just last year at this same tournament.
The bad news is, its personal, which makes me tight. We began in the same place,
in the same barracks at the Bollettieri Academy, our bunk beds a few feet apart. I was so
much better than Courier, so much more favored by Nick, that losing to him in the final of a
slam will feel like the hare losing to the tortoise. Bad enough that Chang has won a slam before
me. And Pete. But Courier too? I cant let that happen.
I come out playing to win. Ive learned from my mistakes at the last two slams. I cruise
through the first set, winning 63, and in the second set, leading 31, I have break point. If I
win this point Ill have a choke hold on the set and match. Suddenly the rain starts to fall. Fans
cover themselves and run for shelter. Courier and I retreat to the locker room, where we both
pace like caged lions. Nick comes in and I look to him for advice, encouragement, but he says
nothing. Nothing. Ive known for some time that I continue with Nick out of habit and loyalty,
and not for any real coaching. Still, in this moment, its not coaching I need but a show of humanity,
which is one of the duties of any coach. I need some recognition of the adren
aline-charged moment in which I find myself. Is that too much to ask?
After the rain delay, Courier stations himself farther behind the baseline, hoping to take
some of the steam off my shots. Hes had time to rest, and reflect, and recharge, and he
storms back to keep me from breaking, then wins the second set. Now Im angry. Furious. I
win the third set, 62. I establish in Couriers mind, and in my own, that the second set was a
fluke. Up two sets to one, I can feel the finish line pulling me. My first slam. Six little games
away.
As the fourth set opens, I lose twelve of the first thirteen points. Am I unraveling or is
Courier playing better? I dont know. Ill never know. But I do know that this feeling is familiar.
Hauntingly familiar. This sense of inevitability. This weightlessness as momentum slips away.
Courier wins the set, 61.
In the fifth set, tied 44, he breaks me. Now, all at once, I just want to lose.
I cant explain it any other way. In the fourth set I lost the will, but now Ive lost the desire.
As certain as I felt about victory at the start of this match, thats how certain I am now of defeat.
And I want it. I long for it. I say under my breath: Let it be fast. Since losing is death, Id
rather it be fast than slow.
I no longer hear the crowd. I no longer hear my own thoughts, only a white noise between
my ears. I cant hear or feel anything except my desire to lose. I drop the tenth and decisive
game of the fifth set, and congratulate Courier. Friends tell me its the most desolate look
theyve ever seen on my face.
Afterward, I dont scold myself. I coolly explain it to myself this way: You dont have what it
takes to get over the line. You just quit on yourselfyou need to quit this game.
THE LOSS LEAVES A SCAR. Wendi says she can almost see it, a mark as if Ive been
struck by lightning. Thats about all she says on the long flight back to Vegas.
As we walk through the front door of my parents house, my father meets us in the foyer.
He starts right in on me. Why didnt you make adjustments after the rain delay? Why didnt
you hit to his backhand? I dont answer. I dont move. Ive been expecting his tirade for the
last twenty-four hours and Im already numb to it. But Wendi isnt. She does something no
ones ever done, something I always hoped my mother would do. She throws herself between
us. She says, Can we just not talk about tennis for two hours? Two hoursno tennis?
My father stops, gapes. I fear that hell slap her. But then he wheels and storms up the hall
to his bedroom.
I gaze at Wendi. Ive never loved her more.
I DONT TOUCH MY RACKETS. I dont open my tennis bag. I dont train with Gil. I lie
around watching horror movies with Wendi. Only horror movies can distract me, because they
capture something of the feeling in that fifth set against Courier.
Nick nags me to play Wimbledon. I laugh in his tanned face.
Back on the horse, he says. Its the only way, my boy.
Fuck that horse.
Come on, Wendi says. Honestly, how much worse can it get?
Too depressed to argue, I let Nick and Wendi push me onto a plane to London. We rent a
beautiful two-story house, hidden from the main road, close to the All England Lawn Tennis
and Croquet Club. It has a charming garden in the back, with pink roses and every variety of
songbird, a little haven where I can sit and nearly forget why Im in England. Wendi makes the
house feel like home. She fills it with candles, groceriesand her perfume. She fixes delicious
meals at night, and in the morning she packs box lunches for me to bring to the practice
courts.
The tournament is delayed five days by rain. On the fifth day, though the house is cozy,
were going stir crazy. I want to get out on the court. I want to get rid of the bad taste in my
mouth from the French Open, or else lose and go home. Finally the rain lets up. I play Grant
Connell, a serve-and-volleyer whos made his living off fast surfaces. Its an awkward first-
round opponent for my first grass match in years. Hes expected to trounce me. Somehow I
eke out a five-set win.
I reach the quarters, where I play David Wheaton. Im up two sets to one, up two breaks in
the fourth set, and all of a sudden I pull something in my hip flexor, the muscle that bends the
joint. Hobbled, its all I can do to finish the match. Wheaton wins easily.
I tell Wendi that I could have won the thing. I started to feel better than Id felt at the
French Open. Damned hip.
The good news, I suppose, is that I wanted to win. Maybe Ive got my desire turned
around and pointed in the right direction.
IM A FAST HEALER. After a few days my hip is fine. My mind, however, continues to
throb. I go to the U.S. Open and lose in the first round. The first round. But the scary part is
the way I lose. I play Krickstein, good old Krickstein, and again I just dont want it. I know I can
beat him, and yet its not worth the trouble. I dont expend the necessary energy. I feel a
strange clarity about my lack of effort. Its lack of inspiration, plain and simple. I dont question
it. I dont bother wishing it away. While Krickstein is running and leaping and lunging, Im
watching him with only mild interest. Only afterward does the shame set in.
I NEED TO DO SOMETHING RADICAL, something to break the seductive grip that losing
seems to have on me. I decide to move out on my own. I buy myself a three-bedroom tract
home in southwest Vegas and turn it into the ultimate bachelor pad, almost a parody of a
bachelor pad. I make one bedroom an arcade, with all the classic gamesAsteroids, Space
Invaders, Defender. Im terrible at them, but I intend to get better. I turn the formal living room
into a movie theater, with state-of-the-art sound equipment and woofers in the couches. I turn
the dining room into a billiard room. Throughout the house I scatter fantastically plush leather
chairs, except in the main living room, where I install a massive, modular, green chenille,
double-stuffed goosedown couch. In the kitchen I place a soda machine stocked with Mountain
Dew, my favorite, and beer taps. Out back I install a hot tub and a black-bottomed lagoon.
Best of all, I make the bedroom a cave, everything jet black, with blackout curtains that
dont admit the tiniest slit of daylight. Its the house of an arrested adolescent, a boy-man determined
to shut out the world. I walk around this new house, this deluxe playpen, daring to
think how grown-up I am.
I skip the Australian Open again at the start of 1992. Ive never played it, and now doesnt
seem like the time to start. Still, I play Davis Cup and do fairly well, maybe because its in
Hawaii. We face Argentina. I win both my matches. Then, the night before the last day, Wendi
and I go out drinking with McEnroe and his wife, Tatum ONeal. We overdo it, and I go to bed
at four in the morning, assuming someone will take my place on Sunday, in a meaningless
match, often called a dead rubber.
Apparently thats not the case. Though Im hungover and dehydrated, I need to go out and
play Jaite, whose serve I once caught with my hand. Happily, Jaites hungover too. Its fitting
that this is a dead rubber; we both look dead and rubbery. To conceal my bloodshot eyes I
play wearing Oakley sunglasses, and somehow I play well. I play relaxed. I walk off the court
a winner, wondering if theres a lesson in this. Can I tap this sort of relaxation when the stakes
are real, when its a slam? Should I just go into every match hungover?
The next week I find myself on the cover of Tennis magazine, hitting a winner in my
Oakley glasses. Hours after the magazine hits the newsstands, Wendi and I are at the bachelor
pad when a delivery truck pulls up to the door. We go outside. Sign here, the deliveryman
says.
What is this?
Gift. From Jim Jannard, founder of Oakley.
The back of the truck comes down, and a red Dodge Viper slowly descends.
Nice to know that, even if Ive lost my game, I can still move product.
MY RANKING PLUMMETS. I fall out of the top ten. The only time I feel fairly competent
on the court is when I play Davis Cup. In Fort Meyers I help the U.S. beat Czechoslovakia,
winning both matches. Otherwise, the only game at which I show any improvement is Asteroids.
At the 1992 French Open I beat Pete, which feels good. Then I run into Courier again, this
time in the semis. The memories of last year are still fresh, still painful, and I lose againin
straight sets. Once again Courier laces up his running shoes and goes for a jog afterward. I
still cant burn enough calories for him.
I limp to Florida and crash at Nicks house. I dont pick up a racket the whole time Im
there. Then, reluctantly, I have one short practice on a hard court at the Bollettieri Academy,
and we all fly to Wimbledon.
The talent assembled in London in 1992 is stunning. Theres Courier, ranked number one,
fresh off two slam victories. Theres Pete, who keeps getting better. Theres Stefan Edberg,
whos playing out of his mind. Im the twelfth seed, and the way Ive been playing I should be
seeded lower.
In my first-round match, against Andrei Chesnokov, from Russia, I play like a low seed. I
lose the first set. Frustrated, I rip into myself, curse myself, and the umpire gives me an official
warning for saying fuck. I almost turn to him and fire a few fuck-fuck-fucks. Instead I decide
to shock him, shock everyone, by taking a breath and being composed. Then I do
something more shocking. I win the next three sets.
Im in the quarters. Against Becker, whos reached six of the last seven Wimbledon finals.
This is his de facto home court, his honey hole. But Ive been seeing his serve well lately. I
win in five sets, played over two days. Memories of Munich, put to rest.
In the semis I face McEnroe, three-time Wimbledon champion. Hes thirty-three, nearing
the end of his career, and unseeded. Given his underdog status, and his legendary accomplishments,
the fans want him to win, of course. Part of me wants him to win also. But I beat
him in three sets. Im in the final.
Im expecting to face Pete, but he loses his semifinal match to Goran Ivanisevic, a big,
strong serving machine from Croatia. Ive played Ivanisevic twice before, and both times hes
shellacked me in straight sets. So I feel for Pete, and I know Ill be joining him soon. I have no
chance against Ivanisevic. Its a middleweight versus a heavyweight. The only suspense is
whether it will be a knockout or a TKO.
AS POWERFUL AS Ivanisevics serve is under normal circumstances, today its a work of
art. Hes acing me left and right, monster serves that the speed gun clocks at 138 miles an
hour. But its not just the speed, its the trajectory. They land at a 75-degree angle. I try not to
care. I tell myself that aces happen. Each time he serves a ball past me, I say under my
breath that he cant do that every time. Just walk to the other side and get ready, Andre. The
match will be decided on those few second serves.
He wins the first set, 76. I dont break him once. I concentrate on not overreacting, on
breathing in, breathing out, remaining patient. When the thought crosses my mind that Im on
the verge of losing my fourth slam final, I casually set that thought aside. In the second set
Ivanisevic gives me a few freebies, makes a few mistakes, and I break him. I take the second
set. Then the third. Which makes me feel almost worse, because once again Im a set away
from a slam.
Ivanisevic rises up in the fourth set and destroys me. Ive made the Croat mad. He loses
only a handful of points in the process. Here we go again. I can see tomorrows headlines as
plain as the racket in my hand. As the fifth set begins I run in place to get the blood flowing
and tell myself one thing: You want this. You do not want to lose, not this time. The problem in
the last three slams was that you didnt want them enough, and therefore you didnt bring it,
but this one you want, so this time you need to let Ivanisevic and everyone else in this joint
know you want it.
At 33, Im serving, break point. I havent been able to make a first serve this entire set,
but now, mercifully, I make one. He returns it to the center of the court, I hit to his backhand,
he hits a chip lob. I have to back up two steps. The overhead is one of the easiest shots you
can play. Its also the epitome of my struggles at slams, because its too easy. I dont like
things too easy. Its there for the takingwill I take it? I swing, hit a textbook overhead, and
win the point. I go on to hold serve.
Now Ivanisevics serving at 45. He double-faults. Twice. Hes down love30. Hes cracking
under the strain. I havent broken this guy in the last hour and a half and now hes breaking
himself. He misses another first serve. Hes coming apart. I know it. I see it. No one knows
better than I what coming apart looks like. I also know how it feels. I know precisely whats
happening inside Ivanisevics body. His throat is closing. His legs are quivering. But then he
quiets his body and hits a second serve to the back of the box, a beam of yellow light that
barely nicks the line. A puff of chalk shoots up as if he hit the line with an assault rifle. Then
he hits another unreturnable serve. Suddenly its 30all.
He misses another first serve, makes the second. I crush a return, he hits a half volley, I
run in and pass him and start the long walk back to the baseline. I tell myself, You can win
this thing with one swing. One swing. Youve never been this close. You may never be again.
And thats the problem. What if I get this close and dont win? The ridicule. The condemnation.
I pause, try to shift my focus back to Ivanisevic. I need to guess which way hes coming
with his serve. OK, a typical lefty, serving to the ad court in a pressure point, hits a bending
slider, out wide, that sweeps his opponent off the court. But Ivanisevic isnt typical. His
serve in a pressure point is generally a flat bomb up the middle. Why he prefers that serve,
God knows. Maybe he shouldnt. But he does. I know this about him. I know hes coming up
the middle. Sure enough, here he comes, but he nets the serve. Good thing, because that
thing was a comet, right on the line. Even though I guessed right, moved right, I couldnt have
put my racket on it.
Now the crowd rises. I call time, to have a talk with myself, aloud, saying: Win this point or
Ill never let you hear the end of it, Andre. Dont hope he double-faults, dont hope he misses.
You control what you can control. Return this serve with all your strength, and if you return it
hard but miss, you can live with that. You can survive that. One return, no regrets.
Hit harder.
He tosses the ball, serves to my backhand. I jump in the air, swing with all my strength,
but Im so tight that the ball to his backhand side has mediocre pace. Somehow he misses the
easy volley. His ball smacks the net and just like that, after twenty-two years and twenty-two
million swings of a tennis racket, Im the 1992 Wimbledon champion.
I fall to my knees. I fall on my stomach. I cant believe the emotion pouring out of me.
When I stagger to my feet, Ivanisevic appears at my side. He hugs me and says warmly, Congratulations,
Wimbledon champ. You deserved it today.
Great fight, Goran.
He pats my shoulder. He smiles, walks to his chair, and wraps his head in a towel. I understand
his emotions better than my own. Much of my heart is with him as I sit in my chair,
trying to collect myself.
A very British man approaches and tells me to stand. He hands me a large gold loving
cup. I dont know how to hold it, or where to go with it. He points and tells me to walk in a
circle around the court. Hold the trophy over your head, he says.
I walk around the court holding the trophy above my head. The fans cheer. Another man
tries to take the trophy from me. I pull it back. He explains that hes going to have it engraved.
With my name.
I look at my box, wave to Nick and Wendi and Philly. They are all clapping, beaming.
Philly is hugging Nick. Nick is hugging Wendi. I love you, Wendi. I bow to the royals and walk
off the court.
In the locker room I stare at my warped reflection in the trophy. I address the trophy and
the warped reflection: All the pain and suffering youve caused me.
Im unnerved by how giddy I feel. It shouldnt matter this much. It shouldnt feel this good.
Waves of emotion continue to wash over me, relief and elation and even a kind of hysterical
serenity, because Ive finally earned a brief respite from the critics, especially the internal
ones.
LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, back at the house weve rented, I phone Gil, who couldnt
make the trip, because he needed to be home with his family after the long clay season. He
wishes so much that he could have been here. He discusses the match with me, the ins and
outsits shocking how much hes learned about tennis in such a short time. I phone Perry,
and J.P., and then, trembling, I dial my father in Vegas.
Pops? Its me! Can you hear me? Whatd you think?
Silence.
Pops?
You had no business losing that fourth set.
Stunned, I wait, not trusting my voice. Then I say, Good thing I won the fifth set, though,
right?
He says nothing. Not because he disagrees, or disapproves, but because hes crying.
Faintly I hear my father sniffling and wiping away tears, and I know hes proud, just incapable
of expressing it. I cant fault the man for not knowing how to say whats in his heart. Its the
family curse.
THE NIGHT OF THE FINAL is the famed Wimbledon Ball. Ive heard about it for years,
and Im dying to go, because the mens winner gets to dance with the womens winner, and
this year, as in most years, that means Steffi Graf. Ive had a crush on Steffi since I first saw
her doing an interview on French TV. I was thunderstruck, dazzled by her understated grace,
her effortless beauty. She looked, somehow, as if she smelled good. Also, as if she was
good, fundamentally, essentially, inherently good, brimming with moral rectitude and a kind of
dignity that doesnt exist anymore. I thought I saw, for half a second, a halo above her head. I
tried to get a message to her after last years French Open, but she didnt respond. Now, I
cant wait to twirl her across a dance floor, never mind that I dont know how to dance.
Wendi knows about my feelings for Steffi, and shes not at all jealous. We have an open
relationship, she reminds me. Were both over twenty-one. In fact, on the eve of the final, we
both go to Harrods to buy my tuxedo, in case I need it, and Wendi jokes with the salesgirl that
I only want to win so that I can dance with Steffi Graf.
And so, wearing black tie for the first time ever, with Wendi on my arm, I walk smartly into
the ball. Were instantly set upon by silver-haired British couples. The men have hair in their
ears, and the women smell like old liqueur. They seem delighted by my win, but mainly because
it means fresh blood in the club. Someone new to talk to at these dreadful, dreadful affairs,
someone says. Wendi and I stand with our backs to each other, like scuba divers in a
school of sharks. I struggle to decipher some of the thicker British accents. I try to make clear
to one older woman who looks like Benny Hill that Im quite excited about the traditional
dance with the womens champion.
Sadly, the woman says, that dance isnt happening this year.
Say what?
The players havent embraced the dance quite so enthusiastically in years past. So its
been canceled.
She sees my face fall. Wendi turns, sees it too, and laughs.
I dont get to dance with Steffi, but there will be a kind of consolation match: a formal introduction.
I look forward to it all night. Then it happens. Shaking her hand, I tell Steffi that I tried
to reach her at last years French Open and I hope she didnt misunderstand my intentions. I
say, Id really love to talk with you some time.
She doesnt respond. She merely smiles, an enigmatic smile, and I cant tell if shes happy
about what Ive just said, or nervous.
14
IM SUPPOSED TO BE A DIFFERENT PERSON now that Ive won a slam. Everyone
says so. No more Image Is Everything. Now, sportswriters assert, for Andre Agassi, winning
is everything. After two years of calling me a fraud, a choke artist, a rebel without a cause,
they lionize me. They declare that Im a winner, a player of substance, the real deal. They say
my victory at Wimbledon forces them to reassess me, to reconsider who I really am.
But I dont feel that Wimbledon has changed me. I feel, in fact, as if Ive been let in on a
dirty little secret: winning changes nothing. Now that Ive won a slam, I know something that
very few people on earth are permitted to know. A win doesnt feel as good as a loss feels
bad, and the good feeling doesnt last as long as the bad. Not even close.
I do feel happier in the summer of 1992, and more substantive, but the cause isnt
Wimbledon. Its Wendi. Weve grown closer. Weve whispered promises to each other. Ive
accepted that Im not meant to be with Steffi. It was a nice fantasy while it lasted, but Ive devoted
myself to Wendi, and vice versa. She doesnt work, doesnt go to school. Shes been to
several colleges and none was right. So now she spends all her time with me.
In 1992, however, spending time together suddenly becomes more complicated. Sitting in
a movie theater, eating in a restaurant, were never truly alone. People appear from nowhere,
requesting my picture, demanding my autograph, seeking my attention or opinion. Wimbledon
has made me famous. I thought I was famous long agoI signed my first autograph when I
was sixbut now I discover that I was actually infamous. Wimbledon has legitimized me,
broadened and deepened my appeal, at least according to the agents and managers and
marketing experts with whom I now regularly meet. People want to get closer to me; they feel
they have that right. I understand that theres a tax on everything in America. Now I discover
that this is the tax on success in sportsfifteen seconds of time for every fan. I can accept
this, intellectually. I just wish it didnt mean the loss of privacy with my girl.
Wendi shrugs it off. Shes a good sport about every intrusion. She keeps me from taking
anything too seriously, including myself. With her help I decide that the best approach to be
ing famous is to forget youre famous. I work hard at putting fame out of my mind.
But fame is a force. Its unstoppable. You shut your windows to fame and it slides under
the door. I turn around one day and discover that I have dozens of famous friends, and I dont
know how I met half of them. Im invited to parties and VIP rooms, events and galas where
the famous gather, and many ask for my phone number, or press their numbers on me. In the
same way that my win at Wimbledon automatically made me a lifetime member of the All
England Club, it also admitted me to this nebulous Famous Peoples Club. My circle of acquaintances
now includes Kenny G, Kevin Costner, and Barbra Streisand. Im invited to
spend the night at the White House, to eat dinner with President George Bush before his
summit with Mikhail Gorbachev. I sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom.
I find it surreal, then perfectly normal. Im struck by how fast the surreal becomes the
norm. I marvel at how unexciting it is to be famous, how mundane famous people are. Theyre
confused, uncertain, insecure, and often hate what they do. Its something we always
hearlike that old adage that money cant buy happinessbut we never believe it until we
see it for ourselves. Seeing it in 1992 brings me a new measure of confidence.
IM SAILING NEAR VANCOUVER ISLAND, vacationing with my new friend David Foster,
the music producer. Shortly after Wendi and I board Fosters yacht, Costner comes aboard
and invites us to join him on his yacht, anchored fifty yards away. We hit it off immediately.
Even though he has a yacht, Costner seems like the classic mans man. Easy-going, funny,
cool. He loves sports, follows them avidly, and assumes I do too. I tell him shyly that I dont
follow sports. That I dont like them.
How do you mean?
I mean, I dont like sports.
He laughs. You mean besides tennis?
I hate tennis most of all.
Right, right. I guess its a grind. But you dont actually hate tennis.
I do.
Wendi and I spend much of the boating trip watching Costners three children. Well
mannered, personable, theyre also remarkably beautiful. They look as if they tumbled out of
one of my mothers Norman Rockwell puzzles. Shortly after meeting me, four-year-old Joe
Costner grabs at my pants leg and looks up at me with his big blue eyes. He shouts: Lets
play wrestle! I pick him up and hold him upside down, and the sound of his giggling is one of
the most delicious sounds Ive ever heard. Wendi and I tell ourselves were hopelessly
charmed by the little Costners, but in reality were deliberately playing at being their parents.
Now and then I catch Wendi slipping away from the grownups to have another look at the
children. I can see that shes going to be a great mother. I imagine being there by her side,
through it all, helping her raise three towheads with green eyes. The thought thrills meand
her. I broach the subject of family, the future. She doesnt blink. She wants it too.
Weeks later, Costner invites us to his house in Los Angeles for a preview of his new film,
The Bodyguard. Wendi and I dont think much of the movie, but we swoon over the theme
song, I Will Always Love You.
This will be our song, Wendi says.
Always.
We sing this song to each other, quote it to each other, and when the song comes on the
radio we stop whatever were doing and make goo-goo eyes at each other, which makes
everyone around us sick. We couldnt care less.
I tell Philly and Perry that I can imagine spending the rest of my life with Wendi, that I
might soon propose. Philly gives me a full nod. Perry gives me the green light.
Wendi is the one, I tell J.P.
What about Steffi Graf?
She blew me off. Forget her. Its Wendi.
IM SHOWING OFF my new toy for J.P. and Wendi.
J.P. asks, Whats this thing called again?
A Hummer. They used it in the Gulf War.
Mine is one of the first to be sold in the U.S. Were driving it all over the desert outside Vegas
when we get stuck in the sand. J.P. jokes that they must not have run into any sand during
the Gulf War. We hop out and set across the desert. I have a flight this afternoon and a
match tomorrow. If I cant get us out of this desert, all kinds of people are going to be angry
with me. But as we walk and walk, my match suddenly seems a trivial matter. Survival starts
to be a real concern. In every direction, we see nothing, and darkness is coming on.
It feels as though this might become a turning point in our lives, J.P. says. And I dont
mean in a good way.
Thanks for the positive thinking.
Finally we come to a shack. An old hermit loans us his shovel. We hike back to the Hummer,
and I hurriedly set about digging around the back wheel. Suddenly my shovel hits
something hard. Caliche, the cement-like layer of soil under the Nevada desert. I feel
something snap deep inside my wrist. I cry out.
What is it? Wendi says.
I dont know.
I look at my wrist.
Rub some dirt on it, J.P. says.
I dig out the Hummer, make my flight, even win my match the next day. Days later,
however, I wake in agony. The wrist feels broken. I can barely bend it back and forth. I feel as
if several sewing needles and rusty razor blades have been implanted in the joint. This is bad.
This is big.
Then the pain goes away. Im relieved. Then it comes back. Im scared. Soon the occasional
pain becomes constant. Its tolerable in the morning, but by days end the needle-razor
feeling is all I can think about.
A doctor says I have tendinitis. Specifically dorsal capsulitis. Tiny rips in the wrist that refuse
to heal. The result of overuse, he says. The only possible cures are rest and surgery.
I choose rest. I shut myself down, gentle the wrist. After weeks of carrying the wrist around
like a wounded bird, I still cant work out, do a push-up, or open a door without grimacing.
The one upside of the wrist injury is that I get to spend more time with Wendi. Instead of
hard-court season, the start of 1993 becomes Wendi Season, and I throw myself into it. She
enjoys the extra attention, but she also worries that shes neglecting her studies. Shes enrolled
in yet another college. Her fifth. Or sixth. Ive lost track.
Driving along Rainbow Boulevard, steering with my left hand to avoid engaging my bad
right wrist, I roll down the window and turn up the radio. The spring breeze flutters Wendis
hair. She turns down the radio and says how long its been since she really knew what she
wanted.
I nod and turn up the radio.
She turns down the radio and says shes attended all these different colleges, lived in all
these different states, shes been searching her whole life for meaning, purposenothing
ever feels right. She just cant seem to figure out who she is.
Again, I nod. I agree. I know that feeling. Winning Wimbledon has done nothing to salve it.
Then I look over at Wendi and realize shes not just idly talking, shes going somewhere with
this. Shes making a pointabout us. She turns in her seat and looks me in the eye. Andre,
Ive been giving this a lot of thought, and I just dont think I can be happy, really happy, until I
figure out who I am and what Im supposed to do with my life. And I dont see how I can do
that if we stay together.
Shes crying.
I cant be your traveling companion, she says, your sidekick, your fan, anymore. Well, Ill
always be your fan, but you know what I mean.
She needs to find herself, and to do that she needs to be free.
And so do you, she says. We cant realize our separate goals if we stay together.
Even an open relationship is too confining.
I cant argue with her. If thats how she feels, theres nothing I can say. I want her to be
happy. Of course at this moment our song comes on the radio. I will always love you. I stare
at Wendi, try to catch her eye, but she keeps her face turned away. I make a U-turn, drive
back to her house, walk her to the door. She gives me one long, last hug.
I drive away and barely make it to the end of the block before pulling over and phoning
Perry. When he answers I cant speak. Im crying too hard. He thinks its a prank call.
Hello, he says, annoyed. Hel-lo?
He hangs up.
I call back, but still cant speak. Again he hangs up.
I GO UNDERGROUND. I hole up in the bachelor pad, boozing, sleeping, eating junk. I
feel shooting pains in my chest. I tell Gil. He says it sounds like a typical broken heart. Tiny
rips that refuse to heal. The result of overuse.
Then he says, What are we doing about Wimbledon? Time to start thinking about getting
ourselves overseas. Time to throw down, Andre. Its on.
I can barely hold the phone, let alone a tennis racket. Still, I want to go. I could use the
distraction. I could use some time on the road with Gil, working on a common goal. Also, Im
defending champion. I have no choice. Right before our flight Gil arranges for a doctor in
Seattle, whos supposed to be the best, to give me a shot of cortisone. The shot works. I arrive
in Europe wiggling the wrist, pain-free.
We go first to Halle, Germany, for a tune-up tournament. Nick meets us there and immediately
puts the touch on me for money. He sold the Bollettieri Academy, because he got himself
into debt, and it was the biggest mistake of his life. He let it go for too little. Now he needs
cash. Hes not himselfor maybe hes more himself. He says hes not getting paid what hes
worth. He says Ive been an unsound investment. Hes spent hundreds of thousands of dollars
developing me, and hes entitled to hundreds of thousands above the hundreds of thousands
Ive already given him. I ask if we can please talk about this back home. I have a few
things weighing on my mind right now.
Of course, he says. When we get back.
Im so shaken by the confrontation that in the Halle tournament I fall on my face in my first-
round match against Steeb. He beats me in three sets. So much for the tune-up.
Ive barely played in the last year, and when Ive played, Ive played badly, so Im the lowest-
seeded defending champ in Wimbledon history. My first match on center court is against
Bernd Karbacher, a German whose thick hair always looks the same, from the beginning of
the match to the end, which irks me, for obvious reasons. Everything about Karbacher seems
designed to distract. Apart from his enviable locks, hes bowlegged. He walks as if he not only
sits on a horse all day, but as if he just dismounted, and its been a long ride, and his ass is
chapped. Befitting his appearance, he plays a very odd game. His backhand is huge, one of
the games best, but he uses it to avoid running. He hates running. Hates moving. At times he
doesnt care much for serving, either. He has an aggressive first serve, but not much of a
second serve.
With my numbed wrist I have my own serve issues. Ill have to alter my motion, taking only
a small backswing, limiting sudden movements. Naturally this causes problems. I fall behind
quickly in the first set, 25. Im about to become the first defending champion in decades to
get knocked out in the first round. But I collect myself, force myself to make peace with my
new serve, and tough out the win. Karbacher hops on his horse and rides away.
British fans are kind. They cheer, they roar, they appreciate the effort its taken to get my
wrist ready. British tabloids, however, are another matter. Theyre filled with venom. They
carry strange stories about, of all things, my chest, which Ive recently shaved. Just a bit of innocent
manscaping, but youd think Id cut off a limb. My wrist is broken, and they talk only
about my chest. My news conferences turn into Monty Python skits, every other question
about my newly smooth pectorals. British reporters are hair obsessedif they only knew the
truth about the hair on my head. Several tabloids also say Im fat, and writers take malicious
joy in calling me Burger King. Gil tries to blame my appearance on the cortisone injection in
my wrist, which can cause bloating, but no one is buying it.
Nothing, however, fascinates the Brits quite like Barbra Streisand. She arrives at Centre
Court to watch me play and there is practically a flurry of trumpets. Celebrities attend Wimbledon
all the time, but Barbras appearance causes a stir like none Ive seen. Reporters harass
her, then later pester me about her, and the tabloids take great pains to dissect and belittle
our relationship, which is nothing more than a passionate friendship.
They want to know how we met. I refuse to tell them, because Barbra is the shyest, most
private person I know.
It began with Steve Wynn, the casino impresario, whom Id known since I was a kid. He
and I were playing golf one day, and I mentioned that I enjoyed Barbra Streisands music. He
said she was a good friend. Thus began a series of phone calls, during which Barbra and I
connected. When I won Wimbledon, she sent a sweet telegram, congratulating me, telling
me, sarcastically, it was nice to put a face with the voice.
She invited me weeks later to a small get-together at her ranch in Malibu. David Foster
would be there, she said, and a few other friends. Finally wed meet.
Her ranch was dotted with cottages, one of which was a movie theater. After a luncheon
we wandered down there for a sneak preview of The Joy Luck Club, a quintessential chick
flick, during which I thought I might expire of boredom. Then we all wandered over to another
cottage, a music salon, with a grand piano under a window. We stood around eating and talk
ing while David sat at the piano, playing a medley of torch songs. He made several attempts
to get Barbra to sing. She wouldnt. He persisted. She refused. He kept after her until it became
awkward. I wished he would stop. Barbras elbows were resting on the piano, and her
back was to me. I saw her stiffen. She was clearly petrified about performing in front of other
people.
Not five minutes later, however, she let fly a few bars. The sound filled the room from the
rafters to the floorboards. Everyone stopped talking. Glasses shook. Flatware rattled. The
bones in my ribs and wrist vibrated. I briefly thought someone had put one of Barbras albums
on a Bose sound system and turned the volume up full blast. I couldnt believe that a human
being was capable of producing that much sound, that a human voice could pervade every
square inch of a room.
From that moment I was even more intrigued by Barbra. The idea that she possessed
such a devastating instrument, such a powerful talent, and couldnt use it freely, for pleasure,
was fascinating. And familiar. And depressing. We met soon after that day. She invited me to
the ranch. We shared a pizza and talked for hours, discovering many things in common. She
was a tortured perfectionist who hated doing something at which she excelled. And yet, despite
years of semiretirement, despite all her self-doubts and nagging fears, she admitted that
she was pondering a comeback to the concert stage. I urged her to do it. I told her it was
wrong to deprive the world of that voice, that astonishing voice. Above all, I told her that it
would be dangerous to surrender to fear. Fears are like gateway drugs, I said. You give in to
a small one, and soon youre giving in to bigger ones. So what if she didnt want to perform?
She had to.
Naturally I felt like a hypocrite every time I said this to Barbra. In my own struggles with
fear and perfectionism, I was losing more than I won. I talked to her the way I talked to reporters:
I told her things I knew to be true, and things I hoped to be true, most of which I couldnt
bring myself to fully believe and act on.
After wed spent one long spring afternoon playing tennis, I told Barbra about a new singer
Id seen in Vegas, a woman with a big voice not unlike Barbras. I asked, Do you want to hear
her?
Sure.
I brought her out to my car and put in a CD by this new sensation, a Canadian named
Cline Dion. Barbra listened closely, biting her thumbnail. I could tell she was thinking: I can
do that. She was picturing herself back in the game. Again, I felt helpful, but also like a raging
hypocrite.
My sense of hypocrisy reached a crescendo when Barbra finally did push herself to perform.
There I was, front rowwearing a black baseball cap. My hairpiece was malfunctioning
again, and I feared what people would think and say. Beyond being a hypocrite that night, I
felt a slave to fear.
More often than not, Barbra and I laugh at the shock and scandal our dates cause. We
agree that were good for each other, and so what if shes twenty-eight years older? Were
simpatico, and the public outcry only adds spice to our connection. It makes our friendship
feel forbidden, tabooanother piece of my overall rebellion. Dating Barbra Streisand is like
wearing Hot Lava.
Still, if Im fatigued, if Im not in the right mood, as is the case at Wimbledon, then the public
belittling can sting. And Barbra plays into the hands of the belittlers by telling a reporter that
Im a Zen master. Newspapers have a field day with this comment. I begin to hear the Zen
master quote constantly; it briefly replaces Image Is Everything. I dont understand the reaction,
maybe because I dont know what a Zen master is. I can only assume its a good thing,
since Barbras a friend.
BRUSHING ASIDE THE SUBJECT OF BARBRA, avoiding newspapers and TV, I stay on
task at the 1993 Wimbledon. After surviving Karbacher, I beat Joo Cunha-Silva, from Portugal,
Patrick Rafter, from Australia, then Richard Krajicek, from the Netherlands. Im in the
quarters, facing Pete. As always, its Pete. I wonder how my wrist can possibly hold up
against his serve, which hes developed into a force. But Petes suffering his own aches and
pains. His shoulder is sore, his game is a tad off. Or so they say. Youd never know it the way
he comes out against me. He wins the first set in less time than I spent getting dressed for the
match. He wins the second set just as fast.
Going to be a short day, I tell myself. I look up at my box, and theres Barbra, flashes going
off around her. I think: Is this really my life?
As the third set begins, Pete stumbles. I get a second wind. The set falls to me, as does
the fourth. The wheel clicks in my direction. I see fear creep into Petes face. Were tied, two
sets apiece, and doubt, unmistakable doubt, is trailing him like the long afternoon shadows on
the Wimbledon grass. For once, its not me but Pete yelling and cursing at himself.
In the fifth set, Petes wincing, kneading his shoulder. He asks for a trainer. During the
delay, while hes being worked on, I tell myself this match is mine. Two Wimbledons in a
rowwont that be something? Well see what the tabloids have to say then. Or what Ill say.
How do you like your Burger King now?
When we resume play, however, Pete is a different person. Not revived, not reenergized
wholly different. Hes done it again, sloughed off that other doubt-ridden Pete as a
snake sheds its skin. And now hes in the process of shedding me. Leading 54, he starts the
tenth game of the set by blasting three straight aces. But not just any aces. They even have a
different sound about them. Like Civil War cannons. Triple match point.
Suddenly hes walking toward the net, extending his hand, the victor once again. The
handshake physically hurts, and it has nothing to do with my tender wrist.
BACK AT THE BACHELOR PAD, days after losing to Pete, I have one simple goal. I want
to avoid thinking about tennis for seven days. I just need a break. Im heart sore, wrist sore,
bone tired. I need to do nothing for one weekjust sit and be quiet. No pain, no drama, no
serves, no tabloids, no singers, no match points. Im sipping my first cup of coffee, flipping
through USA Today, when a headline catches my eye. Because my name is in it. Bollettieri
Parts Ways with Agassi. Nick tells the newspaper hes done with me. He wants to spend
more time with his family. After ten years, this is how he lets me know. Not even a panda ass-
up in my chair.
Minutes later a FedEx envelope arrives with a letter from Nick. It says no more than the
newspaper story. I read it a few dozen times before putting it in a shoe box. I go to the mirror.
I dont feel all that bad. I dont feel anything. Numb. As if the cortisone has spread from my
wrist to engulf my being.
I drive over to Gils and sit with him in the gym. He listens and feels bad and angry right
along with me.
Well, I say, I guess its Break-Up-With-Andre time. First Wendi, now Nick.
My entourage is thinning faster than my hair.
THOUGH IT MAKES NO SENSE, Id like to get on the court again. I want the pain that
only tennis provides.
But not this much pain. The cortisone has completely worn off, and the needle-razor feeling
in my wrist is simply too much. I see a new doctor, who says the wrist needs surgery. I
see another doctor, who says more resting might do the trick. I side with the rest doctor. After
four weeks of rest, however, I step on a court and realize with one swing that surgery is my
only option.
I just dont trust surgeons. I trust very few people, and I especially dislike the notion of
trusting one perfect stranger, surrendering all control to one person whom Ive only just met. I
cringe at the thought of lying on a table, unconscious, while someone slices open the wrist
with which I make my living. What if hes distracted that day? What if hes off? I see it happening
on the court all the timehalf the time its happening to me. Im in the top ten, but some
days youd think I was a rank amateur. What if my surgeon is the Andre Agassi of medicine?
What if he doesnt have his A game that day? What if hes drunk or on drugs?
I ask Gil to be there in the operating room during my surgery. I want him to act as sentry,
monitor, backstop, witness. In other words, I want him to do what he always does. Stand
guard. But this time wearing a gown and mask.
He frowns. He shakes his head. He doesnt know.
Gil has several endearingly dainty qualities, like his horror of the sun, but the most endearing
is his squeamish streak. He cant abide the sight of needles. He gets the willies when he
has to have a flu shot.
For me, however, hell rally. He says, Ill tough it out.
I owe you, I tell him.
Never, he says. No such thing as debts between us.
On December 19, 1993, Gil and I fly to Santa Barbara and check into the hospital. As
nurses flutter about, prepping me, I tell Gil that I feel so nervous, I might pass out.
Then they wont need to give you the gas.
This could be it, Gil, the end of my tennis career.
No.
Then what? What will I do?
They put a mask over my nose and mouth. Breathe deeply, they say. My eyelids are
heavy. I fight to keep them open, fight against the loss of control. Dont go away, Gil. Dont
leave me. I stare at Gils black eyes, above his surgical mask, watching, unblinking. Gil is
here, I tell myself. Gils got this. Gils on duty. Everythings going to be all right. I let my eyes
close, let a kind of mist swallow me, and a half second later Im waking and Gil is leaning over
me, saying the wrist was worse than they thought. Much worse. But they cleaned it out, Andre,
and well hope for the best. Thats all we can do, right? Hope for the best.
I TAKE UP RESIDENCE on the green chenille double-stuffed goose-down couch, remote
in one hand, phone in the other. The surgeon says I must keep my wrist elevated for several
days, so I lie with it propped on a large, hard pillow. Though Im on powerful pain pills, I still
feel wounded, worried, vulnerable. At least I have something to distract me. A woman. A
friend of Kenny Gs wife, Lyndie.
I met Kenny G through Michael Bolton, whom I met while playing Davis Cup. We were all
at the same hotel. Then, out of the blue, Lyndie phoned me and said shed met the perfect
woman.
Well, I like perfect.
I think you two will really hit it off.
Why?
Shes beautiful, brilliant, sophisticated, funny.
I dont think so. Im still trying to get over Wendi. Plus, I dont do setups.
Youll do this setup. Her name is Brooke Shields.
Ive heard of her.
What have you got to lose?
Plenty.
Andre.
Ill think about it. Whats her number?
You cant phone her. Shes in South Africa, doing a film.
She must have a phone.
Nope. Shes in the middle of nowhere. Shes in a tent, or a hut, in the bush. You can only
reach her by fax.
She gave me Brookes fax number and asked for mine.
I dont have a fax. Its the only gadget I dont have in the house.
I gave her Phillys fax number.
Then, just before my surgery, I got a call from Philly.
You have a fax here at my housefrom Brooke Shields?
And so it began. Faxes back and forth, a long-distance correspondence with a woman Id
never met. What began oddly became progressively more odd. The pace of the conversation
was outrageously slow, and this suited us bothneither of us was in any hurry. But the
enormous geographical distance also led us to quickly let down our guard. We segued within
a few faxes from innocent flirting to innermost secrets. Within a few days our faxes took on a
tone of fondness, then intimacy. I felt as if I were going steady with this woman Id never met
or spoken to.
I stopped phoning Barbra.
Now, immobilized, my bandaged wrist propped on the pillow, I have nothing to do but obsess
about the next fax to Brooke. Gil comes over some days and helps me work through
several drafts. Im intimidated by the fact that Brooke graduated from Princeton with a degree
in French literature, whereas I dropped out of ninth grade. Gil brushes aside such talk, pumps
up my confidence.
Besides, he says, dont worry about whether she likes you. Worry about whether you like
her.
Yeah, I say. Yeah. Youre right.
So I ask him to rent the collected works of Brooke Shields, and we have a two-man film
festival. We make popcorn, dim the lights, and Gil puts in the first movie. The Blue Lagoon.
Brooke as a prepubescent mermaid, stranded with a boy on an island paradise. A retelling of
Adam and Eve. We rewind, fast-forward, freeze-frame, debate if Brooke Shields is my type.
Not bad, Gil says. Not bad at all. Shes definitely worth another fax.
The courtship via fax continues for weeks, until Brooke sends a short fax saying shes finished
filming her movie and shes coming back to the U.S. Shell be here in two weeks. She
lands at LAX. By coincidence I have to be in Los Angeles the day after she arrives. Im filming
an interview with Jim Rome.
WE MEET AT HER HOUSE. I race there straight from the studio, still wearing the heavy
TV makeup from my interview with Rome. She throws open the door, looking very much the
movie star, wearing a flowing scarfy thing around her neck. And no makeup. (Or at least less
than I.) But her hair is chopped short, which gives me a jolt. All this time Ive been picturing
her with long, flowing hair.
I cut it for a part, she says.
In what? Bad News Bears?
Her mother appears from nowhere. We shake hands. Shes cordial, but stiff. I get a
strange vibe. I know, instinctively, regardless of what happens, this woman and I will never
get along.
I drive Brooke to dinner. Along the way I ask, Do you live with your mother?
Yes. Well, no. Not really. Its complicated.
It always is with parents.
We go to Pasta Maria, a little Italian joint on San Vicente. I ask to be seated in a corner of
the restaurant, so we can have privacy, and it doesnt take long before I forget about Brookes
mother, her haircut, everything. She has remarkable poise, and charisma, and shes surprisingly
funny. We both laugh when the waiter comes to our table and asks, Have you two ladies
had a chance to look over the menu?
Might be time for a haircut, I say.
I ask about the movie Brooke just wrapped in Africa. Does she like being an actress? She
talks with passion about the adventure of filmmaking, the fun of working with talented actors
and directors, and it strikes me that shes the polar opposite of Wendi, who never knew what
she wanted. Brooke knows exactly what she wants. She sees her dreams and doesnt falter
in describing them, even if shes having trouble figuring out how to make them come true.
Five years older than I, shes more worldly, more aware, and yet she also gives off an airy innocence,
a neediness, which makes me want to protect her. She brings out the Gil in me, a
side I didnt know I had.
We say most of the same things weve said by fax, but now, in person, over plates of
pasta, they sound different, more intimate. There is nuance now, subtext, body language, and
pheromones. Also, shes making me laugh, a lot, and making herself laugh. She has a lovely
laugh. As with my wrist surgery, three hours pass in a millisecond.
Shes exceptionally kind and sweet about my wrist, examining the inch-long pink scar,
touching it lightly, asking questions. Shes also empathetic, because shes facing surgery too,
on both her feet. Her toes are damaged from years of dance training, she says, and doctors
will need to break them and reset them. I tell her about Gil standing guard in the operating
room with me, and she asks, joking, if she can borrow him.
We discover that, despite our outwardly different lives, we share similar starting points.
She knows what its like to grow up with a brash, ambitious, abrasive stage parent. Her mother
has been her manager since Brooke was eleven months old. The difference: her mother
still manages her. And theyre nearly broke, because Brookes career is slumping. The Africa
movie was the first big job shes landed in a while. She does coffee commercials in Europe
just to pay the mortgage. She says things like this, startlingly candid, as if weve known each
other for decades. Its not only that weve softened the ground with faxes. Shes just naturally
open, all the time, I can tell. I wish I could be half as open. I cant tell her much about my own
inner torments, though I cant avoid admitting that I hate tennis.
She laughs. You dont actually hate tennis.
Yes.
But you dont hate hate it.
I do. I hate it.
We talk about our travels, our favorite foods, music, movies. We bond over one recent
movie, Shadowlands, the story of British writer C. S. Lewis. I tell Brooke that the movie struck
a chord with me. There was Lewiss close relationship with his brother. There was his
sheltered life, walled off from the world. There was his fear of risk and the pain of love. But
then one singularly brave woman makes him see that pain is the price of being human, and
well worth it. In the end Lewis tells his students: Pain is Gods megaphone to rouse a deaf
world. He tells them: We are like blocks of stone [T]he blows of His chisel, which hurt us so
much, are what make us perfect. Perry and I have seen the movie twice, I tell Brooke, and
weve memorized half the lines. Im moved that Brooke too loves Shadowlands. Im slightly
awed that shes read several of Lewiss books.
Well after midnight, lingering over empty coffee cups, we can no longer ignore the impatient
stares of the waiters and restaurant owner. We need to go. I drive Brooke home, and on
the sidewalk outside her house I have a feeling that her mother is watching us through an upstairs
curtain. I give Brooke a chaste kiss and ask if I can call her again.
Please do.
As I walk away she notices a hole in my jeans, at the small of my back. She sticks her finger
through the hole, scratching my tailbone with her nail. She flashes a sly grin before running
inside.
I drive my rental car along Sunset Boulevard. Id planned to head back to Vegas, never
dreaming the date would go so well or last so long, but its too late to catch a flight. I decide to
stop for the night at the next hotel I come to, which turns out to be a Holiday Inn thats seen
better days. Ten minutes later Im lying in a musty room on the second floor, listening to traffic
hissing along Sunset and the 405. I try to review the dateand, more importantly, to reach
some conclusions about it, about what it means. But my eyelids are heavy. I fight to keep
them open, fight as always the loss of control, which feels like the ultimate loss of choice.
MY THIRD DATE WITH BROOKE is the night before her foot surgery. Were in Manhattan,
in the ground-floor sitting room of her brownstone. Were kissing, on the verge, but first I
need to tell her the truth about my hair.
She can sense that I have something on my mind. Whats wrong? she asks.
Nothing.
You can tell me.
Its just that I havent been completely honest with you.
Were lying on a couch. I sit up, punch a pillow, take a breath. Still searching for the right
words, I look at the walls. Theyre decorated with African masks, eyeless faces with no hair.
Theyre eerie. Also, vaguely familiar.
Andre, what is it?
This isnt easy to admit, Brooke. But, look, Ive been losing my hair for quite some time
and I wear a hairpiece to cover it up.
I reach out, take her hand, put it on my hairpiece.
She smiles. I had a feeling, she says.
You did?
Its no big deal.
Youre not just saying that?
Its your eyes I find attractive. And your heart. Not your hair.
I stare at the eyeless, hairless faces and wonder if Im falling.
I GO WITH BROOKE to the hospital and wait for her in the recovery room. Im there when
they wheel her in, her feet bandaged like mine before a match, and Im there when she wakes
up. I feel an enormous surge of protectiveness, and tendernesswhich ebbs when she gets
a phone call from her close friend, Michael Jackson. I cant fathom her continuing friendship
with Jackson, given all the stories and accusations. But Brooke says hes just like us. Another
prodigy who didnt have a childhood.
I follow Brooke home and spend days at her bedside while she recuperates. Her mother
finds me one morning on the floor beside Brookes bed. Shes scandalized. Sleeping on the
floor? It simply isnt done. I tell her that I prefer sleeping on the floor. My back. She walks
away in a huff.
I kiss Brooke good morning. Your mother and I are getting off on the wrong foot.
We look down at her feet. Poor choice of words.
I need to leave. Im due in Scottsdale for my first tournament since the surgery.
See you in a few weeks, I tell her, kissing her again, holding her.
I HAVE AN EASY DRAW IN SCOTTSDALE, but this doesnt make me any less fearful.
Here comes the first real test of my wristwhat if its not healed? What if its worse? I have a
recurring nightmare about being in the middle of a match and my hand falling off. Im in my
hotel room, closing my eyes, trying to visualize the wrist being fine and the match going well,
when theres a knock at the door.
Who is it?
Brooke.
With two broken feet, she rallied to be here.
I win the tournament, feeling no pain.
WEEKS LATER, Pete and I agree to do a simultaneous interview with a magazine reporter.
Pete comes to my hotel room, where the interview is to take place, and hes shocked to
meet Peaches.
What the hell? Pete says.
Pete, meet Peaches. Shes an old parrot I rescued from a Vegas pet store that was going
out of business.
Nice bird, Pete says mockingly.
She is a nice bird, I say. She doesnt bite. She imitates people.
Like who?
Like me. She sneezes like me, talks like meexcept she has a better vocabulary. I crack
up every time the phone rings. Peaches yells, Telephone! Tel-ephone!
I tell Pete that back in Vegas I have a whole menagerie. A cat named King, a rabbit
named Buddy, whatever it takes to fend off the loneliness. No man is an island. He shakes his
head. Apparently he doesnt find tennis as lonely as I do.
We do the interview, and suddenly I feel as if Im in the room with two parrots. At least
when I bullshit a reporter, I do it with some flair, a little color. Pete sounds more robotic than
Peaches.
I dont bother telling Pete, but I consider Peaches an integral part of my team, which is
ever growing, ever changing, a constant experiment. I lost Nick and Wendi, but Ive added
Brooke and Slim, a bright, sweet kid from Vegas. We went to grade school together. We were
born a day apartat the same hospital. Slim is a good guy, if a lost soul, so I put him to work
as my personal assistant. He watches my house, lets in the pool guy and the various handymen,
sorts the mail, and answers fan requests for photos and autographs.
Now I think I might need to add a manager to the team. I pull Perry aside and ask him to
take a look at my current management, see if theyre overcharging me. He reviews the contracts
and says that indeed I could do better. I put my arms around him, thank himthen get
an idea. Why dont you be my manager, Perry? I need someone I trust.
I know hes busy. Hes in his second year at the University of Arizona Law School, busting
his ass. But I ask him to please consider taking this on, at least part-time.
I dont need to ask twice. Perry wants the job, and he wants to start right away. Hell work
between classes, he says. Mornings, weekends, whenever. Aside from being a great opportunity,
the job will enable him to whittle down what he owes me. I loaned Perry the money for
law school because he didnt want to ask his father. He sat before me one night, telling me
how his father uses money to control people, especially Perry. I have to break free of my father,
Perry said. Ive got to break free, Andre, once and for all.
There are few pleas I could find more compelling. I wrote him a check on the spot.
As my new manager, Perrys primary task is finding me a new coach, someone to replace
Nick. He draws up a short list of candidates, and at the top of the list is a guy whos just written
a book about tennis: Winning Ugly.
Perry hands me the book, urges me to read it.
I shoot him a dirty look. Thanks, no thanks. No more school for me.
Besides, I dont need to read the book. I know the author, Brad Gilbert. I know him well.
Hes a fellow player. Ive faced him many times, including weeks ago. His game is the opposite
of mine. Hes a junker, meaning he mixes speeds, uses change of pace, misdirection,
guile. He has limited skills, and takes a conspicuous pride in this fact. If Im the classic underachiever,
Brads the consummate overachiever. Rather than overpowering opponents, he
frustrates them, preys on their flaws. Hes preyed on me plenty. Im intrigued, but its not feasible.
Brads still playing. In fact, due to my surgery and my time away from the game, hes
ranked higher than I.
No, Perry says, Brad is nearing the end of his career. Hes thirty-two, and maybe hes
open to the idea of coaching. Perry repeats that hes deeply impressed with Brads book and
thinks it contains the kind of practical wisdom I need.
In March 1994, when were all in Key Biscayne for the tournament, Perry invites Brad to
dinner at an Italian restaurant on Fisher Island. Caf Porte Chervo. Right on the water. One of
our favorites.
Its early evening. The sun is just disappearing behind the masts and sails of the boats at
the dock. Perry and I are early, Brad is right on time. Id forgotten how distinctive looking he
is. Dark, rugged, hes certainly handsome, but not classically so. His features arent chiseled;
they look molded. I cant shake the idea that Brad looks like Early Man, that he just jumped
from a time machine, slightly out of breath from discovering fire. Maybe its all his hair that
makes me think this. His head, arms, biceps, shoulders, face are covered with black hair.
Brad has so much hair, Im both horrified and jealous. His eyebrows alone are fascinating. I
think: I could make a beautiful toupee out of just that left eyebrow.
The matre d, Renato, says we can sit on the terrace overlooking the dock.
I say, Sounds great.
No, Brad says. Uh-uh. We have to sit inside.
Why?
Because of Manny.
Excuse me? Whos Manny?
Manny Mosquito. Mosquitoesyeah, I have a real thing about them, and trust me, Manny
is here, Manny is out in force, and Manny likes me. Look at them all! Swarms! Look! No, I
need to sit inside. Far from Manny!
He explains that mosquitoes are the reason hes wearing jeans instead of shorts, even
though its a hundred degrees and muggy. Manny, he says one last time, with a shudder.
Perry and I look at each other.
OK, Perry says. Inside it is.
Renato puts us at a table by the window. He hands us menus. Brad scans his and frowns.
Problem, he says.
What?
They dont carry my beer. Bud Ice.
Maybe they have
Got to have Bud Ice. Its the only beer I drink.
He stands and says hes going to the market next door to buy some Bud Ice.
Perry and I order a bottle of red wine and wait. We say nothing while Brads gone. He returns
in five minutes with a six of Bud Ice, which he asks Renato to put on ice. Not the refrigerator,
Brad says, because thats not cold enough. On ice, or else in the freezer.
When Brad is finally settled, half a cold Bud Ice down his gullet, Perry starts.
So, listen, Brad, one reason we wanted to meet with you is, we want to get your take on
Andres game.
Say what?
Andres game. Wed like you to tell us what you think.
What I think?
Yes.
You want to know what I think of his game?
Thats right.
You want me to be honest?
Please.
Brutally honest?
Dont hold back.
He takes an enormous swallow of beer and commences a careful, thorough, brutal-
as-advertised summary of my flaws as a tennis player.
Its not rocket science, he says. If I were you, with your skills, your talent, your return and
footwork, Id dominate. But youve lost the fire you had when you were sixteen. That kid, taking
the ball early, being aggressive, what the hell happened to that kid?
Brad says my overall problem, the problem that threatens to end my career prematurely
the problem that feels like my fathers legacyis perfectionism.
You always try to be perfect, he says, and you always fall short, and it fucks with your
head. Your confidence is shot, and perfectionism is the reason. You try to hit a winner on
every ball, when just being steady, consistent, meat and potatoes, would be enough to win
ninety percent of the time.
He talks a mile a minute, a constant drone, not unlike a mosquito. He builds his argument
with sports metaphors, from all sports, indiscriminately. Hes an avid sports fan, and an
equally avid metaphor fan.
Quit going for the knockout, he says. Stop swinging for the fences. All you have to be is
solid. Singles, doubles, move the chains forward. Stop thinking about yourself, and your own
game, and remember that the guy on the other side of the net has weaknesses. Attack his
weaknesses. You dont have to be the best in the world every time you go out there. You just
have to be better than one guy. Instead of you succeeding, make him fail. Better yet, let him
fail. Its all about odds and percentages. Youre from Vegas, you should have an appreciation
of odds and percentages. The house always wins, right? Why? Because the odds are stacked
in the houses favor. So? Be the house! Get the odds in your favor. Right now, by trying for a
perfect shot with every ball, youre stacking the odds against yourself. Youre assuming too
much risk. You dont need to assume so much risk. Fuck that. Just keep the ball moving.
Back and forth. Nice and easy. Solid. Be like gravity, man, just like motherfucking gravity.
When you chase perfection, when you make perfection the ultimate goal, do you know what
youre doing? Youre chasing something that doesnt exist. Youre making everyone around
you miserable. Youre making yourself miserable. Perfection? Theres about five times a year
you wake up perfect, when you cant lose to anybody, but its not those five times a year that
make a tennis player. Or a human being, for that matter. Its the other times. Its all about your
head, man. With your talent, if youre fifty percent game-wise, but ninety-five percent head
wise, youre going to win. But if youre ninety-five percent game-wise and fifty percent head-
wise, youre going to lose, lose, lose. Again, since youre from Vegas, put it this way. It takes
twenty-one sets to win a slam. Thats all. You need to win just twenty-one sets. Seven
matches, best of five. Thats twenty-one. In tennis, like cards, twenty-ones a winner. Blackjack!
Focus on that number, and you wont go wrong. Simplify, simplify. Every time you win a
set, say to yourself, Thats one down. Thats one in my pocket. At the start of a tournament,
count backward from twenty-one. Thats positive thinking, see? Of course, speaking for myself,
when Im playing blackjack, Id rather win with sixteen, because thats winning ugly. No
need to win with twenty-one. No need to be perfect.
Hes been speaking for fifteen minutes. Perry and I havent interrupted, havent glanced at
each other, havent sipped our wine. At last Brad drains his second beer and announces:
Wheres the head in this place? I have to take a leak.
The moment hes gone I tell Perry: Thats our guy.
Absolutely.
When Brad returns, the waiter comes for our order. Brad asks for penne arrabbiata with
grilled chicken and mozzarella.
Perry orders chicken parmesan. Brad looks at Perry with disgust. Bad call, he says.
The waiter stops writing.
What you want to do, Brad says, is order a chicken breast, separate, then order all your
mozzarella and sauce on the side. See, that way the chicken breast is fresh, not soggy, plus
you can control your chicken-to-cheese-and-sauce ratio.
Perry thanks Brad for the menu coaching, but says hell stick with his order. The waiter
looks to me. I point at Brad and say: Ill have whatever hes having.
Brad smiles.
Perry clears his throat and says, So Brad. Would you have any interest in maybe becoming
Andres coach?
Brad thinks it over. For three seconds. Yeah, he says. I think Id like that. I think I can help
you.
I ask, When can we start?
Tomorrow, Brad says. Ill meet you on the courts at ten in the morning.
Huh. Well. That might a problem. I never play before one.
Andre, he says, we start at ten.
IM LATE, OF COURSE. Brad looks at his watch.
Thought we said ten?
Man, I dont even know what ten a.m. means.
We start hitting, and Brad starts talking. He doesnt stop, as though the hours between last
nights monologue and this mornings workout have been a mere intermission. Hes picking
apart my game, anticipating and analyzing my shots as I make them. The main point he
stresses is the backhand up the line.
The second you get a chance to take a backhand up the line, he says, youve got to do it.
Thats your money shot. Thats your equity shot. You can pay a lot of bills with that shot.
We play a few games, and he stops every other point to come to the net and tell me why I
just did the dumbest possible thing.
Whatd you do that for? I know its a killer shot, but every shot doesnt have to be killer.
Sometimes the best shot is a holding shot, an OK shot, a shot that gives the other guy a
chance to miss. Let the other guy play.
I like the way this feels. I respond to Brads ideas, his enthusiasm, his energy. I find peace
in his claim that perfectionism is voluntary. Perfectionism is something I chose, and its ruining
me, and I can choose something else. I must choose something else. No one has ever said
this to me. Ive always assumed perfectionism was like my thinning hair or my thickened spinal
cord. An inborn part of me.
After a light midday meal I put my feet up, watch TV, read the papers, sit under a shade
treethen go out and win my match against Mark Petchey, a British kid my age. My next
match is against Becker, whos now being coached by Nick. After saying publicly that he
couldnt imagine coaching any of my rivals, Nick is now coaching one of my archrivals. In fact,
Nicks sitting in Beckers box. Becker is serving big, as always, 135 miles an hour, but with
Nick in his corner, Im juiced with adrenaline and able to handle anything he dishes up. And
Becker knows it. He stops competing and plays to the crowd. Down a set and a break, he
hands his racket to the ballgirl as if to say: Here, you can do as well as Im doing.
Im thinking: Yes, let her play, Ill beat the both of you.
After dispatching Becker, Im in the final. My opponent? Pete. As always, Pete.
The match is slated for national TV. Brad and I are both keyed up as we walk into the
locker room, only to find Pete lying on the ground. A doctor and a trainer are leaning over him.
The tournament director hovers in the background. Pete brings his knees up to his chest and
groans.
Food poisoning, the doctor says.
Brad whispers to me, Guess you just won Key Biscayne.
The director takes Brad and me aside and asks if wed be willing to give Pete time to recover.
I feel Brad stiffen. I know what he wants me to say. But I tell the director, Give Pete all
the time he needs.
The director sighs and puts his hand on my arm. Thank you, he says. Weve got fourteen
thousand people out there. Plus the network.
Brad and I lounge around the locker room, flipping channels on the TV, making phone
calls. I dial Brooke, whos auditioning for Grease on Broadway. Otherwise, shed be here.
Brad shoots me an evil glare.
Relax, I tell him, Pete probably wont get better.
The doctor gives Pete an IV, then props him on his feet. Pete wobbles, a newborn colt.
Hell never make it.
The tournament director comes to us.
Petes ready, he says.
Fucking A, Brad says. So are we.
Should be a short night, I tell Brad.
But Pete does it again. He sends his evil twin onto the court. This is not the Pete who was
curled in a ball on the locker-room floor. This is not the Pete who was getting an IV and wobbling
in circles. This Pete is in the prime of life, serving at warp speed, barely breaking a
sweat. Hes playing his best tennis, unbeatable, and he jumps out to a 51 lead.
Now Im angry. I feel as if I found a wounded bird, brought it home, and nursed it back to
health, only to have it try to peck my eyes out. I fight back and win the set. Surely Ive withstood
the only attack Pete can mount. He cant possibly have anything left.
But in the second set hes even better. And in the third hes a freak. He wins the best-ofthree
match.
I burst into the locker room. Brad is waiting for me, seething. He says again that if hed
been in my place, hed have forced Pete to forfeit. Hed have demanded that the director fork
over the winners check.
Thats not me, I tell Brad. I dont want to win like that. Besides, if I cant beat a guy whos
poisoned, lying on the ground, I dont deserve it.
Brad abruptly stops talking. His eyes get big. He nods. He cant argue with that. He respects
my principles, he says, even though he doesnt agree.
We walk out of the stadium together like Bogart and Claude Rains at the end of Casablanca.
The beginning of a beautiful friendship. A vital new member of the team.
THEN THE TEAM goes on an epic losing streak.
Adopting Brads concepts is like learning to write with my left hand. He calls his philosophy
Bradtennis. I call it Braditude. Whatever the hell its called, its hard. I feel as if Im back in
school, not comprehending, longing to be somewhere else. Again and again Brad says I need
to be consistent, steady, like gravity. He says this over and over: Be like gravity. Constant
pressure, weighing down your opponent. He tries to sell me on the joy of winning ugly, the vir
tue of winning ugly, but I only know how to lose ugly. And think ugly. I trust Brad, I know his
advice is spot on, I do everything he saysso why am I not winning? Ive given up perfection-
ismso why am I not perfect?
I go to Osaka, lose again to Pete. Instead of gravity, Im like flubber.
I go to Monte Carlo and lose to Yevgeny Kafelnikovin the first round.
To add insult to injury, Kafelnikov is asked at the post-match news conference how it felt
to beat me, since so many fans were cheering for me.
Difficult, Kafelnikov says, because Agassi is like Jesus.
I dont know what he means, but I dont think its a compliment.
I go to Duluth, Georgia, lose to MaliVai Washington. Afterward, in the locker room, I feel
crushed. Brad appears, smiling. Good things, he says, are about to happen.
I stare, incredulous.
He says, You have to suffer. You have to lose a shitload of close matches. And then one
day youre going to win a close one and the skies are going to part and youre going to break
through. You just need that one breakthrough, that one opening, and after that nothing will
stop you from being the best in the world.
Youre crazy.
Youre learning.
Youre nuts.
Youll see.
I GO TO THE 1994 FRENCH OPEN and play five vicious sets with Thomas Muster. Down
15 in the fifth set, something happens. I always hear Brads philosophy in my head, but now
its coming from inside, not outside. Ive internalized it, the way I once did my fathers voice. I
claw back and tie the set at 5. Muster breaks me. Hes serving for the match. Still, I get the
game to 3040, I have hope. Im on my toes, ready, but he hits a backhand I cant handle. I
reach, hit it wide.
Match, Muster.
At the net he rubs my head, musses my hair. Apart from being condescending, his gesture
nearly dislodges my hairpiece.
Good try, he says.
I stare at him with pure hatred. Big mistake, Muster. Dont touch the hair. Dont ever touch
the hair. Just for that, I tell him at the net, Ill make you a promise. Ill never lose to you again.
In the locker room Brad congratulates me.
Good things, he says, are about to happen.
What?
He nods. Trust megood things.
Clearly he doesnt understand the pain that losing causes me. And when someone doesnt
understand, theres no point trying to explain.
At the 1994 Wimbledon I reach the fourth round but lose a nail-biter to Todd Martin. Im
wounded, frightened, disappointed. In the locker room Brad smiles and says: Good things.
We go to the Canadian Open. Brad shocks me at the start of the tournament. Good
things, he says, are not about to happen. On the contrary, he sees a few very bad things on
the horizon.
Hes looking over my draw. NG, he says.
What the hell does NG mean?
Not Good. You got a terrible draw.
Let me see that.
I snatch the paper from his hands. Hes right. My first match is a gimme, against Jakob
Hlasek, from Switzerland, but in the second round Ill get David Wheaton, who always gives
me a host of problems. Still, I love few things more than low expectations. Just tell me I cant
do something. I inform Brad that Im going to win the whole thing.
And when I do, I add, you have to get an earring.
I dont like jewelry, he says.
He thinks about it.
OK, he says. Done, and done.
THE COURT AT THE CANADIAN OPEN feels impossibly small, which makes the opponent
look bigger.
Wheaton is a big guy, but here in Canada he looks ten feet tall. Its an optical illusion, but
still, I feel as if hes standing two inches from my face. Distracted, I find myself down two
match points in the third-set tiebreak.
Then, wholly out of character, I pull myself together. I shake off all distractions and optical
illusions and fight back and win. I do what Brad said I would do. I win a close one. Later I tell
Brad, Thats the match you said Id win. Thats the match you said would change things.
He smiles as if I just sat down in a restaurant all by myself and ordered the chicken parm
with the chicken breast separate from the sauce and cheese. Very good, Grasshopper. Wax
on, wax off.
My game speeding up, my mind slowing down, I storm through the rest of the draw and
win the Canadian Open.
Brad chooses a diamond stud.
GOING INTO THE 1994 U.S. OPEN, Im number twenty, therefore unseeded. No unseeded
player has won the U.S. Open since the 1960s.
Brad likes it. He says he wants me unseeded. He wants me to be the joker in the deck.
Youll play someone tough in the early rounds, he says, and if you beat them, youll win this
tournament.
Hes sure of it. So sure, he vows to shave his entire body when I do. Im always telling
Brad hes too hairy. He makes Sasquatch look like Kojak. He needs to trim that chest, those
armsand those eyebrows. Either trim them or name them.
Trust me, I tell him, you shave that chest and youll feel things youve never felt before.
Win the U.S. Open, he says, and so will you.
Because of my low ranking, Im under the radar at this U.S. Open. (Id be more under the
radar if Brooke werent on hand, setting off a photo shoot each time she turns her head.) Im
all business, and I dress the part. I wear a black hat, black shorts, black socks, black-andwhite
shoes. But at the start of my first-rounder, against Robert Eriksson, I feel the old brittle
nerves. I feel sick to my stomach. I fight through it, thinking of Brad, refusing to entertain any
thought of perfection. I concentrate on being solid, letting Eriksson lose, and he does. He
sends me sailing into the second round.
Thenafter nearly chokingI beat Guy Forget, from France. Then I take out Wayne Ferreira,
from South Africa, in straight sets.
Up next is Chang. I wake the morning of the match with ferocious diarrhea. By match time
Im weak, depleted, and babbling like Peaches. Gil makes me drink an extra dose of Gil Water.
This batch has a thickness, a density, like oil. I force it down, nearly puking several times.
As I do, Gil whispers, Thank you for trusting me.
Then I walk into a classic Chang buzz saw. Hes that rare phenomenonan opponent
who wants to win exactly as much as I do, no more, no less. We both know from the opening
serve that its going down to the wire. Photo finish. No other way to settle it. But in the fifth set,
thinking were destined for a tiebreak, I catch a rhythm and break him early. Im making crazy
shots, and I feel him losing traction. Its almost not fair, after such a back-and-forth fight, the
way Im sneaking away with this match. I should be having more trouble with him in the final
minutes, but its sinfully easy.
At his news conference, Chang tells reporters about a different match than the one I just
played. He says he could have played another two sets. Andre got lucky, he says. Furthermore,
Chang expresses a great deal of pride that he exposed holes in my game, and he predicts
other players in the tournament will thank him. He says Im vulnerable now. Im toast.
Next I face Muster. I make good my vow that I will never lose to him again. It takes every
ounce of self-control not to rub his head at the net.
Im in the semis. Im due to play Martin on Saturday. Friday afternoon, Gil and I are eating
lunch at P. J. Clarkes. We order the same thing we always order at P. J.
Clarkescheeseburgers on toasted English muffins. Were sitting in the section of our favorite
waitress, the one we always agree has a story to tell, if only someone were brave enough
to ask her. While were waiting for the food we riffle through a stack of New York newspapers.
I see Lupicas column is about me. I shouldnt read it, but I do. He writes that the U.S. Open is
mine to lose, but you can count on the fact that I will find a way to lose it.
Agassi, Lupica writes, simply isnt a champion.
I close the paper and feel as if the walls are closing in, as if my vision is narrowing to a
pinprick. Lupica sounds so sure, as if hes seen the future. What if hes right? What if this is it,
my moment of truth, and Im revealed to be a fraud? If it doesnt happen now, when will I have
another chance to win the U.S. Open? So many things have to fall your way. Finals dont
grow on trees. What if I never win this tournament? What if I always look back on this moment
with regret? What if hiring Brad was a mistake? What if Brooke is the wrong girl for me? What
if my team, so carefully assembled, is the wrong team?
Gil looks up and sees me turning white.
Whats wrong?
I read him the column. He doesnt move.
Id like to meet that Lupica one day, he says.
What if hes right?
Control what you can control.
Yeah.
Control what you can control.
Right.
Here comes our food.
Martin, who just beat me at Wimbledon, is a deadly opponent. He has a nice hold game
and a solid break game. Hes huge, six foot six, and returns the serve off both wings with precision
and conviction. Hell cane a serve that isnt first-rate, which puts enormous pressure on
an average server like me. With his own serve hes uncannily accurate. If he misses, its only
by a bees dick. He hits the line, and he hasnt the vaguest interest in hitting the inside half of
the linehe wants to hit that outside half. For some reason, Im better against big servers
who miss by a lot. I like to cheat forward, guess which way the serve is coming, and with players
like Martin I tend to guess wrong more often, thus leaving myself less lateral coverage.
Hes a nasty matchup for a player with my tendencies, and as our semi begins I like his
chances, and Lupicas, better than mine.
Still, as the first few games unfold, I realize that several things are in my favor. Martin is
better on grass than hard court. This is my surface. Also, like me, hes an underachiever. Hes
a fellow slave to nerves. I understand the man Im playing, therefore, understand him intim
ately. Simply knowing your enemy is a powerful advantage.
Above all, Martin has a tic. A tell. Some players, when serving, look at their opponent.
Some look at nothing. Martin looks at a particular spot in the service box. If he stares a long
time at that spot, hes serving in the opposite direction. If he merely glances, hes serving right
at that spot. You might not notice it at 00, or 15love, but on break point, he stares at that
spot with psycho eyes, like the killer in a horror movie, or glances and looks away like a beginner
at the poker tables.
The match unfolds so easily, however, that I dont need Martins tell. He seems unsteady,
dwarfed by the occasion, whereas Im playing with uncommon determination. I see him doubt
himselfI can almost hear his doubtand I sympathize. As I walk off the court, the winner in
four sets, I think, Hes got some maturing to do. Then I catch myself. Did I really just say
thatabout someone else?
In the final I face Michael Stich, from Germany. Hes been to the final at three slams, so
hes not like Martin, hes a threat on every surface. Hes also a superb athlete with an unreal
wingspan. He has a mighty first serve, heavy and fast, and when its on, which it usually is, he
can serve you into next week. Hes so accurate, youre shocked when he misses, and you
have to overcome your shock to stay in the point. Even when he does miss, however, youre
not out of the woods, because then he falls back on his safe serve, a knuckleball that leaves
you with your jock on the ground. And just to keep you a bit more off balance, Stich is without
any patterns or tendencies. You never know if hes going to serve and volley or stay back at
the baseline.
Hoping to seize control, dictate the terms, I come fast out of the blocks, hitting the ball
clean, crisp, pretending to feel no fear. I like the sound the ball makes off my racket. I like the
sound of the crowd, their oohs and aahs. Stich, meanwhile, comes out skittish. When you
lose the first set as quickly as he does, 61, your instinct is to panic. I can see in his body language
that hes succumbing to that instinct.
He pulls himself together in the second set, however, and gives me a two-fisted battle. I
win 76, but feel lucky. I know it could have gone either way.
In the third set we both raise the stakes. I feel the finish line pulling, but now hes mentally
committed to this fight. There have been times in the past when hes given up against me,
when hes taken unnecessary risks because he hasnt believed in himself. Not this time. Hes
playing smart, proving to me that Im going to have to rip the trophy from him if I really want it.
And I do want it. So I will rip it. We have long rallies off my serve, until he realizes Im committed,
Im willing to hit with him all day. I catch sight of him grabbing his side, winded. I start picturing
how the trophy will look in the bachelor pad back in Vegas.
There are no breaks of serve through the third set. Until 5all. Finally I break him, and now
Im serving for the match. I hear Brads voice, as clearly as if he were standing behind me. Go
for his forehand. When in doubt, forehand, forehand. So I hit to Stichs forehand. Again and
again he misses. The outcome feels, to both of us, I think, inevitable.
I fall to my knees. My eyes fill with tears. I look to my box, to Perry and Philly and Gil and
especially Brad. You know everything you need to know about people when you see their
faces at the moments of your greatest triumph. Ive believed in Brads talent from the beginning,
but now, seeing his pure and unrestrained happiness for me, I believe unrestrainedly in
him.
Reporters tell me Im the first unseeded player since 1966 to win the U.S. Open. More importantly,
the first man who ever did it was Frank Shields, grandfather of the fifth person in my
box. Brooke, whos been here for every match, looks every bit as happy as Brad.
My new girlfriend, my new coach, my new manager, my surrogate father.
At last, the team is firmly, irrevocably, in place.
16
I THINK you should get rid of that hairpiece, Brooke says. And that ponytail. Shave your
hair short, short, and be done with it.
Impossible. Id feel naked.
Youd feel liberated.
Id feel exposed.
Its as though shes suggesting I have all my teeth pulled. I tell her to forget it. Then I go
away and think about it for a few days. I think about the pain my hair has caused me, the inconvenience
of the hairpieces, the hypocrisy and the pretending and the lying. Maybe it isnt
crazy after all. Maybe its the first step toward sanity.
I stand before Brooke one morning and say, Lets do it.
Do what?
Cut it off. Lets cut it all off.
We schedule the ceremonial shearing for late at night, at an hour normally reserved for
sances and raves. Its to be in the kitchen of Brookes brownstone, after she returns from the
theater. (She got the part in Grease.) Well make a party of it, she says, invite some friends.
Perry is there. And, despite our breakup, Wendi. Brooke is openly irritated by the presence
of Wendi, and vice versa. Perry is baffled by it. I explain to Brooke and Perry that despite
our romantic history, Wendi is still a close friend, a lifelong friend. Being shorn is a dramatic
step, and I need friends in the room for moral support, just as I needed Gil there when I
had my wrist surgery. In fact, it crosses my mind that for this surgery I should also be sedated.
We send out for wine.
Brookes hairdresser, Matthew, puts my head over the sink, washes my hair, then pulls it
all tight.
Andreare you sure?
No.
Are you ready?
No.
Do you want to do this in front of a mirror?
No. I dont want to watch.
He puts me in a wooden chair and thensnip. There goes the pony-tail.
Everyone applauds.
He begins cutting the hair on the sides of my head, tight, close to the skull. I think of the
mohawk at the Bradenton Mall. I close my eyes, feel my heart pound, as if Im about to play a
final. This was a mistake. Maybe the defining mistake of my life. J.P. warned me not to do
this. J.P. said that whenever he attends one of my matches, he hears people talking about my
hair. Women love me for it, men hate me for it. Now that J.P. has quit pastoring, devoted himself
to music, hes been doing some work in advertising, writing jingles for radio and TV commercials,
so he spoke with some authority when he proclaimed: As far as the corporate world
is concerned, Andre Agassi is his hair. And when Andre Agassis hair is gone, corporate
sponsors will be gone.
He also suggested pointedly that I reread the Bible story about Samson and Delilah.
As Matthew cuts and cuts, and cuts, I realize I should have listened to J.P. When has J.P.
ever steered me wrong? With clumps of my hair falling to the floor, I feel clumps of me falling
away.
It takes eleven minutes. Then Matthew whisks away the smock and says, Ta-dah!
I walk to the mirror. I see a person I dont recognize. Before me stands a total stranger. My
reflection isnt different, its simply not me. But, really, what the hell have I lost? Maybe Ill
have an easier time being this guy. All this time with Brad, trying to fix whats in my head, it
never occurred to me to fix whats on my head. I smile at my reflection, run a hand over my
scalp. Hello. Nice to meet you.
As night turns to morning, as we work our way through several bottles of wine, I feel exhilarated,
and heavily indebted to Brooke. You were right, I tell her. My hairpiece was a shackle,
and my natural hair, grown to absurd lengths, dyed three different colors, was a weight as
well, holding me down. It seems so trivialhair. But hair has been the crux of my public image,
and my self-image, and its been a sham.
Now the sham is lying on Brookes floor in tiny haystacks. I feel well rid of it. I feel true. I
feel free.
And I play like it. At the 1995 Australian Open I come out like the Incredible Hulk. I dont
drop one set in a take-no-prisoners blitz to the final. This is the first time Ive played in Australia,
and I cant imagine why Ive waited so long. I like the surface, the venuethe heat.
Having grown up in Vegas, I dont feel the heat the way other players do, and the defining
characteristic of the Australian Open is the unholy temperature. Just as cigar and pipe smoke
lingers in the memory after playing Roland Garros, the hazy memory of playing in a giant kiln
stays with you for weeks after you leave Melbourne.
I also enjoy the Australian people, and they apparently enjoy me, even though Im not me,
Im this new bald guy in a bandana and a goatee and a hoop earring. Newspapers go to town
with my new look. Everyone has an opinion. Fans who rooted for me are disoriented. Fans
who rooted against me have a new reason to dislike me. I read and hear a remarkable succession
of pirate jokes. I never knew there could be so many pirate jokes. But I dont care. I
tell myself that everyone is going to have to deal with this pirate, accept this pirate, when I
hoist that trophy.
In the final I run smack into Pete. I lose the first set in nothing flat. I lose it gutlessly, on a
double fault. Here we go again.
I take time before the second set to collect myself. I glance toward my box. Brad looks
frustrated. Hes never believed that Pete is the better player. His face says, Youre the better
player, Andre. Dont respect him so much.
Pete is serving live grenades, one after another, a typical Pete fusillade. But in the middle
of the second set, I feel him tiring. His grenades still have the pins in them. Hes wearing
down physically, and emotionally, because hes been through hell these last few days. His
longtime coach, Tim Gullickson, suffered two strokes, and then they discovered a tumor in his
brain. Pete is traumatized. As the match turns my way, I feel guilty. Id be willing to stop, let
Pete go into the locker room, get an IV, and come back as that other Pete who likes to kick
my ass at slams.
I break him twice. He slumps his shoulders, concedes the set.
The third set comes down to a jittery tiebreak. I grab a 30 lead and then Pete wins the
next four points. Suddenly hes up 64, serving for the set. I let out a caveman scream, as if
Im in the weight room with Gil, and put everything Ive got into a return that nicks the net and
stays inside the line. Pete stares at the ball, then me.
On the next point he hits a forehand that sails long. Were deadlocked at 6. A furious rally
ends when I shock him by coming to the net and hitting a soft backhand drop volley. It works
so well, I do it again. Set, Agassi. Momentum, ditto.
The fourth set is a foregone conclusion. I keep my foot on the gas and win, 64. Pete
looks resolved. Too much hill to climb. In fact, hes maddeningly unruffled as he comes to the
net.
Its my second slam in a row, my third overall. Everyone says its my best slam yet, because
its my first victory over Pete in a slam final. But I think twenty years from now Ill remember
it as my first bald slam.
THE TALK TURNS IMMEDIATELY to my reaching number one. Petes been number one
for seventy weeks, and everyone on my team says Im destined to kick him off the top of that
vaunted mountain. I tell them that tennis has nothing to do with destiny. Destiny has better
things to do than count ATP points.
Still, I make it my goal to be number one, because my team wants it.
I cloister myself in Gils gym and train with fury. I tell him about the goal, and he draws up
a battle plan. First, he designs a course of study. He sets about collecting a master list of
phone numbers and addresses for the worlds most acclaimed sports doctors and nutritionists,
and reaches out to all of them, turns them into his private consultants. He huddles with
experts at the U.S. Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs. He flies coast to coast, interviewing
the best and brightest, famed researchers on health and wellness, recording every
word they tell him in his da Vinci notebooks. He reads everything, from muscle magazines to
obscure medical studies and dry reports. He subscribes to the New England Journal of Medicine.
In no time he makes himself a portable university, with one professor and one subject.
The student body: me.
Then he determines my physical limit, and pushes me right up to it. He soon has me
bench-pressing almost twice my weight, five to seven sets of more than three hundred
pounds. He has me lifting fifty-pound dumbbells in excruciating sets of three-ways: back-toback-
to-back flexes that burn three different muscles in my shoulders. Then we work on biceps
and triceps. We burn my muscles to ashes. I like when Gil talks about burning muscles,
setting them afire. I like being able to put my pyromania to constructive use.
Next we concentrate on my midsection, beginning with a special machine Gil designed
and built. As with all his machines, he chopped it, cut it, re-welded it. (The blueprints in his da
Vinci notebooks are stunning.) Its the only machine of its kind in the world, he says, because
it allows me to work my abs without engaging my fragile back. Were going to stack heavy on
your abs, he says, work them until theyre on fire, and then were going to do Russian Twists:
youll hold a forty-five-pound iron plate, a big wheel, and rotate left, right, left, right. That will
burn down your sides and obliques.
Last, we move to Gils homemade lat machine. Unlike every lat machine in every gym the
world over, Gils doesnt compromise my back or neck. The bar I pull to work my lats is
slightly in front of me. Im never awkwardly positioned.
While Im lifting, Gil also feeds me constantly, every twenty minutes. He wants me taking
in four parts carbs to one part protein, and he times my intake to the nanosecond. When you
eat, he says, and how you eat, thats the thing. Every time I turn around hes shoving a bowl
of high-protein oatmeal at me, or a bacon sandwich, or a bagel with peanut butter and honey.
Finally, my upper body and gut pleading for mercy, we go outside and run up and down
the hill behind Gils house. Gil Hill. Quick bursts of power and speed, up and down, up and
down, I run until my mind begs me to stop, and then I run some more, ignoring my mind.
Easing into my car at dusk, I often dont know that Ill be able to drive home. Sometimes I
dont try. If I dont have the strength to turn the key in the ignition, I go back inside and curl up
on one of Gils benches and fall asleep.
After my mini boot camp with Gil, I look as if Ive traded in my old body, upgraded to the
newest model. Still, theres room for improvement. I could be better about what I eat outside
the gym. Gil, however, doesnt crack the whip about my lapses. He certainly doesnt like the
way I eat when Im not with himTaco Bell, Burger Kingbut he says I need comfort food
now and then. My psyche, he says, is more fragile than my back, and he doesnt want to
overstress it. Besides, a man needs one or two vices.
Gil is a paradox, and we both know it. He can lecture me about nutrition while watching
me sip a milkshake. He doesnt slap the milkshake from my hand. On the contrary, he might
even take a sip. I like people with contradictions, of course. I also like that Gils not a taskmaster.
Ive had enough taskmasters to last me a lifetime. Gil understands me, coddles me, and
occasionallyjust occasionallyindulges my taste for junk, maybe because he shares it.
At Indian Wells, I face Pete again. If I can beat him Ill be within an inch of the top spot. Im
in peak condition, but we play a sloppy match, filled with unforced errors. Each of us is distracted.
Pete is still distressed about his coach. Im worried about my father, whos having
open-heart surgery in a few days. This time, Pete manages to rise above his turmoil, while I
let mine consume me. I lose in three sets.
I race to the UCLA Medical Center and find my father strapped to machines with long
tubes. They remind me of the ball machine of my youth. You cant beat the dragon. My mother
hugs me. He watched you play yesterday, she says. He watched you lose to Pete.
Im sorry, Pops.
Hes on his back, drugged, helpless. His eyelids flutter open. He sees me and gestures
with his hand. Come closer.
I lean in. He cant speak. He has a tube in his mouth and down his throat. He mumbles
something.
I dont understand, Pops.
More gestures. I dont know what hes trying to tell me. Now hes getting angry. If he had
the strength hed get out of this bed and knock me out.
He motions for a pad and pen.
Tell me later, Pops.
No, no. He shakes his head. He must tell me now.
The nurses hand him a pad and pen. He scrawls a few words, then makes a brushing
gesture. Like an artist, gently brushing. At last I understand.
Backhand, hes trying to say. Hit to Petes backhand. You should have hit more to Petes
backhand.
Vork your wolleys. Hit harder.
I stand and feel an overpowering urge to forgive, because I realize that my father cant
help himself, that he never could help himself, any more than he could understand himself.
My father is what he is, and always will be, and though he cant help himself, though he cant
tell the difference between loving me and loving tennis, its love all the same. Few of us are
granted the grace to know ourselves, and until we do, maybe the best we can do is be consistent.
My father is nothing if not consistent.
I put my fathers hand at his side, force him to stop gesturing, tell him that I understand.
Yes, yes, to the backhand. Ill hit to Petes backhand next week in Key Biscayne. And Ill beat
his ass. Dont worry, Pops. Ill beat him. Now rest.
He nods. His hand still flapping against his side, he closes his eyes and falls asleep.
The next week I beat Pete in the final of Key Biscayne.
After the match we fly together to New York, where were due to catch a flight to Europe
for the Davis Cup. But first, upon landing, I drag Pete to the Eugene ONeill Theater to see
Brooke as Rizzo in Grease. Its the first time Pete has seen a Broadway show, I think, but its
my fiftieth time seeing Grease. I can recite every word of We Go Together, a trick Ive performed,
deadpan, to much laughter on the Late Show with David Letterman.
I like Broadway. I find the ethos of the theater familiar. The work of a Broadway actor is
physical, strenuous, demanding, and the nightly pressure is intense. The best Broadway actors
remind me of athletes. If they dont give their best, they know it, and if they dont know it,
the crowd lets them know it. All this is lost on Pete, however. From the opening number hes
yawning, fidgeting, checking his watch. He doesnt like the theater, and he doesnt get actors,
since hes never pretended anything in his life. In the quasi-darkness of the footlights, I smile
at his discomfort. Somehow, forcing him to sit through Grease feels more satisfying than beating
him in Key Biscayne. We go together, like rama lama lama
IN THE MORNING we catch the Concorde to Paris, then a private plane to Palermo. Im
barely settled into my hotel room when the phone rings.
Perry.
In my hand, he says, I hold the latest rankings.
Hit me with it.
Youare number one.
Ive knocked Pete off the mountaintop. After eighty-two weeks at number one, Petes looking
up at me. Im the twelfth tennis player to be number one in the two decades since they
started keeping computer rankings. The next person who phones is a reporter. I tell him that
Im happy about the ranking, that it feels good to be the best that I can be.
Its a lie. This isnt at all what I feel. Its what I want to feel. Its what I expected to feel,
what I tell myself to feel. But in fact I feel nothing.
17
I SPEND MANY HOURS ROAMING the streets of Palermo, drinking strong black coffee,
wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I did itIm the number one tennis player on earth,
and yet I feel empty. If being number one feels empty, unsatisfying, whats the point? Why not
just retire?
I picture myself announcing that Im done. I choose the words Ill speak at the news conference.
Several images then come to mind. Brad, Perry, my father, each disappointed,
aghast. Also, I tell myself that retiring wont solve my essential problem, it wont help me figure
out what I want to do with my life. Ill be a twenty-five-year-old retiree, which sounds a lot
like a ninth-grade dropout.
No, what I need is a new goal. The problem, all this time, is that Ive had the wrong goals.
I never really wanted to be number one, that was just something others wanted for me. So Im
number one. So a computer loves me. So what? What I think Ive always wanted, since I was
a boy, and what I want now, is far more difficult, far more substantial. I want to win the French
Open. Then Ill have all four slams to my credit. The complete set. Ill be only the fifth man to
accomplish such a feat in the open eraand the first American.
Ive never cared about computer rankings, and Ive never cared about the number of
slams I won. Roy Emerson has the most slams (twelve), and nobody thinks hes better than
Rod Laver. Nobody. My fellow players, along with any tennis expert or historian I respect,
agree that Laver was the best, the king, because he won all four. More, he did it in the same
yeartwice. Granted, there were only two surfaces back then, grass and clay, but still, thats
godlike. Thats inimitable.
I think about the greats from past eras, how they all chased Laver, how they dreamed of
winning all four slams. They all skipped certain slams, because they didnt give a damn about
quantity. They cared about versatility. They all feared that they wouldnt be considered truly
great if their resumes were incomplete, if one or two of the games four prizes could elude
them.
The more I think about winning all four slams, the more excited I become. Its a sudden
and shocking insight into myself. I realize this is what Ive long wanted. Ive simply repressed
the desire because it didnt seem possible, especially after reaching the final of the French
Open two years in a row and losing. Also, Ive allowed myself to get sidetracked by
sportswriters and fans who dont understand, who count the number of slams a player won
and use that bogus number to gauge his legacy. Winning all four is the true Holy Grail. So, in
1995, in Palermo, I decide that I will chase this Grail, full speed ahead.
Brooke, meanwhile, never wavers in pursuit of her own personal Grail. Her run on Broadway
is deemed a great success, and she doesnt feel empty. She feels hungry. She wants
more. She looks to the next big thing. Offers are slow to come in, however. I try to help. I tell
her that the public doesnt know her. They think they do, but they dont. A problem with which
I have some experience. Some people think shes a model, some think shes an actress. She
needs to hone her image. I ask Perry to step in, have a look at Brookes career.
It doesnt take him long to form an opinion and a plan. He says what Brooke needs now is
a TV show. Her future, he says, lies in TV. So she immediately begins searching for scripts
and pilots in which she can shine.
Just before the start of the 1995 French Open, Brooke and I go to Fisher Island for a few
days. We both need rest and sleep. I cant get either, though. I cant stop thinking about Paris.
I lie in bed at night, taut as a wire, playing matches on the ceiling.
I continue to obsess on the plane to Paris, even though Brooke is with me. Shes not
working just now, so shes able to get away.
Our first time in Paris together, she says, kissing me.
Yes, I say, stroking her hand.
How to tell her that this is not, even partially, a vacation? That this trip isnt remotely about
us?
We stay at the Htel Raphael, just around the corner from the Arc de Triomphe. Brooke
likes the creaky old elevator with the iron door that manually closes. I like the small candlelit
bar off the lobby. The rooms are small too, and they have no TVs, which appalls Brad. He
cant take it, in fact. He checks out a few minutes after checking in, switching to a more modern
hotel.
Brooke speaks French, so shes able to show me Paris through a new, wider lens. I feel
comfortable exploring the city, because theres no fear of getting lost, and she can translate. I
tell her about the first time I was here, with Philly. I tell her about the Louvre, the painting that
freaked us both out. Shes fascinated and wants me to take her to see it.
Another time, I say.
We eat at fancy restaurants, visit out-of-the-way neighborhoods Id never venture into on
my own. Some of it charms me, but most leaves me cold, because Im loath to break my concentration.
The owner of one caf invites us down to his ancient wine cellar, a musty, medieval
tomb filled with dust-covered bottles. He hands one to Brooke. She peers at the date on the
label: 1787. She cradles the bottle like a baby, then holds it up to me, incredulous.
I dont get it, I whisper. Its a bottle. It has dust on it.
She glares, as if shed like to break the bottle over my head.
Late one night we go for a walk along the Seine. Its her thirtieth birthday. We stop near a
flight of stone steps leading down to the river, and I present her with a diamond tennis bracelet.
She laughs as I put it around her wrist and fiddle with the clasp. We both admire the way it
catches the moonlight. Then, just beyond Brookes shoulder, standing on the stone steps, a
drunken Frenchman staggers into view and sends a high, looping arc of urine into the Seine. I
dont believe in omens, as a rule, but this seems ominous. I just cant tell if it portends
something for the French Open or my relationship with Brooke.
At last the tournament begins. I win my first four matches without dropping a set. Its evident
to reporters and commentators that Im a different player. Stronger and more focused. On
a mission. No one sees this more clearly than my fellow players. Ive always noticed the way
players silently anoint the alpha dog in their midst, the way they single out the one player
whos feeling it, whos likeliest to win. At this tournament, for the first time, Im that player. I
feel them all watching me in the locker room. I feel them noting my every move, the little
things I do, even studying how I organize my bag. Theyre quicker to step aside when I walk
by, eager to give up the training table. A new degree of respect is directed toward me, and
while I try not to take it seriously, I cant help but enjoy it. Better me getting this treatment than
someone else.
Brooke, however, doesnt seem to notice any difference in me, doesnt treat me any differently.
At night I sit in the hotel room, staring out the window at Paris, an eagle on a cliff, but
she talks to me of this and that, Grease and Paris and what so-and-so said about such-andsuch.
She doesnt understand the work I did in Gils gym, the trials and sacrifices and concentration
that have led to this new confidenceor the huge task that lies ahead. And she
doesnt try to understand. Shes more interested in where were going to eat next, which wine
cellar were going to explore. She takes it for granted that Im going to win, and she wishes Id
hurry up and do it, so we can have fun. Its not selfishness on her part, just a mistaken impression
that winning is normal, losing is abnormal.
In the quarters I face Kafelnikov, the Russian who likened me to Jesus. I sneer at him
across the net as the match begins: Jesus is about to whip you with a car antenna. I know I
can beat Kafelnikov. He knows it too. Its written all over his face. But early in the first set, I
lunge for a ball and feel something snap. My hip flexor. I ignore it, pretend it didnt happen,
pretend I dont have a hip, but the hip sends lines of pain up and down my leg.
I cant bend. I cant move. I ask for the trainer, who gives me two aspirin and tells me
theres nothing he can do. His eyes are the size of poker chips when he tells me.
I lose the first set. Then the second. In the third I rally. Im up 41, the crowd urging me
onward. Allez, Agassi! But I grow less mobile with every minute. Kafelnikov, moving well, ties
the set, and I feel my limbs go slack. Its another Russian crucifixion. Au revoir, Grail. I walk
off the court without collecting my rackets.
The real test wasnt supposed to be Kafelnikov. It was supposed to be Muster, the hairmusser
whos been dominating on clay. So even if Id gotten by Kafelnikov I dont know how
hobbled I would have been against Muster. But I promised Muster Id never lose to him again,
and I meant it, and I liked my chances. I think no matter who was on the other side of that net,
I could have done something great. As I leave Paris I dont feel defeated; I feel cheated. This
was it, I just know. My last chance. Never again will I be in Paris feeling so strong, so young.
Never again will I inspire such fear in the locker room.
My golden opportunity to win all four slams is gone.
Brooke has already flown home ahead of me, so its just Gil and me on the flight, Gil talking
softly about how were going to treat the flexor, how were going to adjust after what weve
just put ourselves through, and get ready for whats cominggrass. We spend a week in Vegas,
doing nothing but watching movies and waiting for my hip to mend. An MRI tells us the
damage isnt permanent. Cold comfort.
We fly to England. Im the number one seed at the 1995 Wimbledon, because Im still
ranked number one in the world. Fans greet me with an enthusiasm and glee that clash
sharply with my mood. Nike has been here ahead of time, priming the pump, handing out
Agassi Kitsadhesive sideburns, Fu Manchu mustaches, and bandanas. This is my new
look. Ive morphed from pirate to bandit. Its surreal, as always, to see guys trying to look like
me, and as always its even a bit more surreal to see girls trying. Girls with Fu Manchus and
sideburnsit almost makes me crack a smile. Almost.
It rains every day, but still the fans mob Wimbledon. They brave the rain, the cold, they
line up all the way down Church Road, for the love of tennis. I want to go out there and stand
with them, question them, find out what makes them love it so much. I wonder what it would
be like to feel such passion for the game. I wonder if the fake Fu Manchus stay on in the rain,
or if they disintegrate like my old hairpieces.
I win my first two matches easily, and then beat Wheaton in four sets. The big news of that
day, however, is Tarango, who lost, then fought with an umpire before leaving the court. Then
Tarangos wife slapped the umpire. One of the great scandals in Wimbledon history. Instead
of facing Tarango, therefore, Ill face Alexander Mronz, from Germany. Reporters ask me
which opponent I would have preferred, and I badly want to tell the story of Tarango cheating
when I was eight. I dont, however. I dont want to get in a public spat with Tarango, and I fear
making an enemy of his wife. I say the diplomatic thing, that it doesnt matter whom I play,
even though Tarango was the more dangerous threat.
I beat Mronz in three easy sets.
In the semis I face Becker. Ive beaten him the last eight times weve played. Pete has
already moved on to the final and hes awaiting the winner of Agassi-Becker, which is to say
hes awaiting me, because every slam final is beginning to feel like a standing date between
me and Pete.
I take the first set from Becker, no problem. In the second set I jump out to a 41 lead.
Here I come, Pete. Get ready, Pete. Then, just like that, Becker begins to play a rougher,
brawnier game. He wins several scrappy points. After chipping at my confidence with a tiny
nail he now pulls out a sledgehammer. He plays from the baseline, an unusual tactic for him,
and flat outmuscles me. He breaks me, and though Im still up 42, I feel something snap. Not
my hipmy mind. Im suddenly unable to control my thoughts. Im thinking of Pete, waiting.
Im thinking of my sister Rita, whose husband, Pancho, just lost a long bout with stomach cancer.
Im thinking of Becker, still working with Nick, who, tanner than ever, the color of prime
rib, sits above us in Beckers box. I wonder if Nick has told Becker my secretsfor instance,
the way Ive figured out Beckers serve. (Just before he tosses the ball, Becker sticks out his
tongue and it points like a tiny red arrow to where hes aiming.) Im thinking of Brooke, whos
been shopping at Harrods this week with Petes girlfriend, a law student named DeLaina Mulcahy.
All these thoughts go crashing through my mind, making me feel scattered, fractured,
and this allows Becker to capture the momentum. He never gives it back. He wins in four
sets.
The loss is one of the most devastating of my life. Afterward, I dont say a word to anyone.
Gil, Brad, BrookeI dont speak to them because I cant. I am broken, gut-shot.
BROOKE AND I ARE DUE TO FLY AWAY on a vacation. Weve been planning it for
weeks. We wanted someplace remote, with no phones, no other people, so we booked Indigo
Island, 150 miles from Nassau. After the Wimbledon debacle, I want to cancel, but Brooke reminds
me weve secured the entire island, our deposit is nonrefundable.
Besides, its supposed to be paradise, she says. It will be good for us.
I frown.
Just as I feared, from the moment we arrive, paradise feels like Super-max. On the entire
island there is one house, and its not big enough for the three of usBrooke, me, and my
black mood.
Brooke lies in the sun and waits for me to speak. Shes not frightened by my silence, but
she doesnt understand it, either. In her world, everyone pretends, whereas in mine some
things cant be pretended away.
After two days of silence I thank her for being so patient, and tell her Im back.
Im going to go for a jog on the beach, I say.
I start at a leisurely pace, then find myself running hundred-meter sprints. Im already
thinking about getting in shape, reloading for the hard courts of summer.
I GO TO WASHINGTON, D.C. The Legg Mason Tennis Classic. The weather is obscenely
hot. Brad and I try to get acclimated to the heat by practicing in the middle of the afternoon.
When were done, fans gather and shout questions. Few of the other players hang around
talking to fans, but I do. I like it. For me, fans are always preferable to reporters.
After weve signed the last autograph and answered the last question, Brad says he needs
a beer. He looks sly. Somethings up. I take him to the Tombs, the place Perry and I frequented
when I visited him during his Georgetown days. The bar has a miniature street door, then
a narrow staircase down into damp darkness and a smell of unclean bathrooms. It also has
one of those open kitchens, so you can watch the cooks, and while thats a good thing at
some places, its not a plus at the Tombs. We find a booth and order drinks. Brad is put out
because they dont have Bud Ice. He settles for Bud. I feel tremendous after the workout, relaxed,
fit. I havent thought of Becker in almost twenty minutes. Brad puts a stop to that. From
the inside pocket of his black cashmere pullover he removes a wad of papers, and in an agitated
way he drops them on the table.
Becker, he says.
What?
This is what he said after beating you at Wimbledon.
What do I care?
Hes talking shit.
What kind of shit?
He reads.
Becker used his post-match news conference to complain that Wimbledon promotes me
over other players. He complained that Wimbledon officials unfairly bend over backward to
schedule my matches on Centre Court. He complained that all major tournaments kiss my
ass. Then he got personal. He called me an elitist. He said that I dont associate with other
players. He said that Im not well liked on the tour. He said Im not open, and if I were open,
maybe other players wouldnt fear me so much.
In short, he issued a declaration of war.
Brad has never cared for Becker. Brad has always called him B. B. Socrates, because he
thinks Becker tries to come off as an intellectual, when hes just an overgrown farmboy. But
Brad is now so incensed that he cant sit still in our booth at the Tombs.
Andre, he says, it is so fucking on. Mark my words. Were going to run into this motherfucker
again. Were going to run into him at the U.S. Open. And until then, were going to prepare,
train, plot revenge.
I read Beckers quotes again. I cant believe it. I knew the guy didnt like me, but this. I look
down and find that Im clenching and unclenching my fist.
Brad says, Do you hear? I want you to takethisfuckerOUT.
Consider it done.
We clink our beer bottles, swear an oath.
Whats more, I tell myself, after Becker Im going to keep on winning. Im simply not going
to lose anymore. At least not until the frost is on the pumpkin. Im sick of losing, sick of being
disappointed, sick and tired of guys disrespecting my game as much as I do.
AND SO THE SUMMER OF 1995 becomes the Summer of Revenge. Running on pure
animosity I steamroll through the D.C. tournament. In the final I face Edberg. Im the better
player, but its well over one hundred degrees, and such extreme heat is a great equalizer. In
this heat, all men are the same. At the start of our match I cant think, cant find a groove.
Luckily, Edberg cant either. I win the first set, he wins the second, and in the third set I go up
52. The fans cheerthose fans who arent suffering heatstroke. The match is stopped several
times so that someone in the stands can receive medical attention.
Im serving for the match. At least thats what they tell me. Im also hallucinating. I dont
know what game Im playing. Is this Nerf ping-pong? Im supposed to hit this fuzzy yellow ball
back and forth? To whom? My teeth are chattering. I see three balls come across the net, and
I hit the middle one.
My only hope is that Edberg is hallucinating too. Maybe hell black out before I do and Ill
win in a forfeit. I wait, watch him closely, but then I take a turn for the worse. My stomach
clinches. He breaks me.
Now hes serving. I call time, step away, and toss my breakfast onto a decorative planter
at the back of the court. When I resume my position, Edberg has no trouble holding serve.
Im serving again for the match. We rally, weakly, each of us hitting timid shots in the center
of the court, like ten-year-old girls playing badminton. He breaks meagain.
Fiveall. I drop my racket and stumble off the court.
Theres an unwritten rule, or maybe its actually written, that if you leave the court with
your racket, you forfeit. So I drop the racket, to let people know Im coming back. In my deliri
ous state, I still care about the rules of tennis, but I also care about the rules of physics. What
goes down, in this heat, must come up, and soon. I vomit several times on my way to the
locker room. I run to the toilet and bring up a meal I had days ago. Maybe years ago. I feel as
if Im going into shock. At last the locker rooms air-conditioning, plus the total purge of my
stomach, starts to revive me.
The referee knocks at the door.
Andre! Youre going to lose points if you dont return to the court right now.
Stomach empty, head spinning, I return. I break Edberg. I have no idea how. Then I hold
on for the match.
I stumble to the net, where Edberg is leaning, close to fainting. We both have a hard time
staying on court for the ceremony. When they hand me the trophy I think about vomiting into
it. They hand me a microphone, to say a few words, and I think about vomiting on it too. I apologize
for my behavior, especially to the people sitting by the ill-used flowerpot. I want to publicly
suggest that officials consider relocating this tournament to Iceland, but I need to vomit
again. I drop the microphone and run.
Brooke asks why I didnt just quit.
Because its the Summer of Revenge.
After the match Tarango publicly objects to my behavior. He demands an explanation for
why I left the court. He says that he was waiting to get on to play his doubles match, and I
delayed him. Hes annoyed. Im delighted. I want to go back to the court, find the flowerpot,
have it gift-wrapped and sent to Tarango, with a note that says, Call this out, cheater.
I never forget. Something Becker is about to learn the hard way.
From D.C. I go to Montreal, where its blessedly cooler. I beat Pete in the final. Three
hard-fought sets. Beating Pete always feels good, but this time it barely registers. I want
Becker. I beat Chang in the final at Cincinnati, praise God, and then go to New Haven, back
into the blast furnace of the Northeast summer. I reach the final and face Krajicek. Hes big,
six foot five at least, and burly, and yet surprisingly light on his feet. Two strides and hes
there at the net, snarling, ready to snack on your heart. Also, his serve is monstrous. I dont
want to spend three hours coping with that serve. After winning three tournaments in quick
succession, I have very little left. Brad, however, wont tolerate such talk.
Youre in training, remember? The grudge match to end all grudge matches? Let it fly, he
says.
So I let it fly. The problem is, Krajicek does too. He beats me in the first set, 63. In the
second set he has match point twice. But I dont yield. I tie the set, win the tiebreak, and win
the third set going away. Its my twentieth straight match victory, my fourth straight tournament
victory. Ive won sixty-three of seventy matches this year, forty-four of forty-six on hard
court. Reporters ask if I feel invincible, and I say no. They think Im being modest, but Im
telling the truth. Its how I feel. Its the only way I can allow myself to feel in the Summer of
Revenge. Pride is bad, stress is good. I dont want to feel confident. I want to feel rage. Endless,
all-consuming rage.
ALL THE TALK ON THE TOUR is about my rivalry with Pete, largely because of a new
Nike ad campaign, including a popular TV commercial in which we hop out of a cab in the
middle of San Francisco, set up a net, and go at it. The New York Times Sunday Magazine
publishes a long profile about the rivalry and the chasm between our personalities. It describes
Petes absorption in tennis, his love of the game. I wonder what the writer would have
made of the chasm if hed known my true feelings about tennis. If only Id told him.
I set the story aside. I pick it up again. I dont want to read it. I must. It feels odd, unnerving,
because Pete isnt uppermost in my thoughts right now. Day and night, I think of Becker,
only Becker. And yet, skimming the article, I wince when Pete is asked what he likes about
me.
He cant think of anything.
Finally he says: I like the way he travels.
AT LAST, AUGUST COMES. Gil and Brad and I drive to New York for the 1995 U.S.
Open. On our first morning at Louis Armstrong Stadium I see Brad in the locker room, holding
the draw in his hands.
Its good, he says, smiling. Oh its so good. AG. All Good.
Im on Beckers side of the draw. If everything goes according to Brads plan, Ill face
Becker in the semis. Then, Pete. I think: If only, when were born, we could look over our draw
in life, project our path to the final.
In the early rounds Im on autopilot. I know what I want, I see what I want, just ahead, and
opponents are mere road cones. Edberg. Alex Corretja. Petr Korda. I need to get past them to
reach my target, so I do. After each win Brad isnt his typical ebullient self. He doesnt smile.
He doesnt celebrate. Hes preoccupied by Becker. Hes monitoring Beckers progress, charting
his matches. He wants Becker to win every match, every point.
As I walk off the court with another victory, Brad says drily, Another good day.
Thanks. Yeah, felt good.
No. I mean B. B. Socrates. He won.
Pete handles his business. He reaches the final on his side of the draw and now awaits
the winner of Agassi-Becker. Its Wimbledon all over again, Part II. But this time Im not thinking
of Pete. Im not looking ahead. Ive been gunning for Becker, and now the moment is
here, and my concentration is so intense, it frightens me.
A friend asks if I dont feel even the slightest impulse, when its personal with an opponent,
to drop the racket and go for his throat. When its a grudge match, when theres bad blood,
wouldnt I rather settle it with a few rounds of old-fashioned boxing? I tell my friend that tennis
is boxing. Every tennis player, sooner or later, compares himself to a boxer, because tennis is
noncontact pugilism. Its violent, mano a mano, and the choice is as brutally simple as it is in
any ring. Kill or be killed. Beat or take your beat-down. Tennis beatings are just deeper below
the skin. They remind me of the old Vegas loan shark method of beating someone with a bag
of oranges, because it leaves no outer bruises.
And yet, having said that, Im only human. So before we take the court, as Becker and I
stand in the tunnel, I tell the security guard, James: Keep us apart. I dont want this fucking
German in my sight. Trust me, James, you dont want me to see him.
Becker feels the same way. He knows what he said, and he knows Ive read it fifty times
and memorized it. He knows Ive been stewing in his remarks all summer, and he knows I
want blood. He does too. Hes never liked me, and for him this also has been the Summer of
Revenge. We walk onto the court, avoiding eye contact, refusing to acknowledge the crowd,
focused on our gear, our tennis bags, and the nasty job at hand.
From the opening bell, its what I thought it would be. Were sneering, snorting, cursing in
two different languages. I win the first set, 76. Becker looks infuriatingly unfazed. Why
shouldnt he? This is how our match at Wimbledon started. He doesnt worry about falling behind
hes proved that he can take my best punch and come back.
I win the second set, 76. Now he starts to squirm, to look for an edge. He tries to play
with my mind. Hes seen me lose my cool before, so he does what he thinks will make me
lose my cool again, the most emasculating thing one tennis player can do to another: He
blows kisses at my box. At Brooke.
It works. Im so angry that I momentarily lose focus. In the third set, with me ahead, 42,
Becker dives for a ball that he has no business reaching. He gets there, wins the point, then
breaks me, then wins the set. The crowd is now wild. They seem to have figured it out, that
this is personal, that these two guys dont like each other, that were settling old scores. They
appreciate the drama, and they want it to go the distance, and now it really feels like Wimbledon
all over again. Becker feeds on their energy. He blows more kisses at Brooke, smiling
wolfishly. It worked once, why not do it again? I look at Brad, next to Brooke, and he gives me
a steely glare, the vintage Brad look that says: Come on! Lets go!
The fourth set is nip and tuck. Were each holding serve, looking for an opening to break. I
glance at the clock. Nine thirty. No one here is going home. Lock the doors, send out for
sandwiches, were not leaving until this fucking thing is settled. The intensity is palpable. Ive
never wanted a match so much. I never wanted anything so much. I hold serve to go up 65
and now Beckers serving to stay in the match.
He sticks his tongue to my right, serves right. I guess right and cold-cock it. Winner. I
crush his next two serves. Now hes serving at love40, triple match point.
Perry is barking at him. Brooke is raining bloodcurdling screams down on him. Becker is
smiling, waving at them both, as if hes Miss America. He misfires his first serve. I know hes
going to get aggressive with his second. Hes a champion, hes going to bring it like a champion.
Also, his tongue is in the middle of his mouth. Sure enough he brings a faster-paced
second serve straight up the gut. Normally you have to worry about the high bounce and kick,
so you move in, try to catch it early before it bounces above your shoulder, but I gamble, hold
my ground, and the gamble pays off. Here is the ball, in my wheelhouse. I slide my hips out of
the way, put myself in place to hit the coldie of a lifetime. The serve is a click faster than I anticipated
but I adjust. Im on my toes, feeling like Wyatt Earp and Spider-Man and Spartacus. I
swing. Every hair on my body is standing up. As the ball leaves my racket a sound leaves my
mouth thats pure animal. I know that I wont ever make this sound again, and I wont ever hit
a tennis ball any harder, or any more perfect. Hitting a ball dead perfectthe only peace. As it
lands on Beckers side of the court the sound is still coming from me.
AAAAGHHHHHHHHH.
The ball blazes past Becker. Match, Agassi.
Becker walks to the net. Let him stand there. The fans are on their feet, swaying, ecstatic.
Im gazing at Brooke and Gil and Perry and Brad, especially Brad. Come on! I keep gazing.
Becker is still at the net. I dont care. I leave him standing there like a Jehovahs Witness on
my doorstep. Finally, finally, I strip off my wristbands and go to the net and stick my hand in
his general vicinity, without looking. He gives my hand a shake, and I snatch it away.
A TV reporter rushes onto the court and asks me a few questions. I answer without thinking.
Then I look into the camera with a smile and say, Pete! Im coming!
I run into the tunnel, into the training room. Gil is there, worried. He knows what that victory
must have cost me physically.
Im in bad shape, Gil.
Lie down, man.
My head is ringing. Im sopping wet. Its ten at night, and Ive got to play in the final in less
than eighteen hours. Between now and tomorrow Ive got to come down from this near-
psychotic state, get home, eat a good hot meal, drink a gallon of Gil Water until I piss a kidney,
and then get some sleep.
Gil drives me back to Brookes brownstone. We eat dinner, and then I sit in the shower for
an hour. Its one of those showers that makes you think you should write a check to several
environmental groups and maybe plant a tree. At two in the morning I lie down beside Brooke
and black out.
I OPEN MY EYES FIVE HOURS LATER, no idea where I am. I sit up and let out a
scream, a compacted version of my final scream against Becker. I cant move.
At first I think its a stomach cramp. Then I realize its much more serious. I roll off the bed,
onto my hands and knees. I know what this is. Ive had this before. Torn cartilage between the
ribs. I have a pretty good idea which shot tore it. But this tear must be particularly severe, because
I cant expand my rib cage. I can barely breathe.
I remember vaguely that it takes three weeks for this injury to heal. But Ive got nine hours
before I face Pete. Its seven in the morning, the match is at four. I call for Brooke. She must
be out. Im lying on my side, saying aloud, This cant be happening. Please dont let this be
happening.
I close my eyes and pray that Ill be able to walk onto the court. Even asking for this much
seems ridiculous, because I cant stand. Hard as I try, I cant get to my feet.
God, please. I cant not show up for the final of the U.S. Open.
I crawl to the phone and dial Gil.
Gilly, I cant stand up. I literally cant stand up.
Ill be right over.
By the time he arrives, Im standing, but still having trouble breathing. I tell him what I think
it must be, and he concurs. He watches me drink a cup of coffee, then says: Its time. We
need to go.
We look at the clock and both do the only thing we can do in such a momentwe laugh.
Gil drives me to the stadium. On the practice court I hit one ball and the ribs grab me. I hit
another. I yell in pain. I hit a third. It still hurts, but I can put some mustard on it. I can breathe.
How do you feel?
Better. Im about thirty-eight percent.
We stare at each other. Maybe that will be enough.
But Pete is pushing 100 percent. He comes out prepared, braced for a dose of what he
saw me give Becker. I lose the first set, 64. I lose the second set, 63.
I win the third set, however. Im learning what I can get away with. Im finding shortcuts,
compromises, back doors. I see a few chances to turn this thing into a miracle. I just cant exploit
them. I lose the fourth set, 75.
Reporters ask how it feels to win twenty-six matches in a row, to win all summer long, only
to run into the giant net that is Pete. I think: How do you think it feels? I say: Next summer Im
going to lose a little bit. Im 261, and Id give up all those wins for this one.
On the drive back to the brownstone, Im holding my ribs, staring out the window, reliving
every shot of the Summer of Revenge. All that work and anger and winning and training and
hoping and sweating, and it leads to the same empty disappointed feeling. No matter how
much you win, if youre not the last one to win, youre a loser. And in the end I always lose,
because there is always Pete. As always, Pete.
Brooke steers clear. She gives me kind looks and sympathetic frowns, but it doesnt feel
real, because she doesnt understand. Shes waiting for me to feel better, for this to pass, for
things to get back to normal. Losing is abnormal.
Brooke has told me that she has a ritual when I lose, a way of killing time until normalcy is
restored. While Im mutely grieving, she goes through her closets and pulls out everything she
hasnt worn in months. She folds sweaters and T-shirts, reorganizes socks and stockings and
shoes into drawers and boxes. The night I lose to Pete, I peer into Brookes closet.
Neat as a pin.
In our brief relationship, shes had lots of time to kill.
18
WHILE FACING WILANDER IN DAVIS CUP, I alter my movements to protect my torn rib
cartilage, but when you protect one thing you often damage another. I hit an odd forehand
and feel a chest muscle pull. It stays warm during the match, but when I wake the next morning
I cant move.
The doctors shut me down for weeks. Brad is suicidal.
A layoff will cost you the number one rank, he says.
I couldnt care less. Pete is number one, no matter what some computer says. Pete won
two slams this year, and he won our showdown in New York. Besides, I still dont give a rats
ass about being number one. Would have been nice; wasnt my goal. Then again, beating
Pete wasnt my goal either, but losing to him has caused me to plummet into a bottomless
gloom.
Ive always had trouble shaking off hard losses, but this loss to Pete is different. This is the
ultimate loss, the ber-loss, the alpha-omega loss that eclipses all others. Previous losses to
Pete, the loss to Courier, the loss to Gmezthey were flesh wounds compared to this,
which feels like a spear through the heart. Every day this loss feels new. Every day I tell myself
to stop thinking about it, and every day I cant. The only respite is fantasizing about retirement.
Brooke, meanwhile, is working nonstop. Her acting career is taking off. As per Perrys advice,
shes bought a house in Los Angeles and shes been pursuing roles on TV. Now shes
landed a plum, a small guest spot in an episode of the sitcom Friends.
Its the number one show in the world, she says. Number one!
I wince. That phrase again. She doesnt notice.
The producers of Friends have asked Brooke to play a stalker. I cringe, thinking of the
nightmare shes endured with stalkers and overly enthusiastic fans. But Brooke thinks her experience
with so many stalkers will be good preparation for this part. She says she understands
the stalker mind-set.
Plus, Andre, its Friends. The number one show on TV. It might lead to a recurring role on
the show. And besides the fact that Friends is number one, my episode is going to air right
after the Super Bowlfifty million people will see it. This is like my U.S. Open.
A tennis analogy. The surest way to make me disconnect from her desire. But I pretend to
be pleased, and say the right things. If youre happy, I say, Im happy. She believes me. Or
acts as if she does. Which often feels like the same thing.
We agree that Perry and I will go with her to Hollywood and watch her shoot the episode.
Well be in her box, as shes always been in mine.
Wont that be fun? she says.
No, I think.
Yes, I say. Fun.
I dont want to go. But I also dont want to lie around the house anymore, talking to myself.
Sore chest, wounded egoeven I dont want to be alone with me.
In the days leading up to the taping of Friends we barricade ourselves in Brookes house
in Los Angeles. She has a fellow actor come over every day to help run lines. I watch them.
Brooke is keyed up, feeling pressure, training hard, a process thats familiar to me. Im proud
of her. I tell her shes going to be a star. Good things are about to happen.
WE ARRIVE AT THE STUDIO late in the afternoon. A half-dozen actors greet us warmly.
Theyre the cast, I assume, the eponymous Friends, but for all I know they could be six unemployed
actors from West Covina. Ive never seen the show. Brooke hugs them, flushes, stammers,
even though shes already spent days rehearsing with them. Ive never seen her this
starstruck. I introduced her to Barbra Streisand and she didnt react this way.
I stay a few steps behind Brooke, in the shadows. I dont want to take any of her limelight,
and besides, Im not feeling sociable. But the actors are tennis fans and they keep drawing
me into the conversation. They ask about my injury, congratulate me on a successful year.
The year feels anything but successful, but I thank them as politely as I can and step back
again.
They persist. They ask about the U.S. Open. The rivalry with Pete. Whats that like? You
guys are great for tennis.
Yes, well.
Are you guys friends?
Friends? Did they really just ask me that? Are they asking because theyre the Friends?
Id never thought of it before, but yes, I guess Pete and I are friends.
I turn to Perry for support. But hes like Brooke, weirdly starstruck. In fact hes going a little
native. Hes talking showbiz with the actors, dropping names, playing the insider.
Mercifully, Brooke is summoned to her trailer. Perry and I follow and sit with her while a
team of people blows out and combs her hair, and another team tends to her makeup and
wardrobe. I watch Brooke as she watches herself in the mirror. Shes so happy, so hyper, like
a girl primping for her sweet sixteen party, and Im so out of place. I feel myself shutting down.
I say the appropriate things, I smile and mouth encouragements, but on the inside I feel
something like a valve shut. I wonder if what I feel is the same thing Brooke feels when Im
tense before a tournament, or grieving a loss afterward. My feigned interest, my canned answers,
my fundamental lack of interestis this what I reduce her to half the time?
We walk to the set, a purple apartment with secondhand furniture. We stand around,
killing time, while large men fuss with lights and the director confers with writers. Someone is
telling jokes, trying to warm up the crowd. I find a seat in the front row, close to a fake door
Brooke is supposed to enter. The crowd is buzzing, as is the crew. There is a sense of building
anticipation. I cant stop yawning. I feel like Pete, forced to watch Grease. I wonder why I
have so much respect for Broadway, and such disdain for this.
Someone yells: Quiet! Someone else yells: Action! Brooke steps forward and knocks at
the fake door. It swings open, and Brooke delivers her first line. The audience laughs and
cheers. The director yells, Cut! A woman several rows behind me yells: Youre doing great,
Brooke!
The director praises Brooke. She listens to the praise, nodding. Thank you, she says, but I
can do it better. She wants to do it again, she wants another chance. OK, the director says.
While they set up for the next take, Perry gives Brooke pointers. He doesnt know the first
thing about acting, but Brooke is feeling so insecure that shed take notes from anyone right
now. She listens and nods. Theyre standing just below me, and hes lecturing her as if hes
the head of the Actors Studio.
Places, please!
Brooke thanks Perry and runs to the door.
Quiet, everybody!
Brooke closes her eyes.
Action!
She knocks at the fake door, does the scene exactly the same way.
Cut!
Fantastic, the director tells Brooke.
She hurries over to me and asks what I thought. Terrific, I say, and Im not lying. She was.
Even if TV annoys me, even if the atmosphere and the fakery turn me off, I respect hard work.
I admire her dedication. Shes giving her all. I kiss her and tell her Im proud.
Are you finished?
No, I have another scene.
Oh.
We move to a different set, a restaurant. Brookes stalker character is on a date with the
object of her affection, Joey. Shes seated at a table across from the actor playing Joey Another
interminable wait. More notes from Perry. At last the director yells, Action!
The actor playing Joey seems like a nice enough guy. When the scene starts, however, I
realize Im going to have to kick his ass. Apparently the script calls for Brooke to grab Joeys
hand and lick it. But she takes it one step further, devouring his hand like an ice cream cone.
Cut! That was great, the director says. But lets try it once more. Brooke is laughing. Joey is
laughingwiping his hand on a napkin. Im staring, wide-eyed. Brooke didnt mention anything
about hand licking. She knew what my reaction would be.
This is not my life, this cannot be my life. Im not really here, Im not really sitting with two
hundred people and watching my girlfriend lick another mans hand.
I look up at the ceiling, directly into the lights.
Theyre going to do it again.
Quiet, please!
Action!
Brooke takes Joeys hand and puts it in her mouth, up to the knuckles. This time she rolls
her eyes back and runs her tongue along
I jump out of my seat, run downstairs, push through a side door. Its dark. How did it get
dark so fast? Right outside the door is my rented Lincoln. Behind me come Perry and Brooke.
Perrys mystified. Brookes frantic. She grabs my arm and asks, Where are you going? You
cant be going!
Perry says, Whats wrong? Whats the matter?
You know. You both know.
Brooke is begging me to stay. So is Perry. I tell them theres no chance, I dont want to
watch her lick that mans hand.
Dont do this, Brooke says.
Me? Me? Im not doing anything. Go back and enjoy yourselves. Break a leg. Have some
more hand. Im out of here.
IM DRIVING FAST ON THE FREEWAY, weaving in and out of traffic. Im not sure where
Im going, except that Im not going back to Brookes. Fuck that. Suddenly I realize that Im
going all the way to Vegas, and Im not stopping until I get there, and I feel great about this
decision. I open up the engine and roar past the city limits, on into the desert, nothing
between me and my bed but a stretch of wasteland and a swirl of stars.
When the radio turns to static, I try to tune in my emotions. I felt jealous, yes, but also dislocated,
out of touch with myself. Like Brooke, I was playing a part, the role of the Dopey Boyfriend,
and I thought I was pulling it off. But when the hand licking started I couldnt stay in
character any longer. Of course, Ive watched Brooke kiss men onstage before. Ive also had
the experience of meeting a perv who couldnt wait to tell me about making out with my girlfriend
on a movie set when she was fifteen. This is different. This is over the line. I dont pretend
to know where the line is, but hand licking is definitely over it.
I pull up to the bachelor pad at two a.m. The driving has tired me, taken the edge off my
anger. Im still angry, but also contrite. I dial Brooke.
Im sorry. I justI needed to get out of there.
She says everyone asked where I was. She says I humiliated her, jeopardized her big
break. She says everyone told her how good she was, but she couldnt enjoy a minute of her
success, because the only person she wanted to share it with was gone.
You were a major distraction, she says, raising her voice. I had to block you out of my
mind so that I could concentrate on my lines, which made everything harder. If I ever did anything
like that to you, at a match, youd be incensed.
I couldnt watch you lick that guys hand.
I was acting, Andre. Acting. Did you forget that Im an actor, that acting is what I do for a
living, that its all pretend? Make-believe?
If only I could forget.
I start to defend myself, but Brooke says she doesnt want to hear it. She hangs up.
I stand in the middle of my living room and feel the floor shaking. I briefly consider the possibility
that Vegas is being struck by an earthquake. I dont know what to do, where to stand. I
walk to the shelf that holds my tennis trophies and pick one up. I hurl it through the living
room, through the kitchen. It breaks in several pieces. I pick up another and hurl it against the
wall. One by one I do this with all my trophies. Davis Cup? Smash. U.S. Open? Smash.
Wimbledon? Smash, smash. I pull the rackets out of my tennis bag and try to smash the glass
coffee table, but only the rackets shatter. I pick up the broken trophies and smash them
against the walls and then against other things in the house. When the trophies cant be
smashed anymore, I fling myself on the couch, which is covered with plaster from the gouged
walls.
Hours later I open my eyes. I survey the damage as if someone else is responsibleand
its true. It was someone else. The someone who does half the shit I do.
My phone rings. Brooke. I apologize again, tell her about breaking my trophies. Her tone
softens. Shes concerned. She hates that I was so upset, that I got jealous, that Im in pain. I
tell her I love her.
ONE MONTH LATER Im in Stuttgart for the start of the indoor season. If I were to list all
the places in the world where I dont want to be, all the continents and countries, the cities
and towns, the villages and hamlets and burgs, Stuttgart would be at the top of my list. If I live
to be a thousand years old, I think, nothing good is ever going to happen to me in Stuttgart.
Nothing against Stuttgart. I just dont want to be here, now, playing tennis.
Nevertheless, here I am, and its an important match. If I win, I will consolidate my number
one ranking, which Brad badly wants. Im playing MaliVai Washington, whom I know well. I
played him all through juniors. Good athlete, covers the court like a tarp, always makes me
beat him. His legs are pure bronze, so I cant attack them. I cant tire him out like a typical opponent.
I have to outthink him. And so I do. Im up a set, rolling along, when suddenly I feel as
if Ive stepped in a mousetrap. I look down. The bottom of my shoe has fallen off. Peeled
away.
I didnt bring an extra pair of tennis shoes.
I halt the match, tell officials that I need new shoes. An announcement is made over the
loudspeaker, in urgent staccato German. Can someone lend a shoe to Mr. Agassi? Size ten
and a half?
It has to be a Nike, I addbecause of my contract.
A man in the upper bleachers rises and waves his shoe. He would be happy, he says, to
loan me his Schuh. Brad goes up to the stands and retrieves it. Though the man is a size
nine, I force his shoe on my foot, like some half-wit Cinderella, and resume play.
Is this my life?
This cant be my life.
Im playing a match for the number one ranking in the world, wearing a shoe borrowed
from a stranger in Stuttgart. I think of my father using tennis balls to mend our shoes when we
were kids. This feels more awkward, more ridiculous. Im emotionally exhausted, and I wonder
why I dont just stop. Walk off. Leave. What keeps me going? How am I managing to select
shots and hold serve and break serve? Mentally I leave the arena. I go to the mountains,
rent a ski cabin, make myself an omelet, put my feet up, breathe in the snowy smell of the
forest.
I tell myself: If I win this match, Ill retire. And if I lose this match, Ill retire.
I lose.
I dont retire. Instead, I do the opposite of retiring: I get on a plane to Australia to play in a
slam. The 1996 Australian Open is only days away, and Im the defending champ. Im in no
frame of mind. I look deranged. My eyes are bloodshot, my face is gaunt. The flight attendant
should kick me off. I almost kick myself off. Minutes after Brad and I board, I nearly jump out
of my seat and run for it. Brad, seeing my expression, takes my arm.
Come on, he says. Relax. You never know. Maybe something good will happen.
I swallow a sleeping pill and down a vodka, and when I open my eyes the plane is taxiing
to the gate in Melbourne. Brad drives us to the hotel, the Como. My head is in a fog as thick
as mashed potatoes. A bellboy shows me to my room, which has a piano and a spiral staircase
with shiny wood steps in the center. I tap a few keys on the piano, stagger up the steps
to bed. I fall backward. My knee hits the sharp edge of a metal balustrade and tears open. I
tumble down the stairs. Blood is everywhere.
I call Gil. Hes there in two minutes. He says its the patella, the kneecap. Bad cut, he
says. Bad bruise. He bandages me, puts me on the couch. In the morning he shuts me down.
He doesnt let me practice. We have to be careful with that patella, he says. Itll be a miracle if
the thing holds up for seven matches.
Limping noticeably, I play the first round with a bandage on my knee and a film over my
eyes. Its plain to fans, sportswriters, commentators, that Im not the player I was a year ago. I
drop the first set and quickly fall behind two breaks in the second. Im going to be the first defending
champion since Roscoe Tanner to lose a first-round match in a slam.
Im playing Gastn Etlis, from Argentina, whoever that is. He doesnt even look like a tennis
player. He looks like a substitute schoolteacher. He has sweaty ringlets and a sinister five-
oclock shadow. Hes a doubles guy, only playing singles because by some miracle he qualified.
He looks astonished to be here. A guy like this, I normally beat him in the locker room
with one hard stare, but hes up a set on me and leading in the second set. Jesus. And hes
the one suffering. If I look pained, he looks panicked. He looks as if he has a ninety-pound
bullfrog lodged in his throat. I hope he has the balls to close me out, to finish me off, because
Im better off right now with a loss and an early exit.
But Etlis gags, freezes, makes shockingly bad decisions.
I start to feel weak. I shaved my head this morning, full-on, bare-scalp bald, because I
wanted to punish myself. Why? Because it still rankles that I ruined Brookes cameo on
Friends, because I broke all my trophies, because I came to a slam without putting in the
workand because I lost to Pete at the U.S. Fucking Open. You cant fool the man in the mirror,
Gil always says, so Im going to make that man pay. My nickname on the tour is The Punisher,
because of the way I run guys back and forth. Now Im hell-bent on punishing my most
intractable opponent, myself, by burning his head.
Mission accomplished. The Australian sun is flame-broiling my skin. I scold myself, then
forgive myself, then press reset and find a way to tie the second set. Then I win the tiebreak.
My mind is chattering. What else can I do with my life? Should I break up with Brooke?
Should I marry her? I lose the third set. Again Etlis cant stand prosperity. I win the fourth set
in another tiebreak. In the fifth set Etlis wears out, gives up. Im neither proud nor relieved. Im
embarrassed. My head looks like a blood blister. Put a blister on his brain.
Later, reporters ask if I worry about sunburn. I laugh. Honestly, I tell them, sunburn is the
least of my worries. I want to add: Im already mentally fried. But I dont.
In the quarters I play Courier. Hes beaten me six straight times. Weve had terrific battles,
on the court and in the newspapers. After he beat me at the 1989 French Open, he complained
about all the attention I get. He said he felt as if he forever plays second fiddle to me.
Sounds like an insecurity problem, I told reporters.
To which Courier shot back: Im insecure?
Hes also been chippy about my ever-changing appearance and psyche. Asked what he
thought of the new Agassi, he once said: You mean the new Agassi, or the new new Agassi?
Weve patched things up since then. Ive told Courier that I root for his success, that I consider
him a friend, and hes said the same. But theres still a curtain of tension between us,
and there may always be, at least until one of us retires, since our rivalry dates back to puberty,
back to Nick.
The match starts late, delayed by the womens quarters. We get on the court close to midnight
and play nine games on serve. So this is how its going to be. Then the rain falls. Officials
could close the roof, but it would take forty minutes. They ask if wed rather come back
tomorrow. We both say yes.
Sleep helps. I wake refreshed, wanting to beat Courier. But its not Courier on the other
side of the netits a pale facsimile. Despite being up two sets to love, he looks tentative,
burned out. I recognize that look. Ive seen it in the mirror many times. I swoop in for the kill. I
win the match, beating Courier for the first time in years.
When reporters ask about Couriers game I say: Hes not where he wants to be.
I want to say: Theres a lot of that going around.
The win helps me regain the number one rank. Once again Ive dethroned Pete, but its
just another reminder of when I didnt, couldnt, beat him.
In the semis I face Chang. I know I can win, but I also know that I will lose. In fact I want to
lose, I must lose, because Becker is waiting in the final. The last thing I need right now is another
holy war with Becker. I couldnt handle that. I wouldnt have the stomach for it, which
means Id lose. Given a choice between Becker and Chang, Id rather lose to Chang. Be
sides, its always easier psychologically to lose in the semis than in the final.
So Ill lose today. Congratulations, Chang. I hope you and your Messiah will be very
happy.
But losing on purpose isnt easy. Its almost harder than winning. You have to lose in such
a way that the crowd cant tell, and in a way that you cant tellbecause of course youre not
wholly conscious of losing on purpose. Youre not even half conscious. Your mind is tanking,
but your body is fighting on. Muscle memory. Its not even all of your mind that purposely
loses, but a breakaway faction, a splinter group. The deliberately bad decisions are made in a
dark place, far below the surface. You dont do those tiny things you need to do. You dont run
the extra few feet, you dont lunge. Youre slow to come out of stops. You hesitate to bend or
dig. You get handsy, not using your legs and hips. You make a careless error, compensate
for the error with a spectacular shot, then make two more errors, and slowly but surely you
slide backward. You never actually think, Im going to net this ball. Its more complicated,
more insidious.
At the post-match news conference Brad tells reporters: Today, Andre hit the wall.
True, I think. So very true. But I dont tell Brad that I hit the wall every day. It would crush
him to know that today the wall felt good, that I kissed the wall, that Im glad I lost, that Id
rather be on that plane back to Los Angeles than lacing them up for a rematch with our old
friend B. B. Socrates. Id rather be anywhere but hereeven Hollywood, my next stop. Since I
lost, Ill get home just in time to watch the Super Bowl, followed by the special hour-long episode
of Friends, featuring Brooke Shields.
19
PERRY GRINDS ME EVERY DAY, asking whats wrong, whats the matter. I cant tell
him. I dont know. More accurately, I dont want to know. I dont want to admit to Perry or myself
that a loss to Pete can have this kind of lingering effect. For once I dont want to sit with
Perry and try to unravel the skeins of my subconscious. Ive given up on understanding myself.
I have no interest in self-analysis. In the long, losing struggle with myself, Im tanking.
I go to San Jose and get annihilated by Pete. Definitely not what the doctor ordered. I lose
my temper several times during the match, cursing at my racket, screaming at myself. Pete
looks bemused. The umpire penalizes me for swearing.
Oh, you like that? Here, take this.
I serve a ball into the upper deck.
I go to Indian Wells, lose to Chang in the quarters. I cant face the post-match press conference.
I skip out, pay a hefty fine. I go to Monte Carlo. I lose to Alberto Costa of Spain in
fifty-four minutes. As I walk off the court I hear whistles, catcalls. They may as well be coming
from inside my heart. I want to yell at the crowd: I agree!
Gil asks me, What is it?
I tell him. I come right out with it. Since losing to Pete at the U.S. Open, Ive lost the will.
Then lets not do this, Gil says. Weve got to be clear on what were doing.
I want to quit, I say, but I dont know howor when.
At the 1996 French Open Im coming unglued. Im screaming at myself all through my
first-round match. I receive an official warning. I scream louder. Im penalized a point. Im one
motherfucking cocksucker away from getting DQd for the tournament. Rain starts to fall, and
during the delay I sit in the locker room and stare straight ahead as if hypnotized. When play
resumes I outlast my opponent, Jacobo Daz, whom I cant see. Hes as blurry and watery as
the reflections in the rain puddles along the alleys of the court.
Beating Daz merely delays the inevitable. In the next round I lose to Chris Woodruff, from
Tennessee. He always reminds me of a country-western singer, and plays as if hed rather be
performing at a rodeo. Hes even more awkward on clay, and to compensate he gets aggressive,
especially on his backhand. I cant counter his aggression. I make sixty-three unforced
errors. He reacts with unbridled joy, and I gaze at him, coveting not his victory but his
enthusiasm.
Sportswriters accuse me of tanking, not going for every ball. They never get it right. When
I tank, they say Im not good enough; when Im not good enough, they say I tank. I nearly tell
them I wasnt tanking, that I was torturing myself for not being good enough. Whenever I
know that I dont deserve to win, that Im unworthy of winning, I torture myself. You could look
it up.
But I dont say anything. Once again I leave the stadium without sitting for the obligatory
news conference. Once again I happily pay the fine. Money well spent.
BROOKE TAKES ME TO A JOINT in Manhattan where the front room is smaller than a
phone booth but the main dining room is big and warm and mustard yellow. CampagnolaI
like the way she says it, I like the way it smells, I like the way we both feel as we walk in off
the street. I like the autographed photo of Sinatra next to the coat room.
This is my favorite place in New York, Brooke says, so I christen it my favorite too. We sit
in a corner, eating a light meal in that hazy twilight hour between the lunch crowd and the dinner
rush. They dont normally serve food at this hour, but the manager says in our case theyll
make an exception.
Campagnola quickly becomes an extension of our kitchen, and then of our entire relationship.
Brooke and I go there to remind ourselves of the reasons were good together. We go
there on special occasions, and we go there to make humdrum weekdays feel like special occasions.
We go there so often and so automatically after every match at the U.S. Open that
the chefs and waiters begin to set their watches by us. In a fifth set I sometimes find myself
thinking of the gang at Campagnola, knowing that theyre keeping one eye on the TV while
prepping the mozzarella, tomatoes, and prosciutto. I know, as Im bouncing the ball, just
about to serve, that Ill soon be seated at the corner table, eating buttery fried shrimp with
white wine sauce and lemon, plus a side of raviolis so soft and sweet they should count as
dessert. I know that when Brooke and I walk in the door, win or lose, the place will erupt with
applause.
Campagnolas manager, Frankie, is always dressed razor sharp, Gil sharp. Italian suit,
flowered tie, silk handkerchief. He always greets us with a gap-toothed smile and a fresh
batch of funny stories. Hes a second father to me, Brooke says when she introduces us, and
those are magic words. Surrogate father is a role for which I have the greatest respect, so I
like Frankie right away. Then he buys us a bottle of red, tells us about the celebs and grifters
and bankers and mobsters who hang out in his joint, makes Brooke laugh until her cheeks are
pink, and now I like him for my own reasons.
Frank says, John Gotti? You want to know about Gotti? He always sits right over there,
corner table, facing out. If anybodys going to take him down, he wants to see it coming.
I feel the same way, I say.
Frankie laughs darkly, then nods. I know, right?
Frankie is honest, hardworking, sincere, my kind of people. I find myself looking for his
face the moment we walk through the door. I feel better, my aches and anxieties fade, when
Frankie throws out his arms and smiles and whisks us to our table. Sometimes he kicks out
other customers, and Brooke and I pretend not to notice their frowning and complaining.
Frankies chief virtue, in my book, is the way he talks about his kids. He loves them, brags
about them, pulls out photos of them at the drop of a hat. But clearly he worries about their future.
Running a hand over his tired face one night, he tells me his kids are only in grade
school, but hes already stressed about college. He groans about the cost of higher education.
He doesnt know how hes going to make it.
Days later I talk to Perry and ask him to put aside a nest egg of Nike stock in Frankies
name. When Brooke and I next drop into Campagnola, I tell Frankie about it. The shares cant
be touched for ten years, I say, but by then they should be worth enough to significantly lighten
that tuition burden.
Frankies bottom lip trembles. Andre, he says, I cant believe youd do that for me.
The look on his face is a complete shock. I didnt understand the meaning and value of
education, the hardship and stress it causes most parents and children. Ive never thought of
education like that. School was always a place I managed to escape, not a thing to be treasured.
Setting aside the stock was merely something I did because Frankie specifically mentioned
college and I wanted to help. When I saw what it meant to him, however, I was the one
who got educated.
Helping Frankie provides more satisfaction and makes me feel more connected and alive
and myself than anything else that happens in 1996. I tell myself: Remember this. Hold on to
this. This is the only perfection there is, the perfection of helping others. This is the only thing
we can do that has any lasting value or meaning. This is why were here. To make each other
feel safe.
And as 1996 wears on, safety seems like an especially precious commodity. Brooke is
regularly receiving letters from stalkers, threatening herand sometimes mewith death and
unspeakable horrors. The letters are detailed, grisly, sick. We forward them to the FBI. We
also ask Gil to work with the agents, monitor their progress. Several times, when a letter is
traceable, Gil goes rogue. He boards a plane and pays the stalker a visit. He usually appears
early in the morning, just after dawn, at the stalkers house or workplace. He holds up the letter
and says very softly, I know who you are and where you live. Now take a good look at me,
because if you ever bother Brooke and Andre again, you will see me again, and you dont
want that, because then it will be on.
The scariest letters cant be traced. When they rise above a certain gruesome threshold,
when they threaten that something is going to happen on a specific date, Gil will stand outside
Brookes brownstone while we sleep. By stand I mean stand. On the stoop. Arms folded. He
stations himself there, looking left, then right, and he stays that way all night.
Night after night.
The strain, the sordidness, exact a heavy toll on Gil. He worries constantly that hes not
doing enough, that he may have missed something, that hell blink or look away one time and
some creep will slither past. He becomes obsessed. He falls into a nearly debilitating depression,
and I fall with him, because Im the cause. I brought this on Gil. I feel deep guilt, and Im
beset by premonitions of doom.
I try to talk myself out of it. I tell myself that you cant be unhappy when you have money in
the bank and own your own plane. But I cant help it, I feel listless, hopeless, trapped in a life I
didnt choose, hounded by people I cant see. And I cant discuss any of it with Brooke, because
I cant admit to such weakness. Feeling depressed after a loss is one thing, but feeling
depressed about nothing, about life in general, is another thing altogether. I cant feel this
way. I refuse to admit that I feel this way.
Even if I wanted to discuss it with Brooke, were not communicating well these days.
Were not on the same frequency. We dont have the same bandwidth. For instance, when I
try to talk with her about Frankie, about the satisfaction of helping him, she doesnt seem to
hear. After the initial fun of introducing me to Frankie, shes cool about him, indifferent, as if
hes played his part and now its time for him to move offstage. This follows a precedent, a
pattern that repeats itself with many people and places Brooke brings into my life. Museums,
galleries, celebrities, writers, shows, friendsI often get more from them than she does. Just
as I start to enjoy something, to learn from it, she casts it aside.
It makes me wonder if were a good fit. I dont think so. And yet I cant step back, cant
suggest we take a break, because Im already distancing myself from tennis. With no Brooke
and no tennis, Ill have nothing. I fear the void, the darkness. So I cling to Brooke, and she
clings back, and though the clinging seems loving, its more like the clinging in that painting in
the Louvre. Holding on for dear life.
As Brooke and I approach our two-year anniversary, I decide that we should formalize our
clinging. Two years is a meaningful benchmark in my love life. In every previous relationship
two years has been the make-or-break momentand Ive always chosen break. Every two
years I grow tired of the girl Im dating, or she grows tired of me, as if a timer goes off in my
heart. I was with Wendi two years, and then she declared our relationship open, which prefigured
the end. Before Wendi I was with a girl in Memphis for exactly two years, and then I
bolted. Why my love life runs in two-year cycles, I dont know. I wasnt even aware of the pattern
until Perry pointed it out.
Whatever the reason, Im determined to change. At twenty-six I believe this pattern needs
to be broken, now, or Ill be thirty-six, looking back on a series of two-year relationships that
went nowhere. If Im going to have a family, if Im going to be happy, Ive got to break this
cycle, which means pushing myself past the two-year mark, forcing myself to commit.
Of course, technically, it hasnt been two years with Brooke. With our hectic schedules,
with my playing and her filming, weve actually spent only a few months together. Were still
getting to know each other, still learning. Part of me knows I shouldnt force a decision. Part of
me simply doesnt want to be married right now. But who cares what I want? When is what I
want ever a good index of what I should do? How often do I enter a tournament, wanting to
play, only to lose in the early rounds? How often do I enter reluctantly, feeling like hell, only to
win? Maybe marriagethe ultimate match play, the ultimate single elimination tournament
is the same way.
Besides, everyone around me is getting married. Perry, Philly, J.P. In fact, Philly and J.P.
met their wives together, on the same night. After the Summer of Revenge, its the Winter of
Marriage.
I ask Perry for advice. We talk for hours in Vegas and on the phone. He leans toward marriage.
Brooke is the one, he says. How are you going to do better than a Princeton-educated
supermodel? After all, didnt we fantasize about her years ago? Didnt he predict that shed
come along? And now here she isdestiny. Whats the problem? He reminds me of Shadow-
lands. C. S. Lewis doesnt become fully alive, doesnt grow up, until he opens himself to love.
Love is how we grow up, the movie says. And as Lewis reminds his students: God wants us
to grow up.
Perry says he knows of an excellent jeweler in Los Angeles. The same jeweler Perry used
when he got engaged. Set aside the question of whether or not to propose, he says, and just
focus for a moment on the ring.
I know the kind of ring Brooke wantsround, Tiffany cutbecause shes told me. Straight
out. Shes never shy about sharing her opinions on jewels, clothes, cars, shoes. In fact, the
most animated talks we have are about things. We used to talk about our dreams, our childhoods,
our feelings. Now we avidly discuss the best sofas, the best stereos, the best cheeseburgers,
and while I find such talk interesting, an important aspect of the art of living, I fear
Brooke and I put undue emphasis on it.
I gird myself, phone the jeweler and tell her Im in the market for an engagement ring. The
words come out croaky. I feel my heart pound. I ask myself, Shouldnt this be a joyous moment
one of the great moments of life? Before I can answer, the jeweler is peppering me
with her own questions. Size? Carat? Color? Clarity? She keeps talking about clarity, asking
me about clarity.
I think: Lady, youre asking the wrong guy about clarity.
I say: All I know is round, Tiffany cut.
When do you need it?
Soon?
Can do. I think Ive got just the ring.
Days later, the ring arrives by courier. Its in a big box. I walk around with it in my pocket
for two weeks. The box feels leaden, and dangerous, as do I.
Brooke is away, filming a movie. We talk every night on the phone, and sometimes I
cradle the phone with one hand and fondle the ring with the other. Shes in the Carolinas,
where its bitter cold, but the script calls for the weather to be balmy, so the director forces her
and the other actors to suck ice cubes. It keeps their breath from fogging.
Better than licking hands.
She says a few of her lines for me, and we laugh because they sound fake. They sound
like lines.
After we hang up I go for a drive, the heater turned up high, the lights of the Strip winking
like diamonds. I replay our conversation, and I cant tell the difference between the lines in her
script and the lines weve just spoken to each other. I pull the ring box from my coat pocket
and open it. The ring catches and reflects the light. I set it on the dashboard.
Clarity.
AS BROOKE WRAPS HER FILM, I conclude a miserable stretch of tennis that has
sportswriters openly, sometimes gleefully, saying Im done. Three slams, they say. Thats far
more than we thought hed win. Brooke says we need to get away. Far away. This time we
choose Hawaii. I pack the ring.
My stomach rolls as our plane swoops toward the volcanoes. I gaze at the palm trees, the
foaming coastline, the misty rain forests, and think: another island paradise. Why do we always
feel compelled to run off to island paradises? Its as though we have Blue Lagoon Syndrome.
I fantasize about the engine sputtering, the plane spiraling down into the mouth of a
volcano. To my chagrin we land safely.
Ive rented a bungalow at the Mauna Lani resort. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room,
a pool, a full-time chef. Plus, a long stretch of white beach all to ourselves.
We spend the first few days hanging around the bungalow, relaxing by the pool. Brookes
engrossed in a book about how to be single and happy in your thirties. She holds the book
over her face, licking her finger and loudly turning the pages. It doesnt cross my mind that
this might be a pointed hint. Nothing crosses my mind except the proposal Im about to deliver.
Andre, you seem distracted.
No. Im here.
Everything all right?
Please leave me alone, I think, Im trying to decide when and where to propose to you.
Im like a murderer, plotting, thinking constantly of the time and the place. Except that a
murderer has a motive.
On the third night, though were planning to eat dinner in the bungalow, I suggest we
dress up as if its a special occasion. Great idea, Brooke says. She emerges from the bedroom
an hour later in a flowing white dress that falls to her ankles. I wear a linen shirt and
beige pants, the perfectly wrong outfit, because the pockets of the pants are shallow and the
ring box doesnt fit. I keep my hand over the pocket to hide the bulge.
I stretch as though Im about to play a match. I shake out my legs, then suggest a stroll.
Yes, Brooke says, that sounds like a lovely idea. She takes a sip of wine, smiles casually, no
idea whats coming. We walk for ten minutes until we reach a part of the beach where we
cant see any sign of civilization. I crane my neck to make sure no one is coming. No tourists.
No paparazzi. The coast is clear. I think of that line from Top Gun. I had the shot, there was
no danger, so I took it.
I fall a few steps behind Brooke and drop to one knee on the sand. She turns, looks down,
and all the color drains from her face as the colors of the sunset grow more vivid.
Brooke Christa Shields?
Shes mentioned in conversation many times that any man who proposes to her had better
use her full legal name, Brooke Christa Shields. I never knew why, and never thought to
ask, but now it comes back to me.
I repeat, Brooke Christa Shields?
She puts a hand on her forehead. Wait, she says. What? Are you? Wait. Im not ready.
That makes two of us.
Shes wiping away tears as I pull the ring box from my pocket and crack it open and remove
the ring and slide it onto her finger.
Brooke Christa Shields? Will you
Shes pulling me to my feet. Im kissing her and thinking, I really wish Id thought this
through. Is this the person that Andre Kirk Agassi is supposed to spend the next ninety years
with?
Yes, she says. Yes, yes, yes.
Wait, I think. Wait, wait, wait.
SHE SAYS SHE WANTS a do-over.
One day later she tells me she was in such shock on the beach, she couldnt hear me.
She wants me to repeat the proposal, word for word.
I need you to say it again, she insists, because I cant believe it really happened.
Me neither.
Shes planning the wedding before were off the island. And when we get back to Los
Angeles, I resume the unplanned, unceremonious end of my tennis career. I moonwalk
through one tournament after another. Im losing in early rounds, and therefore Im home a
lot, which tickles Brooke. Im placid, numb, and I have plenty of time to talk about wedding
cakes and invitations.
We fly to England for the 1996 Wimbledon. Just before the start of the tournament Brooke
insists we go for high tea at the Dorchester hotel. I beg off, but she insists. Were surrounded
by older couples, all wearing tweed and bowties and ribbons. Half of them look asleep. We
eat finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off, heaping plates of egg salad and scones with jam
and butterall things expressly engineered to clog the human artery, without the benefit of
tasting good. The food is making me cranky, and the setting feels ridiculous, like a childrens
tea party in a nursing home. But just as Im about to suggest that we ask for the check I notice
that Brookes ecstatic. Shes having a grand time. She wants more jam.
In the first round I face Doug Flach, ranked number 281, a qualifier whos in over his head,
though youd never know it to watch him against me. He plays as if hes channeling Rod
Laver, and I play like Ralph Nader. Were on Graveyard Court. By now youd think Id have
my own plaque here. I lose as fast as I can, and Brooke and I hurry back to Los Angeles, to
engage in more deep conversations about Battenburg lace and chiffon-lined tents.
As summer approaches, there is only one elaborate pageant that interests and inspires
me. And its not my wedding. Its the Atlanta Olympics. I dont know why. Maybe it feels like
something new. Maybe it feels like something that has nothing to do with me. Ill be playing for
my country, playing for a team with 300 million members. Ill be closing a circle. My father was
an Olympian, now me.
I plan a regimen with Gil, an Olympians regimen, and give all-out effort in our training sessions.
I spend two hours with Gil each morning, then hit with Brad for two hours, then run up
and down Gil Hill in the hottest part of the day. I want the heat. I want the pain.
As the Games begin, sportswriters kill me for skipping the opening ceremonies. Perry kills
me for it too. But Im not in Atlanta for opening ceremonies, Im here for gold, and I need to
hoard what little concentration and energy I can muster these days. The tennis is being
played in Stone Mountain, an hours drive from the opening ceremonies downtown. Stand
around in the Georgia heat and humidity, wearing a coat and tie, waiting for hours to walk
around the track, then drive to Stone Mountain and give my best? No. I cant. Id love to experience
the pageantry, to savor the spectacle of the Olympics, but not before my first match.
This, I tell myself, is focus. This is what it means to put substance above image.
With a good nights sleep under my belt I win my first-rounder against Jonas Bjrkman,
from Sweden. In the second round I cruise past Karol Kucera, from Slovakia. In the third
round I face a stiffer test from Andrea Gaudenzi, from Italy. He has a muscle-bound game. He
likes to trade body blows, and if you respect him too much he gets more macho. I dont show
him any respect. But the ball doesnt respect me. Im making all sorts of unforced errors. Before
I know whats happening, Im down a set and a break. I look to Brad. What should I do?
He yells: Stop missing!
Oh. Right. Sage advice. I stop missing, stop trying to hit winners, put the pressure back on
Gaudenzi. Its really that simple, and I scrape out an ugly, satisfying win.
In the quarters Im on the verge of elimination against Ferreira. Hes up 54 in the third,
serving for the match. But hes never beaten me before, and I know exactly whats going on
inside his body. Something my father used to say comes back to me: If you stick a piece of
charcoal up his ass, youll pull out a diamond. (Round, Tiffany cut.) I know Ferreiras sphincter
is squeezing shut, and this makes me confident. I rally, break him, win the match.
In the semis I meet Leander Paes, from India. Hes a flying jumping bean, a bundle of hyperkinetic
energy, with the tours quickest hands. Still, hes never learned to hit a tennis ball.
He hits off-speed, hacks, chips, lobshes the Brad of Bombay. Then, behind all his junk, he
flies to the net and covers so well that it all seems to work. After an hour you feel as if he
hasnt hit one ball cleanlyand yet hes beating you soundly. Because Im prepared, I stay
patient, stay calm, and beat Paes 76, 63.
In the final I play Sergi Bruguera, from Spain. The match is delayed by thunderstorms, and
the forecasters say it will be five hours before we can get on the court. So I wolf down a spicy
chicken sandwich from Wendys. Comfort food. On the day of a match, I dont worry about
calories and nutrition. I worry about having energy and feeling full. Also, because of my
nerves, its rare that Im hungry on match day, so any time I have an appetite I try to capitalize.
I give my stomach whatever it asks for. Swallowing the last bite of spicy chicken,
however, the clouds part, the storm blows away, and the heat comes. Now I have a spicy
chicken sandwich sitting on my gut, its ninety degrees, and the air is as thick as gravy. I cant
moveand I have to play for a gold medal? So much for comfort food; Im in extreme gastric
discomfort.
But I dont care. Gil asks how I feel, and I tell him: A-OK. Im going to hustle for every ball,
Im going to make this guy run, and if he thinks hes taking this medal back to Spain, hes got
another think coming.
Gil grins from ear to ear. Thats my boy.
Its one of the rare times, Gil says, that he sees no fear in my eyes as I walk onto the
court.
From the opening serve, Im pounding Bruguera, moving him from corner to corner, making
him cover a parcel of real estate the size of Barcelona. Every point is a blow to his midsection.
In the middle of the second set we have a titanic rally. He wins the point to get back
to deuce. He takes so much time getting ready for the next point that I could argue with the
umpire. By rights I should argue, and Bruguera should get a warning. Instead I use the moment
to wander over to the ballboy, grab a towel, whisper to Gil, Hows our friend looking over
there?
Gil smiles. He nearly laughs, except that Gil never laughs during a fight.
Even though Bruguera has won the point, Gil sees, and I see, that winning the point will
cost him the next six games.
Gil shouts: Thats my boy!
AS I MOUNT THE REVIEW STAND, I think: What will this feel like? Ive watched this on
TV so many times, can it possibly live up to my expectations? Or, like so many things, will it
fall short?
I look left and right. Paes, the bronze winner, is on one side. Bruguera, the silver winner, is
on the other. My platform is a foot higherone of the few times Im taller than my opponents.
But Id feel ten feet tall on any surface. A man drapes the gold medal around my neck. The
national anthem starts. I feel my heart swell, and it has nothing to do with tennis, or me, and
thus it exceeds all my expectations.
I scan the crowd and spot Gil, Brooke, Brad. I look for my father, but hes hiding. He told
me the night before that Ive managed to reclaim something taken from him years ago, and
yet he doesnt want to be visible, doesnt want to detract from the specialness of my moment.
He doesnt understand that this moment is special precisely because its not mine.
DAYS LATER, for reasons I cant begin to comprehend, the Olympic afterglow is gone. Im
on the court in Cincinnati, losing my mind. Playing for myself again, Im smashing my racket in
a fit of rage. I go on to win the tournament, however, which seems laughable, and only aggravates
my sense that its all a joke.
Then, in August, at the RCA Championships in Indianapolis, playing a first-round match
against Daniel Nestor, a Serb from Canada, Im well ahead. But I feel unduly piqued that hes
just broken my serve. I cant let go of my sudden anger. I look up at the sky and fantasize
about flying away. Since I cant fly away, at least this tennis ball can fly away. Be free, little
ball. I whack it high above the stands and out of the stadium.
Automatic warning.
The umpire, Dana Laconto, says into the microphone, Code violation. Warning. Abuse of
ball.
Fuck you, Dana.
He calls over the ref. He tells the ref that Agassi said, Fuck you, Dana.
The referee approaches and asks, Did you say that?
Yes.
This match is over.
Fine. Fuck you too. And fuck the umpire you rode in on.
The fans start a riot. They dont understand whats happening, because they cant hear
me. They only know that they paid to see a match and now its being canceled. Theyre booing,
firing seat cushions and water bottles onto the court. The mascot of the RCA Championships
is a Spuds MacKenzie dog, which now trots onto the court, dodging seat cushions and
water bottles. He reaches the middle of the net, lifts his hind leg, and pees.
I couldnt agree more.
He makes a jaunty exit. Im right behind him, ducking my head, dragging my tennis bag.
The crowd is going berserk, like the crowd in a gladiator movie. Theyre showering the court
with garbage.
In the locker room Brad says, What the?
They defaulted me.
Why?
I tell him.
He shakes his head.
His seven-year-old son, Zach, is crying because the people are being mean to Uncle Andre.
And because Spuds MacKenzie peed on the net. I send them both away, then sit in the
locker room for an hour, head bowed. So here we are. A new low. Fine. I can handle this. I
can actually get comfortable here. I can settle in. Rock bottom can be very cozy, because at
least youre at rest. You know youre not going anywhere for a while.
But rock bottom is still a ways down. I go to the 1996 U.S. Open, and right away theres
controversy. Something about seeding. A few of my fellow players complain that Ive gotten
special treatment, that I was bumped up in the draw because tournament officials and CBS
want to see me and Pete in the final. Muster says Im a prima donna. I take particular glee,
therefore, in knocking his hair-mussing ass out of the quarters, continuing to keep my promise
that I would never lose to him again.
I reach the semis against Chang. I cant wait to put a beating on him after losing to him
months ago at Indian Wells. It should be no problem. Hes on the back nine of his career,
Brad says. So am I, people say. But I have a gold medal. I almost wish I could wear it during
the match. Chang, however, doesnt give a damn about my gold medal. He fires sixteen aces,
wriggles out of three break points, forces me into forty-five unforced errors. Seven years after
winning his last slam, Chang is almighty, omnipotent. He is risen, and I am fallen.
The next morning, sportswriters trash me. I quit. I tanked. I didnt care. It almost seems as
if theyre angry with me. And I know why. As a result of my loss, they now have to deal with
Chang for one more day.
I dont watch the final on TV when Pete beats Chang in straight sets. But I do read about
it. Every article says matter-of-factly that Pete is the best player of his generation.
AS THE YEAR WINDS DOWN I go to Munich, where the boos are deafening. I lose to
Mark Woodforde, whom I beat 60, 60, two short years ago. Brad is apoplectic. He begs me
to tell him whats wrong.
I dont know.
Tell me, man. Tell me.
I would if I could.
We agree that I should rest, pull out of the Australian Open.
Go home, he says. Get some rest. Spend some time with your fiance. Thatll cure
whatever ails you.
BROOKE AND I BUY A HOUSE in Pacific Palisades. Its not the house I wanted. I had my
heart set on a big rambling farmhouse with a family room off the kitchen. But she loved this
one, so here we are, living in a multilevel, French Country knockoff set against the side of a
cliff. It has no flow, and it feels sterile, the ideal house for a childless couple who plan to
spend lots of time in different rooms.
The real estate agent gushed about the breathtaking views of the skyline. In the foreground
is Sunset Boulevard. At night I can see the Holiday Inn where I stayed after our first
date. Many nights I stare at the hotel and wonder what would have happened if Id kept driving,
if Id never phoned Brooke again. I decide that the view from our new house is better
when fog or smog prevents me from seeing that Holiday Inn.
At the close of 1996 we throw a combination housewarmingNew Years Eve party, invite
the gang from Vegas and Brookes Hollywood friends. We confer with Gil about security. After
a new batch of scary letters, we have to guard against intruders, so Gil spends most of the
night standing at the foot of the driveway, screening people as they arrive. McEnroe shows
up, and I kid him about getting past Gil. He sits on the deck, talking tennis, my least favorite
topic these days, so I drift in and out. I spend the night mixing margaritas, watching J.P. slap
his drums with a steel Buddy Richtype brush, and sitting before the fireplace. I stoke it, feed
it, stare deep into the flames. I tell myself that 1997 is going to be better than 1996. I vow that
1997 is going to be my year.
BROOKE AND I ARE AT THE GOLDEN GLOBE AWARDS when I get a call from Gil. His
twelve-year-old daughter, Kacey, has been in an accident. She was snow sledding on a
church trip at Mt. Charleston, an hour north of Vegas, and went straight into a frozen snowbank.
She broke her neck. I leave Brooke and fly to Vegas, arriving at the hospital in my
tuxedo. I find Gil and Gaye in the hallway, looking as if theyre barely hanging on. We hug,
and they tell me its bad, very bad. Kaceys going to need surgery. Doctors say theres a
chance shell be paralyzed.
We spend days at the hospital, talking to doctors, trying to keep Kacey comfortable. Gil
needs to go home, get some sleep. Hes out on his feet, but he wont leave, hes going to
stand guard over his daughter. I get an idea. I have a big pimped-out minivan, which I bought
from Perrys father. It has a satellite dish and a foldout bed. I park it right outside the hospital,
outside the front door, and I tell Gil: Now, when visiting hours are over, you dont have to go
home, you can just go downstairs and catch a few hours shut-eye in the back of your new
van. And, since its all metered parking in front of the hospital, Ive filled the vans cup holders
with quarters.
Gil gives me a strange look, and I realize its the first time that he and I have ever switched
roles. For a few days, its me making him stronger.
WHEN THE HOSPITAL releases Kacey a week later the doctors say shes out of the
woods. Her surgery was a success and shell be up and around in no time. Still, I want to follow
her home, stick around Vegas, see how she recovers.
Gil wont hear of it. He knows Im due in San Jose.
I tell Gil Im going to pull out of the tournament.
Absolutely not, he says. Theres nothing to do now but wait and pray. Ill phone you with
updates. Go. Play.
Ive never had an argument with Gil, and I wont let this be the first. Reluctantly I go to San
Jose and play my first match in three months. I face Mark Knowles, one of my old roommates
at the Bollettieri Academy. After a solid doubles career hes trying to break into the singles
bracket. Hes a great athlete, but I shouldnt have any trouble with him. I know his game better
than he knows it himself. And yet he takes me to a third set. Even though I win, its not an
easy win, so it sticks in my craw. I hack my way through the tournament, seemingly on a collision
course with Pete, but I falter in the semis against Greg Rusedski, from Canada. My mind
hurries back to Vegas, hours ahead of my body.
IM AT THE BACHELOR PAD, watching TV with Slim, my assistant. Im in a bad way.
Kacey isnt doing well, and the doctors dont know why. Gil is on the brink. Meanwhile, my
wedding looms. I think all the time about postponing it, or calling it off altogether, but I dont
know how.
Slim is stressed too. He was with his girlfriend recently, he says, and the condom broke.
Now, shes late. During a commercial he stands up and announces that theres only one thing
to do. Get high.
He says, You want to get high with me?
High?
Yeah.
On what?
Gack.
What the hells gack?
Crystal meth.
Why do they call it gack?
Because thats the sound you make when youre high. Your mind is going so fast, all you
can say is gack, gack, gack.
Thats how I feel all the time. Whats the point?
Make you feel like Superman, dude. Im telling you.
As if theyre coming out of someone elses mouth, someone standing directly behind me, I
hear these words: You know what? Fuck it. Yeah. Lets get high.
Slim dumps a small pile of powder on the coffee table. He cuts it, snorts it. He cuts it
again. I snort some. I ease back on the couch and consider the Rubicon Ive just crossed.
There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria
that sweeps away every negative thought in my head, every negative thought Ive ever had.
Its a cortisone shot to the subcortex. Ive never felt so alive, so hopefuland above all, Ive
never felt such energy. Im seized by an urge, a desperate desire to clean. I go tearing around
my house, cleaning it from top to bottom. I dust the furniture. I scour the tub. I make the beds.
I sweep the floors. When theres nothing left to clean, I do laundry. All the laundry. I fold every
sweater and T-shirt and still I havent made a dent in my energy. I dont want to sit down. If I
had table silver Id polish it. If I had leather shoes Id shine them. If I had a giant jug of coins
Id roll them into paper wrappers. I look high and low for Slimhes out in the garage, taking
apart the engine of his car and putting it together again. I tell him I could do anything right
now, anything, man, anything, anything, any-fuckingthing. I could get in the car and drive to
Palm Springs and play eighteen holes, then drive home and make lunch and go for a swim.
I dont sleep for two days. When I finally do, its the sleep of the dead and the innocent.
PLAYING WEEKS LATER, I struggle against Scott Draper. Left-handed, talented, hes a
good player, but Ive beaten him soundly in the past. I shouldnt have any trouble with him,
and yet hes cleaning my clock. Im so far from being able to beat Draper, in fact, I honestly
wonder if it was me who beat him the last time. How could I have been that much better such
a short time ago? Hes outplaying me in every phase of the game.
Afterward, reporters ask if Im OK. They dont sound accusatory or mean. They sound like
Perry and Brad. Theyre actually concerned, trying to figure out whats wrong.
Brooke is remarkably unconcerned. I lose all the time now, and the only time I dont lose is
when I pull out of a tournament, and her only comment is that she enjoys having me around
more. Also, since Im generally playing less often, she says Im not as moody.
Her oblivion is partly due to the wedding planning, but also her rigorous premarital training
regimen. Shes working with Gil to get in shape for that white dress. Shes running, lifting,
stretching, counting every calorie. For added motivation, she tapes a photo on the refrigerator
door, and around the photo she puts a magnetic heart frame. Its a photo of the perfect woman,
she says. The perfect woman with the perfect legsthe legs Brooke wants.
Astonished, I stare at the photo. I reach out and touch the frame.
Is that?
Yep, Brooke says. Steffi Graf.
I PLAY DAVIS CUP IN APRIL, looking for a spark. I practice hard, train hard. Were up
against the Netherlands. My first match, in Newport Beach, is against Sjeng Schalken. Hes
six foot five but serves like a man five foot six. Still, he strikes the ball cleanly, and like me
hes a punisher, a baseliner who stays back and tries to run an opponent into the ground. I
know what Im in for. The day is sunny, windy, and weirdDutch fans wear wooden shoes
and wave tulips. I beat Schalken in three wearying sets.
Two days later I play Jan Siemerink, aka the Garbage Man. Hes a lefty, an excellent volleyer,
who gets to the net quick and covers it well. But thats the only part of his game that
isnt comically, fundamentally unsound. Every Siemerink forehand looks mishit, every backhand
seems shanked. Even his serve has a wacky, slingy quality. Garbage. I start the match
confident, then recall that his lack of form is a powerful weapon. His abysmal shotmaking
keeps you always off balance. Your timing never feels right. After two hours, Im wrong-
footed, breathing hard, and have a splitting headache. Im also down two sets to love. Still,
somehow I win, making me 244 in Davis Cup play, one of the best records ever compiled by
an American. Sportswriters praise this small part of my game, and ask why I cant translate it
to the rest of my game. Even if their praise is tempered, I bask in it. It feels good. I give a
small thanks for Davis Cup.
On the other hand, Davis Cup plays havoc with my manicure schedule. Brooke has made
many requests of me for the wedding, but her non-negotiable demand is that my nails be perfect.
I pick at my cuticles, a lifelong nervous habit, and when she puts a wedding band on my
finger, she says, she wants my hands looking their best. Just before my match with the
Garbage Man, and again after the match, I submit. I sit myself in the manicurists chair, watch
the woman work at my cuticles, and tell myself this feels as off balance and wrong-footed as
my match against the Garbage Man.
I think: Now this is what I call garbage.
WITH FOUR HELICOPTERS full of paparazzi circling overhead, on April 19, 1997, Brooke
and I get married. The ceremony takes place in Monterey, in a tiny church thats stiflingly,
criminally hot. Id give anything for a puff of fresh air, but the windows must remain shut to
block out the noise of the helicopters.
The heat is one reason I break out in a sweat during the ceremony. The main reason,
however, is that my body and nerves are shot. As the priest drones on, sweat drips from my
brow, from my chin, from my ears. Everyone is looking. Theyre sweating too, but not like me.
The jacket of my new Dunhill tuxedo is soaked. Even my shoes squish when I walk. Theyre
also fitted with lifts, another non-negotiable demand from Brooke. Shes nearly six feet tall
and she doesnt want to tower over me in our photos, so shes wearing old-fashioned pumps
with minimal heels, and Im wearing what feel like stilts.
Before we leave the church, a decoy bride, a stand-in for Brooke, leaves first. To throw the
paparazzi off the scent. The first time I heard about this plan, I tuned it out, refused to pay at
tention. Now, as I see the Brooke look-alike leaving, I have a thought no man should have on
his wedding day: I wish I were leaving too. I wish I had a decoy groom to take my place.
A horse-drawn carriage is standing by to whisk Brooke and me to the reception, at a ranch
called Stonepine. But first we have a short car ride to the carriage. I sit in the car beside
Brooke, staring into my lap. I feel mortified about my attack of hysterical sweats. Brooke tells
me its OK. Shes very sweet, but its not OK. Nothing is OK.
Into the reception we go, into a solid wall of noise. I see a whirling carousel of
facesPhilly, Gil, J.P., Brad, Slim, my parents. There are famous people I dont know, have
never met, but vaguely recognize. Friends of Brooke? Friends of friends? Some of the
Friends from Friends? I catch sight of Perry, my best man and the self-anointed wedding producer.
He wears a Madonna headset so he can be in constant communication with the photographers
and florists and caterers. Hes so jacked up, so high-strung, hes making me more
nervous, which I didnt think was possible.
At the end of the night, Brooke and I stagger up to our bridal suite, which Ive arranged to
have filled with hundreds of candles. Too many candlesthe room is an oven. Its hotter than
the church. Again I start to sweat. We start to blow out the candles, and the smoke detectors
go off. We disable the smoke detectors and open the windows. While the room cools we go
downstairs, back to the reception, to spend our wedding night eating chocolate mousse with
the wedding party.
The following afternoon, at a barbecue for friends and family, Brooke and I make a grand
entrance. As per Brookes plan, we wear cowboy hats and denim shirts and arrive on horses.
Mine is named Sugar. Her sad glassy eyes remind me of Peaches. People surround me, talk
at me, congratulate me, slap me on the back, and I need to run away. I spend a good portion
of the barbecue with my nephew, Skyler, son of Rita and Pancho. We get hold of a bow and
arrow and take target practice with a distant oak.
While drawing back the bow, I feel a sudden twinge in my wrist.
I PULL OUT OF THE 1997 FRENCH OPEN. Of all the surfaces, clay is the worst on a
tender wrist. There is no way I can last five sets against the dirt rats, whove been practicing
and drilling on clay while Ive been getting manicures and riding Sugar.
But I will go to Wimbledon. I want to go. Brooke has landed an acting job in England,
which means she can accompany me. This will be good, I think. A change of venue. A trip,
our first as husband and wife, to somewhere other than an island.
Though, come to think of it, England is an island.
In London we spend several happy nights. Dinner with friends. An experimental play. A
walk along the Thames. The stars are lined up for a good Wimbledon. And then I decide that
Id rather jump in the Thames. Out of nowhere I cant bring myself to practice.
I tell Brad and Gil Im pulling out of the tournament. Im in vapor lock.
Brad says, What the hell does vapor lock mean?
Ive played this game for a lot of reasons, I say, and it just seems like none of them has
ever been my own.
The words come tumbling out, with no forethought, just as they did that night with Slim.
But they sound remarkably true. So much, in fact, that I write them down. I repeat them to reporters.
And to mirrors.
After pulling out of the tournament I stay on in London, waiting for Brooke to finish filming.
We go out one night with a group of actors to a world-famous restaurant Brooke is eager to
try. The Ivy. Brooke and the actors talk over each other while I silently hunker down at one
end of the table, eating. Grazing, actually. I order five courses, and for dessert I shovel three
sticky toffee puddings into my mouth.
Slowly, an actress notices how much food is disappearing at my end of the table. She
looks at me, alarmed.
Do you always, she asks, eat like this?
IM PLAYING IN D.C. and my opponent is Flach. Brad tells me to go out and avenge last
years Wimbledon loss, but I cant imagine anything mattering less. Revenge? Again? Havent
we been down that road before? It makes me sad, and weary, that Brad can be so blinded by
his Bradness, that he can be so oblivious to what Im feeling. Who does he think he
isBrooke?
I lose to Flach, of course, then tell Brad Im shutting down for the summer.
Brad says, The whole summer?
See you in the fall.
Brooke is in Los Angeles, but I spend most of my time in Vegas. Slim is there, and we get
high a lot. Its a welcome change to have energy, to feel happy, to clear away the vapor lock. I
like feeling inspired again, even if the inspiration is chemically induced. I stay awake all night,
several nights in a row, relishing the silence. No one phoning, no one faxing, no one bothering
me. Nothing to do but dance around the house and fold laundry and think.
I want to get clear of the void, I tell Slim.
Yeah, he says. Yeah. The void.
Apart from the buzz of getting high, I get an undeniable satisfaction from harming myself
and shortening my career. After decades of merely dabbling in masochism, Im making it my
mission.
But the physical aftermath is hideous. After two days of being high, of not sleeping, Im an
alien. I have the audacity to wonder why I feel so rotten. Im an athlete, my body should be
able to handle this. Slim gets high all the time, and he seems fine.
Then all at once Slim is not fine. He becomes unrecognizable, and drugs arent fully to
blame. He was already frantic about the prospect of becoming a father; now he phones me
one night from the hospital and says, It happened.
What.
She had the baby. Months ahead of time. A boy. Andre, it only weighs one pound, six
ounces. The doctors dont know if hes going to make it.
I speed down to Sunrise Hospital, the hospital where Slim and I were born twenty-four
hours apart. I stare through the glass at what they tell me is a baby, though its only the size
of my open palm. The doctors tell Slim and me that the baby is very sick. They have to give
him an IV of antibiotics.
The next morning the doctors tell us that the IV popped out. It dripped on the babys leg,
and now the leg is burned. Also, the babys not breathing on his own. They need to put him
on a ventilator. Its risky. The doctors worry that the babys lungs arent developed enough for
the ventilator, but without the ventilator hell die.
Slim says nothing. Do whatever you think best, I tell the doctors.
As feared, hours later one of the babys lungs collapses. Then the other. Now the doctors
say the lungs really cant handle the ventilator, but without the ventilator the baby will die.
They simply dont know what to do.
Theres one final hope. A machine that might do the work of a ventilator without harming
the lungs. A machine that takes the blood from the baby, oxygenates it, then flows it back into
the baby. But the nearest such machine is in Phoenix.
I arrange a medical airplane. A team of doctors and nurses unhooks the baby from the
ventilator and carries him like an egg to the tarmac. Then Slim, his girlfriend, and I board a
separate plane. A nurse gives us a number to call when we land, to find out if the baby has
survived the flight.
As the wheels touch down in Phoenix, I take a breath and dial.
Is he?
He made it. But now we need to get him onto the machine.
At the hospital we sit and sit. The clock doesnt move. Slim chainsmokes. His girlfriend
weeps quietly over a magazine. I step away for a moment to phone Gil. Kacey isnt doing
well, he says. Shes in constant pain. He doesnt sound like Gil. He sounds like Slim.
I return to the waiting room. A doctor appears, pulling down his mask. I dont know if I can
handle more bad news.
We managed to get him hooked to the machine, the doctor says. So far, so good. The
next six months will tell.
I rent a house near the hospital for Slim and his girlfriend. Then I fly back to Los Angeles. I
should sleep on the flight, but instead I stare at the back of the seat in front of me and think
how fragile it all is. The next six months will tell. To which of us does that dire statement not
apply?
At home, sitting in our kitchen, I tell Brooke the entire sad, awful, miraculous story. Shes
fascinatedbut mystified.
She asks, How could you get so involved?
How could I not?
WEEKS LATER, Brad talks me into coming back, briefly, to play at the ATP Championships
in Cincinnati. I face Gustavo Kuerten, a Brazilian. It takes him forty-six minutes to beat
me. My third first-round loss in a row. Gullickson announces that hes dropping me from the
Davis Cup team. Im one of the best American players ever, but I dont blame him. Who could
blame him?
At the 1997 U.S. Open Im unseeded for the first time in three years. Im wearing a peach
shirt, and they cant keep them in stock at the concession stand. Astonishing. People still
want to dress like me. People want to look like me. Have they taken a good look at me lately?
I reach the round of sixteen and play Rafter, whos having his breakout year. He reached
the semis of the French Open, and hes my personal favorite to win this tournament. Hes a
great serve-and-volleyer, reminiscent of Pete, but I always thought Rafter and I made a better
rivalry, aesthetically, because Rafter is more consistent. Pete can play a lousy thirty-eight
minutes, then one lights-out minute and win the set, whereas Rafter plays well all the time.
Hes six foot two, with a low center of gravity, and he can change direction like a sports car.
Hes one of the hardest guys on the tour to pass, and even harder to dislike. Hes all class,
win or lose, and today he wins. He gives me a gentlemanly handshake and a smile in which
there is an unmistakable trace of pity.
IM PLAYING STUTTGART IN TEN DAYS. I should lie low, rest, practice, but instead I
need to go to North Carolina, a little town called Mount Pleasant, because of Brooke. Shes
tight with David Strickland, an actor on her new TV show, Suddenly Susan, and Davids traveling
to North Carolina to spend his birthday with family. Brooke wants us to tag along. She
thinks it would do us good, hanging out in the country, breathing fresh air, and I cant think of
a good reason to say no.
Mount Pleasant is a quaint Southern town, but I dont see any mount and its not all that
pleasant. The Strickland house is comfortable, with old wood floors and soft beds and a
warm, enveloping smell of cinnamon and pie crust. But somewhat incongruously it sits on a
golf course, its back porch only twenty yards from one of the greens, so theres always
someone in my peripheral vision, lining up a putt. The lady of the house, Granny Strickland, is
ample-bosomed, apple-cheeked, straight out of Mayberry, and shes forever standing at her
stove, baking something or whipping up another batch of paella. Not exactly training food, but
to be polite I clean my plate and ask for seconds.
Brooke seems to be in heaven, and part of me understands. The house is surrounded by
rolling hills and ancient trees, the leaves have turned nine different kinds of orange, and she
loves David. They have a special bond, a secret language of inside jokes and comic banter.
Now and then they slip into their characters from the show, doing a scene, then laughing
themselves hoarse. Then they quickly explain what theyve just done and said, trying to bring
me up to speed, so I dont feel left out. But its always too little, too late. Im the third wheel,
and I know it.
At night the temperature drops. The cool air has a piney, earthy scent that makes me sad.
I stand on the back porch, looking at the stars, wondering whats wrong with me, why this setting
has no power to charm me. I think about that moment, so many years ago, when Philly
and I decided I was going to quit. When that call came for me to play here, in North Carolina.
The rest is history. Over and over, I ask myselfwhat if?
I decide that I need to work. Work, as always, is the answer. After all, Stuttgart is only
days off. It would be nice to win. I phone Brad, and he locates a tennis court an hour or so
away. He also scrounges up a sparring partner, a young amateur whod love nothing more
than to hit with me each morning. I drive through the morning mist, toward the Blue Ridge
Mountains, and meet the amateur. I thank him for taking the time, but he says the pleasure is
all his. It will be my honor, Mr. Agassi. I feel virtuousIm getting my work done, even here in
this remote outpostand then we start hitting. At the higher altitude, the ball flies every which
way, defying gravity. Its like playing in outer space. Hardly worth the effort.
Then the young pro blows out his shoulder.
I spend the next two days of our Southern sojourn scarfing paella and brooding. When I
grow so bored that I think I might bang my head against a pine tree, I walk out to the golf
course and try to birdie the hole off the porch.
At last its time for me to leave. I kiss Brooke goodbye, kiss Granny Strickland goodbye,
and notice that both kisses have the same amount of passion. I fly to Miami to connect with a
direct flight to Stuttgart. Walking up to the gate, who should I see but Pete. As always, Pete.
He looks as if hes done nothing for the last month but practice, and when he wasnt practicing,
he was lying on a cot in a bare cell, thinking about beating me. Hes rested, focused,
wholly undistracted. Ive always thought the differences between Pete and me were overblown
by sportswriters. It seemed too convenient, too important for fans, and Nike, and the
game, that Pete and I be polar opposites, the Yankees and Red Sox of tennis. The games
best server versus its best returner. The diffident Californian versus the brash Las Vegan. It
all seemed like horseshit. Or, to use Petes favorite word, nonsense. But at this moment, making
small talk at the gate, the gap between us appears genuinely, frighteningly wide, like the
gap between good and bad. Ive often told Brad that tennis plays too big a part in Petes life,
and not a big enough part in mine, but Pete seems to have the proportions about right. Tennis
is his job, and he does it with brio and dedication, while all my talk of maintaining a life outside
tennis seems like just thattalk. Just a pretty way of rationalizing all my distractions. For the
first time since Ive known himincluding the times hes beaten my brains outI envy Petes
dullness. I wish I could emulate his spectacular lack of inspiration, and his peculiar lack of
need for inspiration.
I LOSE TO MARTIN in the first round of Stuttgart. Driving away from the stadium, Brad is
in a mood Ive never seen. He looks at me with astonishment, and sadness, and a Rafter-like
pity. As we pull up to the hotel, he asks me up to his room.
He rummages in the minibar and extracts two bottles of beer. He doesnt glance at the labels.
He doesnt care that theyre German. When Brad drinks German beer without noticing or
complaining, something is up.
Hes wearing jeans and a black turtleneck. He looks somber, severeand older. Ive aged
him.
Andre, weve got a big decision to make, and were going to make it before we leave this
room tonight.
Whats up, Brad?
We aint continuing like this. Youre better than this. At least, you used to be better. You
either need to quitor start over. But you cant go on embarrassing yourself like this.
What?
Let me finish. You have game left. At least I think you do. You can still win. Good things
can still happen. But you need a full overhaul. You need to go back to the beginning. You
need to pull out of everything and regroup. Im talking square one.
When Brad talks about pulling out of tournaments, I know its serious.
Heres what youd need to do, he says. Youd need to train like you havent trained in
years. Hard core. Youd need to get your body right, get your mind right, then start at the bottom.
Im talking challengers, against guys who never dreamed theyd get a chance to meet
you, let alone play you.
He stops. He takes a long sip of beer. I say nothing. Weve come to the crossroads, this is
it, and it feels as if weve been headed here for months. Years. I stare out the window at the
Stuttgart traffic. I hate tennis more than everbut I hate myself more. I tell myself, So what if
you hate tennis? Who cares? All those people out there, all those millions who hate what they
do for a living, they do it anyway. Maybe doing what you hate, doing it well and cheerfully, is
the point. So you hate tennis. Hate it all you want. You still need to respect itand yourself.
I say, OK, Brad, Im not ready for it to be over. Im all in. Tell me what to do, and Ill do it.
CHANGE.
Time to change, Andre. You cant go on like this. Change, change, changeI say this
word to myself several times a day, every day, while buttering my morning toast, while brushing
my teeth, less as a warning than as a soothing chant. Far from depressing me, or shaming
me, the idea that I must change completely, from top to bottom, brings me back to center.
For once I dont hear that nagging self-doubt that follows every personal resolution. I wont fail
this time, I cant, because its change now or change never. The idea of stagnating, of remaining
this Andre for the rest of my life, thats what I find truly depressing and shameful.
And yet. Our best intentions are often thwarted by external forcesforces that we
ourselves set in motion long ago. Decisions, especially bad ones, create their own kind of momentum,
and momentum can be a bitch to stop, as every athlete knows. Even when we vow
to change, even when we sorrow and atone for our mistakes, the momentum of our past
keeps carrying us down the wrong road. Momentum rules the world. Momentum says: Hold
on, not so fast, Im still running things here. As a friend likes to say, quoting an old Greek
poem: The minds of the everlasting gods are not changed suddenly.
Weeks after Stuttgart, walking through LaGuardia Airport, I get a phone call. Its a man
with a gruff voice, a voice of judgment and condemnation. A voice of Authority. He says hes a
doctor working with the ATP. (I think what those letters stand for: Association of Tennis Professionals.)
There is doom in his voice, as if hes going to tell me Im dying. And then thats
exactly what he tells me.
It was his job to test my urine sample from a recent tournament. Its my duty, he says, to
inform you that youve failed the standard ATP drug test. The urine sample you submitted has
been found to contain trace amounts of crystal methylene.
I fall onto a chair in the baggage claim area. Im carrying a backpack, which I slip off my
shoulder and drop to the ground.
Mr. Agassi?
Yes. Im here. So. What now?
Well, there is a process. Youll need to write a letter to the ATP, admitting your guilt or declaring
your innocence.
Uh huh.
Did you know there was a likelihood that this drug was in your system?
Yes. Yes, I knew.
In that case, youll need to explain in your letter how the drug got there.
And then?
Your letter will be reviewed by a panel.
And then?
If you knowingly ingested the drugif you, as it were, plead guiltyyoull be disciplined, of
course.
How?
He reminds me that tennis has three classes of drug violation. Performance-enhancing
drugs, of course, would constitute a Class 1, he says, which would carry suspension for two
years. However, he adds, crystal methylene is a clear case of Class 2. Recreational drugs.
I think: Recreation. Re-creation.
I say: Meaning?
Three months suspension.
What do I do once Ive written this letter?
I have an address for you. Have you got something to write on?
I fish in my backpack for my notebook. He gives me the street, city, zip code, and I
scribble it all down, in a daze, with no intention of actually writing the letter.
The doctor says a few more things, which I dont hear, and then I thank him and hang up. I
stumble out of the airport and hail a cab. Driving into Manhattan, staring out the smudged window,
I tell the back of the cabdrivers head: So much for change.
I go straight to Brookes brownstone. Luckily, shes in Los Angeles. Id never be able to
hide my emotions from her. Id have to tell her everything, and I couldnt handle that right now.
I fall onto the bed and immediately pass out. When I wake an hour later, I realize it was just a
nightmare. What a relief.
It takes several minutes to accept that, no, the phone call was real. The doctor was real.
The meth, all too real.
My name, my career, everything is now on the line, at a craps table where no one wins.
Whatever Ive achieved, whatever Ive worked for, might soon mean nothing. Part of my discomfort
with tennis has always been a nagging sense that its meaningless. Now Im about to
learn the true meaning of meaninglessness.
Serves me right.
I lie awake until dawn, wondering what to do, whom to tell. I try to imagine how it will feel
to be publicly shamed, not for my clothes or game, not for some marketing slogan someone
hung on me, but for my utter stupidity, mine alone. Ill be an outcast. Ill be a cautionary tale.
Still, though Im in pain, during the next few days I dont panic. Not yet, not quite. I cant,
because other more harrowing problems crowd in from all sides. People around me, people I
love, are hurting.
Doctors need to operate a second time on little Kaceys neck. The first operation was
clearly botched. I arrange for her to fly to Los Angeles, to have the best care, but during her
post-surgery recuperation period shes immobilized again, lying on her back in a hospital bed,
and shes suffering terribly. Unable to move her head, she says her scalp and skin burn. Also,
her room is unspeakably hot, and shes like her father: she cant take heat. I kiss her cheek
and tell her, Dont worry. Well fix it.
I look at Gil. Hes shrinking before my eyes.
I run to the nearest appliance store and buy the biggest, baddest air-conditioning unit they
have. Gil and I install it in Kaceys window. When I turn the knob up to Max Cool and press
Power, Gil and I clap hands and Kacey smiles as the cold air pushes the bangs from her
pretty round face.
Next I run to a toy store, the swimming section, and buy one of those tiny inner tubes for
toddlers. I slide the inner tube under Kacey, positioning her head in the center, then blow it up
until it gently and gradually lifts her head without altering the angle of her neck. A look of pure
relief, and gratitude, and joy, washes over her face, and in this look, in this courageous little
girl, I find the thing Ive been seeking, the philosophers stone that unites all the experiences,
good and bad, of the last few years. Her suffering, her resilient smile in the face of that suffering,
my part in easing her sufferingthis, this is the reason for everything. How many times
must I be shown? This is why were here. To fight through the pain and, when possible, to relieve
the pain of others. So simple. So hard to see.
I turn to Gil and he sees it all, and his cheeks are glistening with tears.
Later, while Kacey sleeps, while Gil pretends not to sleep in a corner, I sit in a hard-
backed chair at her bedside, a legal pad in my lap, and write a letter to the ATP. Its a letter
filled with lies interwoven with bits of truth.
I acknowledge that the drugs were in my systembut I assert that I never knowingly took
them. I say Slim, whom Ive since fired, is a known drug user, and that he often spikes his sodas
with methwhich is true. Then I come to the central lie of the letter. I say that I recently
drank accidentally from one of Slims spiked sodas, unwittingly ingesting his drugs. I say that I
felt poisoned, but thought the drugs would leave my system quickly. Apparently they did not.
I ask for understanding, and leniency, and hastily sign it: Sincerely.
I sit with the letter on my lap, watching Kaceys face. I feel ashamed, of course. Ive always
been a truthful person. When I lie, its almost always unknowingly, or to myself. But imagining
the look on Kaceys face as she learns that Uncle Andre is a drug user, banned three
months from tennis, and then multiplying that look by a few million faces, I dont know what
else to do but lie.
I promise myself that at least this lie is the end of it. Ill send the letter, but I wont do anything
more. Ill let my lawyers handle the rest. I wont go before any panel and lie to anyones
face. Ill never lie about this publicly. From here on, Ill leave it in the hands of fate and men in
suits. If they can settle it privately, quietly, fine. If not, Ill live with what comes.
Gil wakes. I fold the letter and step with him into the hallway.
Under the fluorescent lights, he looks drawn, pale. He looksI cant believe itweak. Id
forgotten: its in hospital hallways that we know what life is about. I put my arms around him
and tell him I love him and that well get through this.
He nods, thanks me, mumbles something incoherent. We stand in silence for the longest
time. In his eyes I can see his thoughts circling the abyss. Then he tries to distract himself. He
needs to talk about something, anything, other than the fear and worry. He asks how its going
with me.
I tell him that Ive decided to recommit myself to tennis, start at the minor leagues and
work my way back. I tell him that Kacey has inspired me, shown me the way.
Gil says he wants to help.
No, youve got your hands full.
Hey. Stand on my shoulders, remember? Reach?
I cant believe he still has faith; Ive given him so many reasons to doubt. Im twenty-
seven, the age when tennis players start to fade, and Im talking about a second chance, and
yet Gil doesnt frown, doesnt arch an eyebrow.
Lets throw down, he says. Its on.
WE START FROM THE BEGINNING, as if Im a teenager, as if Ive never worked out, because
thats how I look. Im slow, fat, frail as a kitten. I havent picked up a dumbbell in a year.
The heaviest thing Ive lifted is Kaceys air conditioner. I need to rediscover my body, add
gingerly and gradually to its strength.
But first: Were in Gils gym. Im sitting on the free bench, hes leaning against the leg extension.
I tell him what Ive done to my body. The drugs. I tell him about the pending suspension.
I cant ask him to lead me out of the depths unless he knows how deep Ive fallen. He
looks as crushed as he looked in his daughters hospital room. To me, Gil has always resembled
that statue of Atlas, but now he looks as if he literally shoulders the weight of the
world, as if hes bench-pressing the problems of six billion. His voice chokes.
Ive never been so disgusted with myself.
I tell him Im done with drugs, Ill never touch them again, but it goes without saying. He
knows this as well as I do. He clears his throat, thanks me for being honest, then pushes it all
aside. Where youve been, he says, doesnt matter. From now on, were all about where
youre going.
Where were going, I say.
Right.
He draws up a plan. He outlines a proper diet. And no more Mr. Nice Guy, he says. No
more lapses, no more fast food, no more shortcuts.
Youll even have to cut back on the booze, he says.
Above all, hes going to keep me on a strict schedule. Eat, exercise, lift, hit, at precise
times of day.
As part of my new ascetic lifestyle, Ill be seeing less of my wife. I wonder if shell notice.
I PUT IN A FIERCE, rugged month with Gil, every bit as rugged as our mini boot camp in
early 1995, and then I go to a challenger, the bottom of the pro tennis ladder. The winners
check is $3,500. The crowd is smaller than the crowd at a typical high school football game.
The venue is UNLV. Familiar territory for such an unfamiliar moment. As Gil and I pull into
the parking lot, I think of how far Ive come, and how far I havent. These are the same courts
I played on when I was seven. This is where I came the day Gil quit his job to work with me. I
stood right over there, outside his office, hopping on one foot because I was so excited about
the road that lay before us. Now, just a three wood from that spot, Im playing hackers and
has-beens.
In other words, my peers.
A challenger is the definition of small-time, and nowhere is this more evident than in the
players lounge. The pre-match meal is airplane food: rubber chicken, limp veggies, flat soda.
Once upon a time, at slams, I would walk up and down the endless buffet line, chatting with
white-hatted chefs while they made me feathery omelets and homemade pasta. All gone.
The indignities dont stop there. At a challenger, there are fewer ball boys. It makes sense,
since there are practically no balls. You get only three per match. On either side of your court
are rows of courts with other matches taking place simultaneously. As you toss a ball to
serve, you see the players to your left and right. You hear them arguing. They dont care if
theyre interrupting your concentration. Fuck you and your concentration. Now and then a ball
comes dribbling past your feet from another court, and you hear, A little help! You need to
stop whatever youre doing and throw the ball back. Now youre the ball boy. Again.
You also operate your own scoreboard. Manually. During the changeover, I flip the little
plastic numbers, which feel like part of a childrens game. Fans laugh and yell things. How the
mighty have fallen! Image Is Everything, eh, buddy? A high-ranking official says publicly that
Andre Agassi playing a challenger is like Bruce Springsteen playing a corner bar.
So whats wrong with Springsteen playing a corner bar? I think it would be cool if Springsteen
played a corner bar now and then.
Im ranked number 141 in the world, the lowest Ive been ranked in my adult life, the lowest
Ive dreamed of being ranked. Sportswriters say Im humbled. They love saying this. They
couldnt be more wrong. I was humbled in the hotel room with Brad. I was humbled smoking
meth with Slim. Now Im just glad to be out here.
Brad feels the same way. He doesnt find anything demeaning about the challenger. Hes
reenergized, rededicated, and I love him for it. Hes excited for this challenger, coaching me
as if were at Wimbledon. He doesnt doubt that this is step one on the road all the way back
to number one. Inevitably, I put his faith to the test right away. Im a shadow of my former self.
My legs and arms might be on the mend, but my mind is still grossly out of shape. I reach the
final, and then my mind gives out. Shaking from the pressure, the strangeness, the ridicule
from the stands, I lose.
Brad is undiscouraged. Some technique will need relearning, he says. Shot selection, for
instance. You need to retrain that muscle with which a tennis player decides in the heat of
battle that this shot is the right one and that shot is the wrong one. You need to remember
that it doesnt matter if you hit the best shot in the worldremember? If its the wrong moment,
its the wrong shot.
Every shot is an educated guess, and Im no longer educated. Im as green as I was in juniors.
It took me twenty-two years to discover my talent, to win my first slamand only two
years to lose it.
ONE WEEK AFTER VEGAS I play a challenger in Burbank. The venue is a public park.
Center court has a large tree on one side that casts a twenty-foot shadow. Ive played on
thousands of courts in my career, and this is the sorriest one of all. In the distance I hear kids
playing kickball and dodgeball, cars backfiring, boom boxes blaring.
The tournament runs through Thanksgiving weekend, and I reach the third round, which
falls on Thanksgiving Day. Rather than eating turkey at home, Im scuffling in a Burbank public
park, ranked 120 spots lower than I was two Thanksgivings ago. Meanwhile, in Gteborg,
Davis Cup is under way. Chang and Sampras versus Sweden. Its sad, but appropriate, that
Im not there. I dont belong there. I belong here, under the ridiculous courtside tree. Unless I
can accept that Im where Im supposed to be, Ill never belong there again.
Warming up before my match, I realize that Im only four minutes from the studio where
Brooke shoots Suddenly Susan, on which Perry is now a producer. The show has become a
smash hit, and Brookes busy, working twelve hours a day. Still, it seems odd that she doesnt
pop over, watch a few points. Even when I get home she doesnt ask about the match.
Then again, I dont ask about Suddenly Susan either.
We talk about things. We talk about nothing.
THE ONLY TIME I BREAK TRAINING is to meet with Perry and lay the groundwork for
my charitable foundation. This is what we talked about fifteen years ago, two idealistic teenagers
with their mouths full of Chipwiches. We wanted to reach a plateau from which we
could give back, and weve finally arrived. Ive negotiated a long-term deal with Nike, which
will pay me tens of millions over the next decade. Ive bought my parents a house. Ive taken
care of everyone on my team. Now Im financially able to think larger, to widen my lens, and
in 1997, though Ive hit rock bottom, or because Ive hit rock bottom, Im ready.
My primary concern is children at risk. Adults can always ask for help, but children are
voiceless, powerless. So the first project my foundation undertakes is a shelter for abused
and neglected children whove been placed in the protective custody of the courts. The shelter
includes a cottage for medically fragile children, and a makeshift school. Next we launch a
program to clothe three thousand inner-city children each year. Then a series of scholarships
to UNLV. Then a Boys and Girls Club. My foundation takes a 2,200-square-foot building thats
falling apart and turns it into a 25,000-square-foot showplace, with a computer lab, a cafeteria,
a library, and tennis courts. Colin Powell speaks at the dedication.
I spend many carefree hours at the new Boys and Girls Club, meeting children, listening to
their stories. I take them onto the tennis court, teach them the proper grip, watch their eyes
sparkle because theyve never held a racket before. I sit with them in the computer room,
where the demand for online time is so great that they stand in long lines, patiently waiting
their turn. It shocks me, pains me, to see how resolved they are to learn. Other times I simply
station myself in the rec center of the Boys and Girls Club, playing ping-pong with the children.
I never walk into that rec center without thinking of the rec center at the Bollettieri
Academy, where I was so scared that first night, my back against the wall. The memory
makes me want to adopt every scared child I see.
One day in the rec center I sit with Stan, the man who runs the Boys and Girls Club. I ask
him, What more can we do? How can we make a bigger difference in their lives?
Stan says, You have to figure out a way to occupy more of their day. Otherwise its one
step forward, two steps back. You really want to make a difference? You want to have a lasting
impact? You need more of their day. In fact, you need all of their day.
So in 1997 I huddle again with Perry, and we hit on the idea of adding education to our
work. Then we decide to make education our work. But how? We briefly consider opening a
private school, but the bureaucratic and financial obstacles are too much. By chance I catch a
story on 60 Minutes about charter schools, and its the eureka moment. Charter schools are
partly state funded, partly privately funded. The challenge is raising money, but the benefit is
retaining full control. With a charter school we could do things the way we want. Wed be free
to build something unique. Special. And if it works, it can spread like wildfire. It can be a model
for charter schools around the nation. It can change education as we know it.
I cant believe the irony. A 60 Minutes piece caused my father to send me away, to break
my heart, and now a 60 Minutes piece lights the way home, gives me the map to find my lifes
meaning, my mission. Perry and I resolve to build the best charter school in America. We resolve
to hire the best teachers, pay them well, and hold them accountable for grades and test
scores. We resolve to show the world what can be done when you set standards outrageously
high and open the purse strings. We shake on it.
Ill give millions of my own money to launch the school, but well need to raise many more
millions. Well issue a $40 million bond, then pay it off by parlaying and trading on my fame.
At last my fame will have a purpose. All those famous people Ive met at parties and through
BrookeIll ask them to give their time and talent to my school, to visit the children, and to
perform at an annual fund-raiser, which were calling the Grand Slam for Children.
WHILE PERRY AND I are scouting locations for our school, I get a call from Gary Muller,
a South African who used to play and coach on the tour. Hes organizing a tennis event in
Cape Town to raise money for the Nelson Mandela Foundation. He asks if Id like to take part.
We dont know if Mandelas going to be there, he says.
If theres even a remote chance, Im in.
Gary calls right back. Good news, he says. Youre going to get to meet The Man.
Youre kidding.
Hes confirmed. Hes coming to the event.
I grip the phone tighter. Ive admired Mandela for years. Ive followed his struggles, his imprisonment,
his miraculous release and stunning political career, with awe. The idea of actually
meeting him, speaking to him, makes me dizzy.
I tell Brooke. Its the happiest shes seen me in a long time, which makes her happy. She
wants to come. The event happens to be a short flight from where she stayed while filming
her Africa movie, back in 1993, when we first started faxing.
She immediately goes shopping for matching safari outfits.
J.P. shares my reverence for Mandela, so I invite him to join us on the trip, and bring his
wife, Joni, whom Brooke and I both love. The four of us fly to South America, then catch another
plane to Johannesburg. Then we hop a rickety prop plane into the heart of Africa.
A storm forces us to make an unscheduled landing. We batten down in a straw-roofed hut
in the middle of nowhere, and over the sound of the thunder we can hear hundreds of animals
run for cover. Looking out of the hut, over the vast savannah, watching storm clouds whirl
along the horizon, J.P. and I agree this is one of those moments. Were both reading Mandelas
memoir, Long Walk to Freedom, but feeling like heroes in a Hemingway novel. I think
about something Mandela said once in an interview: No matter where you are in life, there is
always more journey ahead. And I think of one of Mandelas favorite quotes, from the poem
Invictus, which sustained him during those moments when he thought his journey had been
cut short: I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
After the storm passes we pile back into the prop plane and fly to a game reserve. We
spend three days on safari. Every morning, before dawn, we climb into a Jeep. We drive and
drive, then abruptly stop. We sit for twenty minutes in pitch dark, the engine running. As the
dawn slowly breaks we find that were on the banks of a vast fog-covered marsh, surrounded
by dozens of different kinds of animals. We see hundreds of impala. We see at least seventy-
five zebras. We see scores of giraffes as tall as two-story buildings, dancing around us
and gliding among the trees, nibbling from the highest branches, a sound like celery being
crunched. We feel the landscape speaking to us: All these animals, beginning their day in a
dangerous world, exude tremendous calm and acceptancewhy cant you?
With us are a driver and a shooter. The shooter is named Johnson. We love Johnson.
Hes our African Gil. He stands guard. He knows we love him, and he smiles with the pride of
a crack shot. He also knows the landscape better than the impalas do. At one point he waves
his hand at the trees and a thousand small monkeys, as if on cue, fall to the ground, like autumn
leaves.
In South Africa, on safari with Brooke, late 1997, days before
meeting Mandela
Were driving deep into the bush one morning when the Jeep shudders, swerves, and we go
spinning off to the right.
What happened?
We nearly ran over a lion sleeping in the middle of the road.
The lion sits up and stares with an expression that says, You woke me. His head is
enormous. His eyes are the color of lemon-lime Gatorade. The smell of him is a musk so
primal that it makes us lightheaded.
He has hair like I used to have.
Do not make a sound, the driver whispers.
Whatever you do, Johnson whispers, do not stand up.
Why?
The lion looks at us as one big predator. Right now hes afraid of us. If you stand, hell see
that were several smaller people.
Fair enough.
After a few minutes, the lion backs away, into the bush. We drive on.
Later, returning to our campsite, I lean into J.P. and whisper: I need to tell you something.
Fire away.
Im going throughwell, a tough time right now. Im trying to put some bad stuff behind
me.
Whats the problem?
I cant go into it. But I wanted to apologize if I seemdifferent.
Well, now that you mention it, you do. You have. But whats going on?
Ill tell you when I know you better.
He laughs.
Then he sees that Im not kidding. He asks, Are you OK?
I dont know. I honestly dont know.
I want to tell him about the depression, the confusion, the time with Slim, the pending suspension
from the ATP. But I cant. Not now. Not until its all farther behind me. At the moment
it feels like the lion, still inches away and glowering. I dont want to give voice to my problems,
for fear of rousing them, making them pounce. I just want to alert J.P. to their presence.
I also tell him that Im doubling down on tennis, and if I can pull through this tough time, if I
can come back, everything is going to be different. Im going to be different. But even if I cant,
even if Im finished, even if I lose everything, Im still going to be different.
He says, Finished?
I just wanted you to know.
Its like a confession, a testimony. J.P. looks at me with sadness. He squeezes my arm
and tells me, in so many words, that I am the captain of my fate.
WE TRAVEL TO CAPE TOWN, where I play tennis with obvious impatience, like a child
doing chores on Saturday morning. Then, at last, its time. We helicopter to a compound, and
Mandela himself greets us at the helipad. Hes surrounded by photographers, dignitaries, reporters,
aidesand he towers above them all. He looks not only taller than I expected, but
stronger, healthier. He looks like a former athlete, which surprises me, given his years of hard
labor and torture. But of course he is a former athlete, a boxer in his youthand in prison, he
says in his memoir, he kept fit by running in place in his cell and playing tennis occasionally
on a crude, makeshift court. For all his strength, however, his smile is sweet, almost angelic.
I tell J.P. he seems saintly to me. Gandhi-like, void of all bitterness. His eyes, though damaged
by years of working in the harsh glare of the prisons lime quarry, are filled with wisdom.
His eyes say that hes figured something out, something essential.
I babble as he fixes me with those eyes and shakes my hand and tells me he admires my
game.
We follow him into a great hall, where a formal dinner is served. Brooke and I are seated
at Mandelas table. Brooke sits on my right, Mandela on her right. Throughout the meal he
tells stories. I have many questions, but I dont dare interrupt him. He talks about Robben Island,
where he was held for eighteen of his twenty-seven years in prison. He talks about winning
over a few of the guards. As a special treat, they would sometimes let him walk to the
edge of a small lake with a fishing pole, to catch his own dinner. He smiles at the memory, almost
nostalgic.
After dinner Mandela stands and gives a stirring talk. His theme: we must all care for one
anotherthis is our task in life. But also we must care for ourselves, which means we must
be careful in our decisions, careful in our relationships, careful in our statements. We must
manage our lives carefully, in order to avoid becoming victims. I feel as if hes speaking directly
to me, as if hes aware that Ive been careless with my talent and my health.
He talks about racism, not just in South Africa but around the world. Its nothing but ignorance,
he says, and education is the only remedy. In prison, Mandela spent his few free hours
educating himself. He created a kind of university, and he and his fellow prisoners were professors
to each other. He survived the loneliness of constant confinement by reading; he especially
loved Tolstoy. One of the harshest punishments his guards devised was taking away
his right to study for four years. Again his words seem to shimmer with personal relevance. I
think of the work Perry and I have undertaken in Vegas, our charter school, and I feel invigor
ated. Also embarrassed. For the first time in many years Im acutely aware of my lack of education.
I feel the weight of this lack, the misfortune of it. I see it as a crime in which Ive been
complicit. I think of how many thousands in my hometown are victims of this crime right now,
deprived of an education, unaware how much theyre losing.
Finally, Mandela talks about the road hes traveled. He talks about the difficulty of all human
journeysand yet, he says, there is clarity and nobility in just being a journeyer. When
he stops speaking and takes his chair I know that my journey, compared with his, is nothing,
and yet thats not his point. Mandela is saying that every journey is important, and that no
journey is impossible.
Bidding Mandela goodbye, Im magnetized. Im pointed in the right direction. A friend later
shows me a passage in the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel A Death in the Family, in which a woman
deep in mourning thinks:
Now I am more nearly a grown member of the human race she thought that she had
never before had a chance to realize the strength human beings have, to endure; she loved
and revered all those who had ever suffered, even those who had failed to endure.
This is close to what I feel as I leave Mandela. This is what I think when the helicopter lifts
away from his compound. I love and revere those who suffer, who have ever suffered. I am
now more nearly a grown member of the human race.
God wants us to grow up.
NEW YEARS EVE, the last hours of this dreadful year, 1997. Brooke and I throw another
New Years party, and the next morning I wake early. I pull the covers over my head, then remember
that I scheduled a practice with a kid on the tour, Vince Spadea. I decide to cancel.
No. I yell at myself. You cannot cancel. Youre not that person anymore. Youre not going to
start 1998 by oversleeping and canceling a practice.
I force myself out of bed and meet Spadea. Even though its only practice, we both want it.
He turns it into a battle, which I appreciate, especially when I win. Walking off the court, I feel
winded but strong. The old kind of strong.
This is going to be my year, I tell Spadea1998 is my year.
Brooke comes with me to the 1998 Australian Open and watches me dispatch my first
three opponents, and unfortunately watches as I face Alberto Berasategui, from Spain. I go
up two sets to love, then unaccountably, impossibly, for no reason, I lose. Berasategui is a
nasty opponent, but still, I had him. Its an unthinkable loss, one of the few times Ive ever lost
a match when ahead two sets to none. Is this a detour in the comeback or a dead end?
I go to San Jose and play well. I meet Pete in the final. He seems glad to have me back,
glad to see me again on the other side, as if hes missed me. I have to admit, Ive missed him
too. I win, 62, 64, and toward the end, part of him seems to be pulling for me. He knows
what Im attempting, how far I have to go.
I tease him in the locker room about how easy it was to beat him.
How does it feel to lose to someone outside the top hundred?
Im not too worried about it, he says. Its not going to happen again.
Then I tease him about recent reports of his personal life. Hes broken up with the law student
and hes said to be dating an actress.
Bad move, I tell him.
The words catch us both off guard.
In the media room, reporters ask me about Pete and Marcelo Ros, who are dueling for
the number one rank: Which of them do you think will ultimately be number one?
Neither.
Nervous laughter.
I think Im going to be number one.
Raucous laughter.
No. Really. I mean it.
They stare, then dutifully write my insane prediction in their notebooks.
In March I go to Scottsdale and win my second straight tournament. I beat Jason Stoltenberg,
from Australia. A classic Aussie, hes solid, steady, with an enviable all-around game
that forces opponents to execute. Hes a good gut check for me, a good test of my nerves,
and I pass. Anyone who crosses me right now is going to have to deal with something they
dont want to deal with.
I go to Indian Wells and beat Rafter, but lose to a young phenom named Jan-Michael
Gambill. They say hes the best of the young bucks coming up. I look at him and wonder if he
knows what lies ahead, if hes readyif anyone can possibly be ready.
I go to Key Biscayne. I want to win, Im crazy to win. Its not like me to want a win this
badly. What I normally feel is a desire not to lose. But warming up before my first-rounder, I
tell myself I want this, and I realize precisely why. Its not about my comeback. Its about my
team. My new team, my real team. Im playing to raise money and visibility for my school.
After all these years Ive got what Ive always wanted, something to play for thats larger than
myself and yet still closely connected to me. Something that bears my name but isnt about
me. The Andre Agassi College Preparatory Academy.
At first I didnt want my name on the school. But friends persuaded me that my name can
bring cachet and credibility. My name might make raising money easier. Perry chooses the
word Academy, and its not until later that I appreciate the way this forever links my school to
my past, to Bradenton Academy and the Bollettieri Academy, my childhood prisons.
I DONT HAVE MANY FRIENDS IN LOS ANGELES, and Brooke has countless friends, so
most nights find her out being sociable and me at home, alone.
Thank God for J.P. He lives in Orange County, so its easy enough for him to drive north
now and then, sit with me by the fire, smoke a cigar, and talk about life. His pastoring days
seem like ancient history, but during our fireside talks it feels as if hes speaking to me from
an invisible pulpit. Not that I mind. I like being his solitary congregation, his flock of one. In
early 1998 he covers all the big topics. Motivation, inspiration, legacy, destiny, rebirth. He
helps me sustain the sense of mission I felt in Mandelas presence.
One night I tell J.P. that I feel a remarkable confidence in my game, and a new purpose
for being on the courtso how come I still feel all this fear? Doesnt the fear ever go away?
I hope not, he says. Fear is your fire, Andre. I wouldnt want to see you if it ever completely
went out.
Then J.P. looks around the house, takes a pull on his cigar, and says he cant help but notice
my wife is never around. Whenever he comes over, no matter the day or time, Brooke
seems to be out with friends.
He asks if it bothers me.
Hadnt noticed.
I GO TO MONTE CARLO in April 1998 and lose to Pete. He pumps his fist. No more
pulling for methe rivalry is back on.
I go to Rome. Im lying on my hotel bed, resting after a match.
Back-to-back phone calls.
First, Philly. Hes sniffling, on the verge of all-out tears. He tells me his wife, Marti, just
gave birth to a baby girl. Theyre calling her Carter Bailey. My brother sounds different.
Happy, of course, and busting with pride, but also: Philly sounds as though he feels blessed.
Philly sounds as though he feels supremely lucky.
I tell him how overjoyed I am for him and Marti, and I promise to get home as soon as I
can. Brooke and I will come straight over and see my brand-new niece, I say, my voice catching
in my throat.
The phone rings again. Is it an hour later? Three? In my memory it will always feel like
part of the same foggy moment, though the two calls might be days apart. Its my lawyers,
theyre on speaker phone. Andre? Can you hear us? Andre?
Yes, I hear you. Go ahead.
Well, the ATP has read and carefully reviewed your heartfelt assertion of innocence. Im
pleased to say that your explanation has been accepted. Your failed test is thrown out.
Henceforth the matter will be considered closed.
Im not suspended?
No.
Im free to go on with my career? My life?
Yes.
I ask several more times. Youre sure? You mean, this is really over?
As far as the ATP is concerned, yes. They believe and accept your explanation. Gladly. I
think everyone is eager to move on and put this behind them.
I hang up and stare into space, thinking again and again: New life.
I GO TO the 1998 French Open, and against Marat Safin, from Russia, I hurt my shoulder.
I always forget how weighty the ball can be on this particular clay. Its like hitting a shotput.
The shoulder is agony, but Im grateful for the hurt. I will never again take for granted the privilege
of hurting on a tennis court.
The doctor says I have an impingement. Pressure on the nerve. I shut myself down for
two weeks. No practice, no sparring, nothing. I miss the game. Whats more, I let myself miss
it. I enjoy and celebrate missing it.
At Wimbledon I face Tommy Haas, from Germany. In the third set, during a fierce
tiebreak, the linesman makes an atrocious blunder. Haas hits a ball clearly long and wide, but
the linesman calls it in, giving Haas a commanding 63 lead. Its the worst call of my career. I
know the ball was out, know it without question, but all my arguing is for nothing. The other
linesman and the umpire uphold the call. I go on to lose the tiebreak. Now Im down two sets
to one, a steep hole.
Officials pause the match, postpone the end because of darkness. Back at my hotel, on
the news, I see that the ball was several inches out. I can only laugh.
The next day, taking the court, Im still laughing. I still dont care about the call. Im just
happy to be here. Maybe I dont know yet how to be happy and play well at the same time:
Haas wins the fourth set. Afterward, he tells reporters he grew up idolizing me. I used to look
up to Agassi, he saysits a very special win for me because he won Wimbledon in 1992 and
I can say I beat Andre Agassi, a former number one whos won a couple of Grand Slams.
It sounds like a eulogy. Does the guy think he beat me or buried me?
And did anyone in the press room bother to tell him Ive actually won three slams?
BROOKE LANDS A ROLE in an indie film called Black and White. Shes elated, because
the director is a genius and the theme is race relations and shell get to ad-lib her lines and
wear her hair in dreadlocks. Shes also living in the woods for a month, bunking with her fellow
actors, and when we talk on the phone she says they all stay in character, 247. Doesnt
that sound cool?
Cool, I say, rolling my eyes.
On her first morning home, eating breakfast in the kitchen, shes full of stories about
Robert Downey Jr. and Mike Tyson and Marla Maples and other stars of the movie. I try to be
interested. She asks about my tennis, and she tries to be interested. Were tentative, like
strangers. Were not like spouses sharing a kitchen; more like teens sharing a hostel. Were
courteous, polite, even kind, but the vibe feels brittle, as if everything could shatter any
minute.
I put another log in the kitchen fireplace.
So I have something to tell you, Brooke says. While I was away, I got a tattoo.
I spin around. Youre kidding.
We go to the bathroom where theres more light, and she pulls down the waistline of her
jeans and shows me. On her hip. A dog.
Did it cross your mind to run that by me?
The exact wrong thing to say. Controlling, she calls it. Since when does she need my permission
to decorate her body? I go back to the kitchen, pour myself a second cup of coffee,
and stare harder into the fire. Stare harder.
BECAUSE OF SCHEDULING CONFLICTS, Brooke and I couldnt take our honeymoon
right after the wedding. But now, with her done filming and me just done, it seems like the perfect
time. We decide to go to Necker Island, in the British Virgin Islands, southeast of Indigo
Island. Its owned by billionaire Richard Branson, and he tells us well love it.
He says, Its an island paradise!
From the moment we land, were out of sync. We cant get comfortable. We cant agree
how to spend our time. I want to relax. Brooke wants to go scuba diving. And she wants me to
go with her. Which means taking a class. I tell her that of all the things I want to do on my
honeymoon, taking a class is right up there with having a colonoscopy.
While watching Friends.
She insists.
We spend hours at the pool, an instructor teaching us about wet suits and tanks and
masks. Water keeps leaking into my mask because I have a five-oclock shadow and my
bristles prevent the mask from lying flush against my skin. I go up to the room and shave.
When I come back down the instructor says the final phase of training is an underwater
card game. If you can sit calmly playing cards at the bottom of the pool, and if you can play a
full game without needing to surface, then youre a scuba diver. So here I am, in full scuba
gear, in the middle of the Caribbean, sitting at the bottom of a pool and playing Go Fish. I
dont feel like a scuba diver. I feel like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. I climb out of the pool
and tell Brooke, I cant do this.
You never want to try anything new.
Enjoy. Go out to the middle of the ocean if you want. Say hi to the Little Mermaid. Ill be in
the room.
I walk into the kitchen and order a large plate of French fries. Then I go up to the room,
kick off my shoes, stretch out on the couch, and watch TV for the rest of the day.
We leave the island paradise three days early. Honeymoon over.
IM IN D.C. FOR THE 1998 LEGG MASON. Another July heat wave, another withering
D.C. tournament. Other players are carping about the heat, and ordinarily Id be carping too,
but I feel only a cool gratitude and a steely resolve, which I maintain in part by waking early
every morning, writing out my goals. After putting them on paper, saying them aloud, I also
say aloud: No shortcuts.
Just before the tournament starts, during a final practice with Brad, I give a halfhearted effort.
Perry drives me back to the hotel. I stare out the window, silent.
Pull over, I say.
Why?
Just pull over.
He steers onto the shoulder.
Drive two miles ahead and wait for me.
What are you talking about? Are you crazy?
Im not done. I didnt give my best today.
I run two miles through Rock Creek Park, the same park where I gave my rackets away in
1987. With every step Im close to passing out, but I dont care. This run, even if it brings on
heatstroke, will give me peace of mind tonight in that all-important ten minutes before I fall
asleep. I now live for that ten minutes. Im all about that ten minutes. Ive been cheered by
thousands, booed by thousands, but nothing feels as bad as the booing inside your own head
during those ten minutes before you fall asleep.
When I get to the car, my face is bright purple. I slide into the passenger seat, turn up the
air-conditioning, and smile at Perry.
Thats how we do it, he says, handing me a towel as he pulls away.
I reach the final. I face Draper again. I remember wondering not too long ago how I ever
beat him. I remember shaking my head in disbelief that Id ever gotten past him. One of the
low points of my life. Now I take him out in fifty minutes, 62, 60. I win the tournament for the
fourth time.
At the Mercedes-Benz Cup I reach the semis without losing a set and ultimately win the
whole thing. At the du Maurier Open in Toronto I face Pete again. He plays great in the first
set but wears down in the second. I beat him, which costs him the number one ranking and
moves me up to number nine.
I meet Krajicek in the semis. Hes still feeling good about winning the 1996 Wimbledon,
the only Dutchman ever to do it. In the process he beat Pete in the quarters, handing Pete his
first Wimbledon loss in years. But Im not Pete, and Im not me. Krajicek is down a set,
serving at 34 in the second set, love40. Triple break point. I rope the best return of my adult
life. The ball seems to clear the net by a centimeter and leaves a smoking skid mark. Its a
true old-fashioned rug-burner. Krajicek shuts his eyes, shoves out his racket, hits a wild volley.
It could go anywhere, he has no idea where it might go, but its a winner. If his racket had
been open another half degree, the ball would have hit somebody in the front row and I would
have broken serve and taken control of the match. Instead he wins the point, holds serve,
beats me in three sets, ends my streak of consecutive matches at fifteen. In the old days Id
have had trouble getting over it. Now I tell Brad: Thats tennis, right, BG?
ENTERING THE 1998 U.S. OPEN, Im number eight in the world. The crowd is fully behind
me, which always lifts my spirits, makes me lighter on my feet. In the round of sixteen I
meet Kucera, who seems to be trying to irk me with his serve. He tosses the ball, then stops,
catches it, and tosses it again. Im down two sets to love, sorely annoyed by this guy. Then I
remember: the better you play Kucera, the better he plays. Hit shit to him, he hits shit back.
Thats itIm playing too well! Im also serving too well. When its my serve, I imitate Kucera.
The crowd laughs. Then I hit big goofy moonballs. I irk Kucera, irritate my way back into the
match.
Rain falls. The match is held over until tomorrow.
Brooke and I go out for a late dinner with her friends. Actors. Its always actors. The sky
has cleared, so we eat outside at a downtown restaurant with tables on the roof. Afterward,
were standing in the street, saying goodnight.
Good luck tomorrow! the actors shout as they jump into cabs, off to do some more drinking.
Brooke watches them, turns to me. Her bottom lip is out. Shes torn. She looks like a child
caught between what she should do and what she wants to do.
I take a swig from my liter bottle of Gil Water. Go, I say.
Really? You wont mind?
No, I lie. Have fun.
I take a cab to Brookes apartment. She sold the brownstone and bought this place on the
Upper East Side. I miss the brownstone. I miss the front stoop where Gil stood guard. I even
miss the eyeless, hairless African masks, if only because they were there when Brooke and I
didnt wear masks with each other. I finish my Gil Water, slide into bed. I drift off but snap
awake when Brooke comes home hours later.
Go back to sleep, she whispers.
I try. I cant. I get up and take a sleeping pill.
The next day I have a titanic battle with Kucera. I manage to tie the match. But he has
more verve, more stamina. He outduels me in a tough fifth set.
IM SITTING IN A CORNER of our bathroom in Los Angeles, watching Brooke get ready
to go out. Im staying homeagain. We talk about why this is always so.
She accuses me of refusing to participate in her world. She says Im not open to new experiences,
new people. Im not interested in meeting her friends. I could be rubbing elbows
every night with geniuseswriters, artists, actors, musicians, directors. I could be attending
art gallery openings, world premieres, new plays, private screenings. But all I want to do is
stay home, watch TV, and maybe, just maybe, if Im feeling social, have J.P. and Joni over for
dinner.
I cant lie. That does sound like a perfect night.
Andre, she says, theyre all bad for you. Perry, J.P., Philly, Bradthey coddle you, humor
you, enable you. Not one of them has your best interests at heart.
You think all my friends are bad for me?
All but Gil.
All?
All. Especially Perry.
I know shes been feuding with Perry, that he gave up his producer role on Suddenly
Susan. I know shes irked that I havent automatically taken her side in the feud. But I had no
idea she was ready to write off everyone else on my team.
Standing, turning from the mirror, she says: Andre, I consider you a rose among thorns.
A rose among?
An innocent, surrounded by people who are bleeding you dry.
Im not so innocent. And those thorns have helped me since I was a boy. Those thorns
have saved my life.
Theyre holding you back. Theyre keeping you from growing. From evolving. Youre unevolved,
Andre.
PERRY AND I CHOOSE to set the academy in the worst neighborhood of West Las Vegas,
where it can serve as a beacon. After months of scouting locations, trying to find a lot
thats for sale and affordable and capable of accommodating an evolving campus, we find an
eight-acre parcel that meets all our requirements. Its in the center of an urban wasteland, surrounded
by pawnshops and homes on the verge of being torn down. Its on the site of the original
Las Vegas, the long-forgotten outpost where settlers first arrived, which was later aban
doned. I like that our school will be placed on a site that has a history of abandonment. Where
better to initiate the kind of change we envision in the lives of children?
At the groundbreaking ceremony, dozens of politicians and dignitaries and neighborhood
leaders are on hand. Reporters, TV cameras, speeches. We push the golden shovel into the
litter-strewn dirt. I look around, and I can actually hear the sound of children in the future,
laughing and playing and asking questions. I can feel the procession of lives that will cross
this spot, and go forward from this spot. I become lightheaded, thinking of the dreams that will
be formed here, the lives that will be shaped and saved. Im so overcome by the thought of
what will happen here, in a few years, and many decades after Im gone, that I dont hear the
speeches. The future drowns out the present.
Then someone jolts me from my reverie, tells me to stand over here for a group picture. A
flash goes off, a happy occasion, but daunting. We have so far to go. The fight to get the
school opened, accredited, funded, will be rough. If not for my progress these last few
months, fighting to reconstitute my tennis career, to recapture my health and balance, I dont
know that Id have the stomach.
People ask me where Brooke is, why she isnt here for the groundbreaking. I tell them the
truth. I dont know.
NEW YEARS EVE, the close of 1998. Brooke and I throw our traditional New Years Eve
party. No matter how disconnected we may be, she insists that during holidays we give no
sign of trouble to our friends and family. It feels as if were actors and our guests are an audience.
And yet, even when the audience isnt here, she playacts, and I follow along. Hours before
our guests arrive, we pretend to be happya dress rehearsal of sorts. Hours after theyre
gone, we continue pretending. A kind of cast party.
Tonight there seem to be more of Brookes friends and family than mine in the audience.
Included in this group is Brookes new dog, an albino pit bull named Sam. It growls at my
friends. It growls as if its been briefed on what Brooke thinks of all of them.
J.P. and I sit in a corner of the living room, eyeballing the dog, which is lying at Brookes
feet, eyeballing us.
That dog would be cool, J.P. says, if it were sitting here. He points to the ground beside
my feet.
I laugh.
No. Really. Thats not a cool dog. Thats not your dog. This is not your house. This is not
your life.
Hm.
Andre, there are red flowers on this chair.
I look at the chair where hes sitting and see it as if for the first time.
Andre, he says. Red flowers. Red flowers.
AS I PACK FOR THE 1999 AUSTRALIAN OPEN, Brooke frowns and stomps around the
house. Shes irritated by my attempted comeback. It cant be that she resents my hitting the
road, given all the tension between us. So I can only assume she thinks Im wasting my time.
Shes certainly not alone.
I kiss her goodbye. She wishes me luck.
I reach the round of sixteen. The night before my match I phone her.
This is hard, she says.
What is?
Us. This.
Yes. It is.
Theres so much distance between us, she says.
Australia is far.
No. Even when were in the same roomdistance.
I think: You said all my friends suck. How could there not be distance?
I say: I know.
When you get home, she says, we should talk. We need to talk.
What about?
She repeats, When you get home. She sounds overwhelmed. Is she crying? She tries to
change the subject. Who do you play?
I tell her. She never recognizes the names or understands what they mean.
She asks, Is it on TV?
I dont know. Probably.
Ill watch.
OK.
OK.
Goodnight.
Hours later I play Spadea, my practice partner from New Years Day one year ago. He
isnt half the player I am. There have been days in my prime when I could have beaten him
with a spatula. But Ive been on the road for thirty-two of the last fifty-two weeks, not to mention
the training with Gil, the struggles with the school, and the maneuvering with Brooke. My
mind is still on the phone with Brooke. Spadea edges me in four sets.
The newspapers are cruel. They point out that Ive been ousted early from my last six
slams. Fair enough. But they say Im embarrassing myself. Too long at the fair, they say.
Agassi doesnt seem to know when to hang it up. Hes won three slams. Hes nearly twenty
nine years old. How much more does he really hope to accomplish?
Every other article contains the threadbare phrase: At an age when most of his peers are
thinking about retiring
I WALK IN THE DOOR and call out Brookes name. Nothing. Its midmorning, she must be
at the studio. I spend the day waiting for her to come home. I try to rest, but its hard with an
albino pit bull eyeing you.
When Brooke gets home, its dark and the weather has turned bad. A rainy, wintry night.
She suggests we go out for dinner.
Sushi?
Lovely.
We drive to one of our favorite places, Matsuhisa, sit at the bar. She orders sake. Im
starved. I ask for all my favorites. The blue fin sashimi, the crab toro cucumber avocado hand
roll. Brooke sighs.
You always order the same thing.
Im too hungry and tired to bother about her disapproval.
She sighs again.
Whats wrong?
I cant even look you in the eye right now.
Her eyes are wet.
Brooke?
No, really, I cant look at you.
Easy does it. Take a deep breath. Please, please, try not to cry. Lets get the check and
go. Lets just talk about this at home.
I dont know why, but after all thats been written about me in the last few days, its important
that tomorrows newspapers dont report that I was seen fighting with my wife.
In the car Brooke is still crying. Im not happy, she says. Were not happy. We havent
been happy for so very long. And I dont know if we can ever be happy again if we stay together.
So. There it is. Thats that.
I walk into the house, a zombie. I pull a suitcase out of the closet, which I notice is so organized,
so neat, its unsettling. I realize how difficult it must be for Brooke, living with my
losses, my silences, my peaks and valleys. But I also notice how little space in this closet is
allotted to me. Symbolic. I think of J.P. This is not your house.
I grab the few hangers holding my clothes and carry them downstairs.
Brooke is in the kitchen, sobbing. Not crying as she did at the restaurant and in the car,
but sobbing. Shes sitting on a stool at the butcher block island. Always an island. One way or
another, we spend all our time together on islands. We are islands. Two islands. And I cant
recall when it was different.
She asks, What are you doing? Whats going on?
What do you mean? Im leaving.
Its raining. Wait until morning.
Why wait? No time like the present.
I make a pile of essentials: clothes, blender, Jamaican coffee beans, French pressand a
gift Brooke recently gave me. The scary painting Philly and I saw years ago at the Louvre.
She commissioned an artist to make an exact replica. I look at the man hanging from the cliff.
How has he not fallen off that cliff by now? I throw everything in the backseat of my car, a
mint-condition convertible Eldorado Cadillac, 1976, the last year they made them. The car is a
pure lustrous white, lily white, so I named it Lily. I turn Lilys key, and the dashboard lights
come on like an old TV set. The odometer reads 23,000 miles. It strikes me that Lily is the exact
opposite of me. Old, with low mileage.
I peel out of the driveway.
A mile from the house I start crying. Through my tears, and the gathering fog, I can barely
see the chrome wreath of the hood ornament. But I keep going, and going, until I reach San
Bernardino. The fog is now snow. The pass through the mountains is closed. I phone Perry
and ask him if theres another way to Vegas.
Whats wrong?
I tell him. Trial separation, I say. We dont know each other anymore.
I think about the day Wendi and I broke up, when I pulled over and phoned Perry. I think
of all thats happened sinceand yet here I am, pulled over again, phoning Perry with a
broken heart.
He says theres no other way to get to Vegas, so I need to make a U-turn, head back toward
the coast, and stop at the first motel that has a room. I drive slowly, picking my way
through the snow, the car spinning and skidding on the slick highway. I stop at every motel.
No vacancy. Finally I get the last available bed at a fleabag in Nowhere, California. I lie on the
smelly bedspread, interrogating myself. How the hell did you get here? How did it come to
this? Why are you reacting like this? Your marriage is far from perfect, youre not even sure
why you got married in the first place, or if you ever wanted to get marriedso why are you
such an emotional wreck thinking it might be over?
Because you hate losing. And divorce is one tough loss.
But youve suffered tough losses beforewhy does this one feel different?
Because you dont see any way that, as a result of this loss, you can improve.
I PHONE BROOKE TWO DAYS LATER. Im contrite, shes hardened.
We both need time to think, she says. We shouldnt talk for a while. We need to go inside
ourselves, not interfere with each other.
Inside ourselves? What does that even meanfor how long?
Three weeks.
Three? Where do you come up with that number?
She doesnt answer.
She suggests I use the time to see a therapist.
SHES A SMALL DARK WOMAN in a small dark office in Vegas. I sit on a love seathow
exquisitely ironic. She sits in a chair three feet away. She listens without interrupting. Id
rather she interrupted. I want answers. The more I talk, the more acutely aware I become of
talking to myself. As always. This isnt the way to save a marriage. Marriages dont get saved
or solved by one person talking.
I wake later that night on the floor. My back is stiff. I go out to the living room and sit on the
couch with a pad and pen. I write pages and pages to Brooke. Another pleading handwritten
letter, but this one is all true. In the morning I fax the pages to Brookes house. I watch the
pages go through the fax machine and I think of how it all started, five years ago, sliding the
pages into Phillys fax machine, holding my breath, waiting for the witty, flirty reply from a hut
somewhere in Africa.
This time there is no reply.
I fax her again. Then again.
Shes much farther away than Africa.
I phone.
I know you said three weeks, but I need to talk to you. I think we should meet, I think we
need to be working through these things together.
Oh Andre, she says.
I wait.
Oh Andre, she says again. You dont understand. You just dont get it. This isnt about
usthis is about you individually and me individually.
I tell her shes right, I dont understand. I tell her I dont see how we got here. I tell her how
unhappy Ive been for so long. I tell her Im sorry that weve grown distant, that Ive grown
cold. I tell her about the whirl, the constant whirl, the centrifugal force of this fucked-up tennis
life. I tell her that I havent known who I am for the longest time, maybe ever. I tell her about
the search for a self, the endless monologue in my head, the depression. I tell her everything
in my heart, and it all comes out halting, clumsy, inarticulate. Its embarrassing, but necessary,
because I dont want to lose her, Ive had enough losing, and I know if Im honest shell
give me a second chance.
She says that shes sorry Im suffering, but she cant solve it. She cant fix me. I need to fix
myself. By myself.
Listening to the dial tone, I feel resigned, calm. The phone call now seems like the brief,
curt handshake at the net between two mismatched opponents.
I eat something, watch TV, go to bed early. In the morning I phone Perry and tell him I
want the fastest divorce in the history of divorce.
I give my platinum wedding band to a friend and point him to the nearest pawnshop. Take
their first offer, I tell him. When he brings me the cash I make a donation to my new school in
the name of Brooke Christa Shields. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, she will
forever be one of the original benefactors.
22
THE FIRST TOURNAMENT of my new, Brooke-less life is San Jose. J.P. drives up from
Orange County for a few days of emergency counseling. He encourages, advises, cajoles,
promises that better days are ahead. He understands that I have good moments and bad.
One moment I say, To hell with her, and the next moment I miss her. He says its all par for
the course. He tells me that for the last few years my mind has been a swampstagnant, fetid,
seeping in every direction. Now its time for my mind to be a riverraging, channeled, and
therefore pure. I like it. I tell him Ill try to keep this image in mind. He talks and talks, and as
long as hes talking, Im OK. Im in control. His advice feels like an oxygen cup on my mouth.
Then he leaves, drives back to Orange County, and Im a mess again. Im standing on the
court, in the middle of a match, thinking about everything but my opponent. Im asking myself,
If you took a vow, before God and your family, if you said I do, and now you dont, what does
that make you?
A failure.
I walk in circles, cursing myself. The linesman hears me call myself an obscene name and
walks past me, across the court, to the umpires chair. He reports me to the umpire for using
foul language.
The umpire gives me a warning.
Now here comes the linesman, walking back across the court, past me, to resume his position.
I glare. The mealy-mouthed fink. The pathetic tattletale. I know I shouldnt, I know there
will be hell to pay, but I cant hold it in.
Youre a cocksucker.
He stops, turns, marches straight back to the umpire, reports me again.
This time Im docked a point.
The linesman comes back again, past me, to resume his position.
I say, Youre still a cocksucker.
He stops, turns, walks back to the umpire, who heaves a sigh and pitches forward in his
chair. The umpire calls over the supervisor, who also sighs, then beckons me.
Andre. Did you call the linesman a cocksucker?
Do you want me to lie or tell you the truth?
I need to know if you said it.
I said it. And you want to know something? He is a cocksucker.
They kick me out of the tournament.
I HEAD BACK TO VEGAS. Brad phones. Indian Wells is coming up, he says. I tell Brad
that Im going through some stuff right now, but I cant tell him what. And Indian Wells is out of
the question.
I have to get well, get right, which means spending lots of time with Gil. Every night we
buy a sack of hamburgers and drive around the city. Im breaking training, big time, but Gil
sees again that I need comfort food. He also sees that he might lose a finger if he tries to take
the hamburger away from me.
We drive into the mountains, up and down the Strip, listening to Gils special CD. He calls
it Belly Cramps. Gils philosophy in all things is to seek the pain, woo the pain, recognize that
pain is life. If youre heartbroken, Gil says, dont hide from it. Wallow in it. We hurt, he says, so
lets hurt. Belly Cramps is his medley of the most painful love songs ever written. We listen to
them over and over until we know the lyrics by heart. After a song has played Gil will speak
the lyrics. For my money, his speaking is better than anyones singing. He puts all recording
artists to shame. Id rather hear Gil talk a song than Sinatra croon it.
With each passing year Gils voice grows deeper, richer, and softer, and when he speaks
the chorus of a torch song he sounds as if hes channeling Moses and Elvis. He deserves a
Grammy for his rendition of Barry Manilows Please Dont Be Scared:
Cause feeling pains a hard way
To know youre still alive.
But his take on Roy Clarks version of We Cant Build a Fire in the Rain knocks me out
every time. One line in particular resonates with us both:
Just going through the motions and pretending
we have something left to gain.
When Im not with Gil, Im locked in my new house, the one I bought with Brooke for those
infrequent occasions when we came home to Vegas. Now I think of it as Bachelor Pad II. I
like the house, its more my style than the French Country place where she and I lived in Pacific
Palisades, but it doesnt have a fireplace. I cant think without a fireplace. I must have fire.
So I hire a guy to build one.
While its under construction the house is a disaster area. Huge plastic sheets hang from
the walls. Tarps cover the furniture. A thick coat of dust lies everywhere. One morning, staring
into the unfinished fireplace, I think about Mandela. I think about the promises Ive made to
myself and others. I reach for the phone and dial Brad.
Come to Vegas. Im ready to play.
He says hes on his way.
Unbelievable. He could dump meno one would blame himbut instead he drops
everything the moment I call. I love the guy. Now, while hes on his way, I worry that he wont
be comfortable, because of all the construction. Then I smile. I have two leather club chairs
set in front of a large-screen TV, and a wet bar stocked with Bud Ice. All Brads basic needs
will be met.
Five hours later he comes through the door, flops into one of the club chairs, opens a
beer, and instantly looks as if hes nestled in his mothers arms. I join him in a beer. Six
oclock rolls around. We switch to frozen margaritas. At eight oclock were still in the club
chairs, Brad flipping channels, looking for sports highlights.
I say, Listen, Brad, I need to tell you something. Its something I should have told you a
while ago.
Hes staring at the TV. Im staring into the unfinished fireplace, imagining flames.
You see that game the other night? he asks. No one is beating Duke this year.
Brad, this is important. Something you need to know. Brooke and Iwere done. Were
not going to make it.
He turns. He looks me dead in the eye. Then he puts his elbows on his knees and hangs
his head. I had no idea hed take it this hard. He stays this way for three full seconds. Finally
he looks up and gives me a big, toothy smile.
He says, Its going to be a great year.
What?
Were going to have a great year.
But
This is the best thing thats ever happened to your tennis.
Im miserable. What are you talking about?
Miserable? Then youre looking at this all wrong. You dont have kids. Youre free as a
bird. If you had kids, OK, there would be real problems. But this way, you get off scot free.
I guess.
Youve got the world by the balls. Youre solo, rid of all that drama!
He looks deranged. He looks delirious. He tells me we have Key Biscayne coming up,
then clay season, thengood things. About to happen.
This burden is off you now, he says. Instead of lying around Vegas, feeling your pain, lets
go put some pain on your opponents.
You know what? Youre right. That calls for another batch of margaritas!
At nine oclock I say, We should think about food.
But Brad is peacefully, contentedly licking salt from the rim of his glass, and hes found
tennis on the TV, a night match in Indian Wells. Steffi Graf versus Serena Williams.
He wheels and gives me the toothy smile again.
Thats your play right there!
He points to the TV.
He says, Steffi Graf! Thats who you should be with.
Yeah. Right. She wants no part of me.
Ive told Brad the stories. The 1991 French Open. The 1992 Wimbledon Ball. Ive tried and
tried. No dice. Steffi Graf is like the French Open. I just cant get across that particular finish
line.
Thats all in the past, Brad says. Besides, your approach back then was so un-Andre. Asking
once and backing off? Strictly amateur. Since when do you let other people run your
game? Since when do you take no for an answer?
I nod. Maybe.
You just need a look, Brad says. A crack of light. A window. An opening.
The next tournament where Steffi and I are both scheduled to play is Key Biscayne. Brad
tells me to relax, hell get me close. He knows Steffis coach, Heinz Gunthardt. Hell talk to
Heinz about setting up a practice session.
THE MOMENT WE ARRIVE IN KEY BISCAYNE, Brad phones Heinz, whos surprised by
the proposition. He says no. He says Steffi would never agree to break her regular preparation
schedule for a practice session with a stranger. Shes too regimented. Also, shes shy.
Shed be highly uncomfortable. But Brad is persistent, and Heinz must have some trace of romantic
in him. He suggests Brad and I book the court for right after Steffis practice session,
then arrive early. Heinz will then casually suggest that Steffi hit a few balls with me.
Its all set, Brad says. High noon. You. Me. Steffi. Heinz. Lets get this party started.
FIRST THINGS FIRST. I phone J.P. and tell him to get his ass to Florida, pronto. I need
advice. I need a sounding board. I need a wingman. Then I hit the court and practice for my
practice session.
On the appointed day, Brad and I get to the court forty minutes early. Ive never been so
breathless. Ive played seven times in the final of a Grand Slam and I never felt like this. We
find Heinz and Steffi deeply absorbed in their practice session. We stand off to the side,
watching. After a few minutes Heinz calls Steffi to the net and says something to her. He
points to us.
She looks.
I smile.
She doesnt.
She says a few words to Heinz, and Heinz says a few words, and then she shakes her
head. But when she jogs back to the baseline, Heinz waves me onto the court.
I tie my shoes quickly. I pull a racket out of the bag and walk onto the courtthen impulsively
whip off my shirt. Its shameless, I realize, but Im desperate. Steffi looks and does a
barely detectable double take. Thank you, Gil.
We start to hit. Shes flawless, of course, and Im struggling to get the ball over the net.
The net is your biggest enemy. Relax, I tell myself. Stop thinking. Come on, Andre, its only a
practice session.
But I cant help myself. Ive never seen a woman so beautiful. Standing still, shes a goddess;
in motion, shes poetry. Im a suitor, but also a fan. Ive wondered for so long what Steffi
Grafs forehand feels like. Ive watched her on TV and at tournaments and Ive wondered how
that ball feels when it comes flying off her racket. A ball feels different off every players rack-
etthere are minute but concrete subtleties of force and spin. Now, hitting with her, I feel her
subtleties. Its like touching her, though were forty feet apart. Every forehand is foreplay.
She hits a series of backhands, carving up the court with her famous slice. I need to impress
her with my ability to take that slice and do whatever I want with it. But its harder than I
thought. I miss one. I yell to her: Youre not going to get away with that again!
She says nothing. She hits another slice. I sit down on my backhand and hit the ball as
hard as I can.
She nets the return.
I yell: That shot pays a lot of bills for me!
Again, nothing. She merely hits the next one deeper and slicier.
Generally, during my practice sessions, Brad likes to keep busy. He chases balls, offers
pointers, runs his mouth. Not this time. Hes sitting in the umpire chair, his eyes peeled, a lifeguard
on a shark-infested beach.
Whenever I look in his direction he mutters one word. Beautiful.
Around the edges of the court, people are beginning to gather, to gawk. A few photographers
snap photos. I wonder why. Is it the rarity of a male and female player practicing? Or
is it that Im catatonic and missing every third ball? From a distance, it looks as if Steffi is giv
ing a lesson to a shirtless, grinning mute.
After we hit for one hour and ten minutes, she waves and comes to the net.
Thank you very much, she says.
I trot to the net and say, The pleasure was all mine.
I manage to act nonchalant, until she starts to use the net post to stretch out her legs. All
the blood rushes to my head. I need to do something physical or I might lose consciousness.
Ive never stretched before, but now seems like a good time to start. I put a leg on the net
post and pretend my back is flexible. We stretch, talk about the tour, complain about the
travel, compare notes on different cities weve enjoyed.
I ask, Whats your favorite city? When tennis is over, where do you imagine living?
Oh. Its a tie, I think. Between New York and San Francisco.
I think: Have you ever thought of living in Las Vegas?
I say: My two favorites also.
She smiles. Well, she says. Thanks again.
Any time.
We do the European double-cheek kiss.
Brad and I take the ferry back to Fisher Island, where J.P. is waiting. The three of us
spend the rest of the night talking about Steffi as if shes an opponent, which she is. Brad
treats her like Rafter or Pete. She has strengths, she has weaknesses. He breaks down her
game, coaches me up. Now and then J.P. phones Joni, puts her on speaker, and we try to
get the female point of view.
The conversation continues over the next two days. At dinner, in the steam room, at the
hotel bar, the three of us talk about nothing but Steffi. Were plotting, using military jargon, like
recon and intel. I feel as if were planning a land and sea invasion of Germany.
I say, She seemed kind of cool to me.
Brad says, She has no idea you split from your missus. It hasnt been in the papers yet.
Nobody knows. You need to let her know your status, and tell her how you feel about her.
Ill send her flowers.
Yes, J.P. says. Flowers are good. But you cant send them under your name. It might get
leaked to the press. Well have Joni send them, with your name on the card.
Good thinking.
Joni goes to a shop in South Beach and, under my directive, buys every rose in the place.
She essentially orders a rose garden transplanted to Steffis room. On the card I thank Steffi
for the practice session and invite her to dinner. Then I sit back and wait for the call.
There is no call. All day.
Or the next day.
No matter how much I stare at it, and shout at it, the phone refuses to ring. I pace, pick my
cuticles until they bleed. Brad comes to my room and worries that he might need to give me a
sedative.
I shout, This is bullshit! OK, shes not interested, I get it, but how about a thank you? If she
doesnt call by tonight, I swear, Im calling her.
We move to the patio. Brad looks off and says, Uh-oh.
What?
J.P. says, I think I see your flowers.
They point to the patio of a room across the way. Steffis room, obviously, because there
on the patio table are my giant bouquets of long-stemmed red roses.
Not sure thats a good sign, J.P. says.
No, Brad says. NG. Not good.
WE DECIDE THAT ILL wait for Steffi to win her first matcha foregone conclusionand
when she does, Ill phone. J.P. preps me for the call. He plays the role of Steffi. We rehearse
every scenario. He throws me every line she might possibly utter.
Steffi beats her hapless first-round opponent in forty-two minutes. Ive tipped the ferry captains
to phone me the moment they see her step on the ferry. Fifty minutes after the match I
get a call: Shes aboard.
I give her fifteen minutes to reach the island, ten minutes to go from the dock to the hotel,
and then I phone the operator and ask for her room. I know her room number because I can
still see my damn flowers sitting dejectedly on the patio table.
She picks up the phone on the second ring.
Hi. Its Andre.
Oh.
I just wanted to call and make sure you got my flowers.
I did.
Oh.
Silence.
She says, I dont want any misunderstandings between us. My boyfriend is here.
I see. Well, OK, I understand.
Silence.
Good luck with the tournament.
Thank you. You too.
Yawning canyon of silence.
Well, goodbye.
Bye.
I fall on the couch and stare at the floor.
I have one question for you, J.P. says. What could she possibly have said that would put
that look on your face? What scenario did we not rehearse?
Her boyfriend is here.
Oh.
Then I smile. I take a page from Brads positive-thinking playbook: maybe shes sending
me a message. Obviously her boyfriend was sitting right there.
So?
So she couldnt talk, and rather than say, I have a boyfriend, case closed, leave me alone,
she said, My boyfriend is here.
So?
I think shes saying theres a chance.
J.P. says hell fix me a drink.
THE TOURNAMENT PROVIDES a small measure of distraction. Sadly, the distraction
lasts only a few hours. In the first round, against Dominik Hrbaty, from Slovakia, I can think
only of Steffi and her boyfriend enjoying or awkwardly ignoring my roses. Hrbaty whoops me
in three sets.
Im out of the tournament. I should leave Fisher Island. But I stick around, sitting on the
beach, plotting with J.P. and Brad.
Steffis boyfriend probably showed up unexpectedly, Brad says. Plus, she still doesnt
know youre divorced. She still thinks youre married to Brooke. Give it time. Let the news
come out. Then make your move.
Youre right, youre right.
Brad mentions Hong Kong. In light of my performance against Hrbaty, clearly I need another
tournament before we head into clay season. Lets go to Hong Kong, he says. Lets not
sit around anymore thinking and talking about Steffi.
Next thing I know Im settling into a seat on an airplane bound for China. I look at the
screen at the head of the cabin. Estimated flight time: 15 hrs, 37 mins.
I look at Brad. Fifteen hours and thirty-seven minutes? To obsess about Steffi? I dont
think so.
I unbuckle my seat belt and stand.
Where are you going?
Im getting off this plane.
Dont be ridiculous. Sit down. Relax. Were here. Were all packed. Lets go play.
I ease back into my seat, order two Belvederes, swallow a sleeping pill, and after what
feels like a month Im on the other side of the earth. Im in a car being whisked along a Hong
Kong highway, looking up at the soaring International Finance Centre.
I phone Perry. When is the news of my divorce going to break?
The lawyers are hashing out the details, he says. Meantime, you and Brooke need to work
on the statement.
We fax drafts back and forth. Her team, my team. Lawyers and publicists have a go at it.
Brooke adds a word, I delete a word. Faxes and more faxes. What began with faxes ends
with faxes.
The statement is about to be released, Perry says. It should be in the papers any day
now.
Brad and I run down to the lobby every morning, buy up all the newspapers, then sit over
breakfast and scan every page, looking for the headline. For the first time in my memory I
cant wait for newspapers to report about my private life. Each day I say a prayer: Let this be
the day that Steffi learns Im free.
Day after day, its not there. Its like waiting for Steffis call. If only I had hair, so I could pull
it out. Finally, the cover of People carries a photo of Brooke and me. The headline reads:
Suddenly Split. Its April 26, 1999, three days before my twenty-ninth birthday, almost exactly
two years after our wedding.
Reborn, renewed, I win Hong Kongbut on the flight home I cant lift my arm. I rush from
the airport to Gils house. He examines the shoulder, grimaces. He doesnt like the look of it.
We might need to shut everything down and skip the entire clay season.
No, no, no, Brad says. We have to be in Rome for the Italian Open.
Please. I never win that thing. Lets forget it.
No, Brad says. Lets go to Rome, see how the shoulder does. You didnt want to go to
Hong Kong, right? But you won, right? I see a trend developing.
I let him drag me onto a plane, and in Rome I lose in the third round to Rafter, whom I just
beat at Indian Wells. Now I really want to shut it down. But Brad talks me into going to play
the World Team Cup in Germany. I dont have the strength to argue with him.
The weather in Germany is cold, dreary, meaning the ball plays heavy. I look at Brad with
murder in my eye. I cant believe hes dragged me to Dsseldorf with a sore shoulder. In the
middle of the first set, down 34, I cant take another swing. I quit. Thats it. Were going
home, I tell Brad. I have to get my shoulder right. And I have to figure out this thing with Steffi.
As we board the flight from Frankfurt to San Francisco, Im not speaking to Brad. Im mad
as hell. We have twelve hours ahead of us, side by side, and I tell him: Heres how its going
to be, Brad. I havent slept all night, because of this shoulder. Im going to swallow two sleeping
pills right now and Im not going to listen to you for the next twelve hours and its going to
be heaven. You hear me? And when we land, the first thing I want you to do is pull me out of
the French Open.
He leans into me and badgers me for two hours. Youre not going back to Vegas. Youre
not pulling out. Youre coming with me to my house in San Francisco. Ive got the guest cottage
set up with plenty of firewood, the way you like it, and then you and I are flying back to
Paris and youre going to play. Its the only slam you dont have, and youve always wanted it,
and you cant win it if you dont play.
French Open? Please. You must be kidding. That ship has sailed.
How do you know? Whos to say this isnt your year?
Trust me. In no sense is 1999 my year.
Look, you were just starting to show glimpses of the player you used to be. I saw
something in you I hadnt seen in years. We have to stay after that.
I see right through him. Its not that he thinks the French Open is remotely winnable. But if
I pull out of the French Open, it will be easier to pull out of Wimbledon, and there goes the
whole year. Goodbye comeback. Hello retirement.
Landing in San Francisco, Im once again too tired to argue. I slide into Brads car, and he
drives me to his place and puts me in the cottage. I sleep for twelve hours. When I wake a
chiropractor is there, ready to treat me.
Its not going to work, I say.
Its going to work, Brad says.
I get treatments twice a day. The rest of the time I watch the fog and stoke the fire. By Friday
I do feel better. Brad smiles. We hit balls on his backyard court, twenty minutes, then I hit
a few serves.
Call Gilly, I say. Lets go to Paris.
IN OUR PARIS HOTEL Brad is looking over the draw.
I ask, How is it?
He says nothing.
Brad?
Couldnt be worse.
Seriously?
Nightmare. Your first-rounder is Franco Squillari, lefty, from Argentina, probably the
roughest guy in the draw whos not seeded. An absolute beast on clay.
I cant believe you talked me into this.
We practice Saturday and Sunday. Monday we start. Im in the locker room, getting my
feet taped, and I realize I forgot to pack underwear in my tennis bag. The match is in five
minutes. Can I play without underwear? I dont even know if its physically possible.
Brad jokes that I can borrow his.
I will never want to win that badly.
Then I think: This is perfect. I didnt want to be here anyway, I shouldnt be here, Im playing
the quintessential dirt rat in the first round on center court. Why shouldnt I go commando?
There are sixteen thousand people in the stands, screaming like peasants overrunning
Versailles. Before Ive broken a sweat Im down a set and a break. I look to my box, stare at
Gil and Brad. Help me. Brad stares back, stone-faced: Help yourself.
I hitch up my shorts, take the deepest breath possible and let it out slowly. I tell myself that
it cant get any worse. I tell myself: Just win one set. Winning one set off this guy would be an
accomplishment. One settry for that. Scaling down the task makes it seem manageable and
makes me looser. I start ripping my backhand, hitting my spots. The crowd stirs. They havent
seen me play well here in a long time. Something inside me stirs too.
The second set turns into a street fight and a wrestling match and pistols at fifty paces.
Squillari doesnt give an inch and I have to bludgeon the set from him, 75. Then a shocking
thing happens. I win the third set. Now I start to feel hope, actual hope, rising from my toes.
My body is tingling. I glance at Squillarihes hopeless. His face is expressionless. One of
the fittest guys on the tour, hes unable to take a step. Hes done. In the fourth set I roll him,
and all at once Im walking off the court with one of the most improbable wins of my career.
Back at the hotel, covered with clay, I tell Gil: Did you see him? Did you see that dirt rat
cramp? We made him cramp, Gil!
I saw.
The elevator is tiny. Theres room for five normal-sized humans, or else me and Gil. Brad
tells us to go ahead, hell catch the next one. I hit the button, and on the way up Gil leans
against one corner of the elevator, I lean against the other. I feel him staring.
What?
Nothing.
He keeps staring.
What is it, Gil?
Nothing. He smiles and says again: Nothing.
In the second round, I stick with no underwear. (I will never don underwear again.
Something works, you dont change.) I play Arnaud Clment, from France. I win the first set
62. Im up in the second, playing the best Ive ever played on clay. Im rocking him to sleep.
Then Clment wakes up. He wins the second setand the third. How did that just happen?
Im serving at 45, love30, in the fourth set. Im two points from being bounced out of this
tournament.
I think: Two points. Two points.
He hits a forehand inside-out winner. I walk over and check the mark. Its out. I circle the
mark with the racket. The linesman runs out to confirm. He examines it, like Hercule Poirot.
He puts up his hand. Out!
If that thing had caught the line Id be down triple match point. Instead Im at 1530. What
a difference. What if?
But I plead with myself to stop thinking about what if. Dont think, Andre. Turn off your
mind. I play two minutes of the best tennis Im capable of playing. I hold. Were at 5all.
Clment is serving. If I were a different player, he would have the edge. But Im my fathers
son. Im a returner. I let nothing past me. Then I run him from side to side. Back and forth.
His tongue starts to hang from his mouth. Just when he and the crowd think I cant run him
any more, I run him a little more. Hes a metronome. Then hes a goner. He pitches forward
as if shot in the head. His cramps have cramps. He calls for medical treatment.
I break him. Then I hold easily to win the fourth set.
I win the fifth set 60.
In the locker room, Brad is talking to himself, to me, to anyone who will listen.
His back tire blew out! Did you see? Holy shit! His back tireboom.
Reporters ask if I feel lucky that Clment cramped.
Lucky? I worked hard for those cramps.
At the hotel, riding the tiny elevator with Gil, my face is covered with clay. My eyes and
ears and mouth are filled with clay. My clothes are spotted with clay. I look down. I never noticed
before how Roland Garros clay, when it dries, looks like blood. Im trying to brush it off
when I feel Gil staring again.
What is it?
Nothing, he says, smiling.
IN THE THIRD ROUND Im playing Chris Woodruff. Ive played him once before, here, in
1996 and lost. A disastrous loss. I secretly liked my chances that year. This time I know from
the start that Im going to win. I have no doubt that Ill have my revenge, served ice cold. I
beat him 63, 64, 64, on the same court where he beat me. Brad requested it, because he
wanted me to remember, to make it personal.
Im in the round of sixteen at the French Open for the first time since 1995. My reward is
Carlos Moy, the defending champion.
Not to worry, Brad says. Even though Moys the champ, and real good on the dirt, you
can take away his time. You can bull-rush him, stand inside the baseline, hit the ball early and
apply pressure. Go after his backhand, but if you have to bring it to his forehand, do it with
purpose, with heat. Dont just go theredrive it hard up Main Street. Make him feel you.
In the first set, its me feeling Moy. I lose the set fast. In the second set I fall down two
breaks. Im not playing my game. Im not doing anything Brad said to do. I look up at my box
and Brad screams: Come on! Lets go!
Back to basics. I make Moy run. And run. I establish a sadistic rhythm, chanting to myself:
Run, Moy, run. I make him run laps. I make him run the Boston Marathon. I win the
second set, and the crowd is cheering. In the third set I run Moy more than Ive run the last
three opponents combined, and suddenly, all at once, hes cooked. He wants no part of this.
He didnt sign on for anything like this.
As the fourth set opens, Im oozing confidence. I hop up and down. I want Moy to see
how much energy Ive got left. He sees, and he sighs. I put him away and sprint to the locker
room. Brad gives me a fist bump that almost breaks my fist.
In the hotel elevator, I feel Gil staring again.
Gil, what is it?
I have a feeling.
What feeling?
I feel like youre on a collision course.
With what?
Destiny.
Im not sure I believe in destiny.
Well see. We cant build a fire in the rain
WE HAVE TWO DAYS OFF. Two days to relax and think about something besides tennis.
Brad discovers that Springsteen is in our hotel. Hes playing a concert in Paris. Brad suggests
we attend. He scores us three seats, down front.
At first Im not sure. I dont know if its such a good idea to go out and paint Paris red. But
the TV has mostly news about the tournament, which isnt good for my mood either. I remember
the tennis official who mocked my playing a challenger, comparing it to Springsteen playing
a corner bar. Yes, I say. Lets take the night off. Lets go see the Boss.
Brad, Gil, and I enter the arena a few seconds before Springsteen comes onstage. As we
run down the aisle, several people spot me and point. A man yells my name. Andre! Allez,
Andre! A few more men take up the cry. We slip into our seats. A spotlight scans the
crowdand suddenly lands on us. Our faces appear on the giant video screen above the
stage. The crowd roars. They begin to chant: Allez, Agassi! Allez, Agassi! Some sixteen thou
sand peopleabout the same number as the crowd at Roland Garrosare chanting, cheering,
stomping their feet. Allez, Agassi! It has a lilt the way they chant it, a bouncing rhythm like
a childrens nursery rhyme. Deet-deet, da da da. Its contagious. Brad chants too. I stand,
wave. Im honored. Inspired. I wish I could play the next match right now. Here. Allez, Agassi!
I stand once more, my heart in my throat. Then, at last, the Boss comes on.
IN THE QUARTERS I face Marcelo Filippini, from Uruguay. The first set is easy. The
second set is easy. I run him, he crumbles. Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run. I enjoy
this as much as winningcutting the legs out from under my opponents, seeing the many
years with Gil pay dividends in one concentrated two-week span. I win the third set without
any resistance from Filippini, 60.
Youre maiming guys! Brad shouts. Oh my God, Andre, youre freaking maiming them.
Im in the semis. My opponent is Hrbaty, who just whooped me in Key Biscayne, when I
was in a stupor over Steffi. I win the first set, 64. I win the next set, 76. Clouds roll in. A light
drizzle starts to fall. The ball is getting heavier, which keeps me from playing offense. Hrbaty
takes advantage and wins the third set, 63. In the fourth he goes up 21, and a match that I
had won is slipping, slipping away. Hes down a set, but clearly hes seized the momentum. I
feel as if Im just hanging on.
I look to Brad. He points to the skies. Stop the match.
I signal the supervisor and umpire. I point to the clay, which is mud. I tell them Im not
playing under these conditions. Its dangerous. They examine the mud like miners panning for
gold. They confer. They halt play.
At dinner with Gil and Brad, Im in a foul mood because I know the match was turning
against me. Only the rain saved me. Otherwise wed be at the airport right now. And now I
cant believe I have all night to stew over the match, to worry about tomorrow.
I stare at my food, silent.
Brad and Gil discuss me as if Im not at the table.
Hes OK physically, Gil says. Hes in fine condition. So give him a good speech, Brad.
Coach him up.
What do you want me to say?
Think of something.
Brad takes a swig of beer and turns to me. OK, Andre. Look. Heres the deal. I need
twenty-eight minutes from you tomorrow.
What?
Twenty-eight minutes. Its a sprint through the tape. You can do it. Youve got five games
to win, thats all, and that shouldnt take any more than twenty-eight minutes.
The weather. The ball.
The weather is going to be fine.
Theyre saying rain.
No, its going to be fine. Just give us twenty-eight great minutes.
Brad knows my mind, the way it works. He knows that order, specificity, a clear and precise
goal, are like candy to me. But does he also know the weather? For the first time it
crosses my mind that Brad isnt a coach but a prophet.
Back at the hotel, Gil and I squeeze into the elevator.
Its going to be OK, Gil says.
Yeah.
Before bed, he forces me to drink my Gil Water.
I dont want to.
Drink it.
When Im so hydrated that Im pissing pure cottony white, he lets me go to sleep.
The next day I come out tight. Down 12 in the fourth, serving, I fall behind two break
points. No, no, no. I fight back to deuce. I hold. The set is now tied. Having averted disaster,
Im suddenly loose, happy. Its so typical in sports. You hang by a thread above a bottomless
pit. You stare death in the face. Then your opponent, or life, spares you, and you feel so
blessed that you play with abandon. I win the fourth set and the match. Im in the final.
My first look is to Brad, whos excitedly pointing to his watch and the digital play clock on
the court.
Twenty-eight minutes. On the dot.
MY OPPONENT IN THE FINAL is Andrei Medvedev, from Ukraine, which is not possible.
Its simply not possible. Just months ago, in Monte Carlo, Brad and I bumped into Medvedev
in a nightclub. Hed suffered a heartbreaking loss that day and was drinking to numb the pain.
We invited him to join us. He threw himself into a chair at our table and announced that he
was quitting tennis.
I cant play this fucking game anymore, he said. Im old. The game has passed me by.
I talked him out of it.
How dare you, I said. Here I am, twenty-nine, injured, divorced, and youre bitching about
being washed up at twenty-four? Your future is bright.
My game is shit.
So? Fix it.
He asked me for tips, pointers. He asked me to analyze his game, just as Id once asked
Brad to analyze mine. And I was Brad-esque. I was brutally honest. I told Medvedev he had a
huge serve, a big return, and a world-class backhand. His forehand was not his best shot, of
course, that was no secret, but he could hide it, because he was big enough to push opponents
around.
Youre a good mover! I shouted. Get back to the basics. Keep moving, slam your first
serve, and rip the backhand up the line.
Ever since that night hes followed my advice to the letter and hes been on fire. Hes been
winning consistently on the tour and dominating guys in this tournament. Each time weve
bumped into each other in the locker room, or around Roland Garros, weve exchanged sly
winks and waves.
I never once dreamed we were on a collision course.
So Gil was wrong. I havent been on a collision course with destiny, but with a fire-
breathing dragon that I helped to build.
EVERYWHERE I GO, Parisians rush up and wish me luck. The tournament is the talk of
the city. In restaurants and cafs, on the street, they yell my name, kiss my cheek, urge me
onward. The story of my reception at the Springsteen concert has made the newspapers. The
people, the press, are fascinated by my improbable run. Everyone can identify with it. They
see something of themselves in my comeback, in my return from the dead.
Its the night before the final and Im sitting in my hotel room, watching TV. I shut it off. I go
to the window. I feel sick. I think about this last year, these last eighteen months, these last
eighteen years. Millions of balls, millions of decisions. I know this is my final chance to win the
French Open, my final chance to win all four slams and complete the set, which means my final
shot at redemption. The idea of losing scares me, and the thought of winning scares me
nearly as much. Would I be grateful? Would I be worthy? Would I build on itor squander it?
Also, Medvedev is never far from my thoughts. He has my game. I gave it to him. He even
has my first name. Andrei. Its going to be Andre versus Andrei. Me versus my doppelgnger.
Brad and Gil knock at the door.
Ready for dinner?
I hold the door open and tell them to come in for one second.
They stand just inside the door and watch me open the minibar. I pour myself a huge
vodka. Brads mouth falls open as I down the drink in one gulp.
What the hell do you think?
Im sick nervous, Brad. I havent been able to eat a bite all day. I need to eat, and the only
way I can eat is if I take the edge off.
Dont worry, Gil says to Brad. Hes fine.
At least drink a big glass of water too, Brad says.
After dinner, when I get back to my room, I take a sleeping pill and slide into bed. I phone
J.P. He says its early afternoon where he is.
What time is it there?
Its late. Its so very late.
How are you feeling?
Please, please, talk to me for a few minutes about anything but tennis.
Are you OK?
Anything but tennis.
OK. Well. Lets see. How about I read you a poem? Ive been reading a lot of poetry lately.
Yeah. Good. Whatever.
He goes to his bookshelf, takes down a book. He reads softly.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
I fall asleep without hanging up the phone.
GIL KNOCKS AT MY DOOR, dressed as if hes meeting de Gaulle. Hes got the nice
black sport coat, the creased black slacksthe black hat. And hes wearing the necklace I
gave him. Im wearing the matching earring. Father, Son, Holy Ghost.
In the elevator he says: Its going to be OK.
Yeah.
But its not OK. I know it during warm-ups. Im soaked in sweat. Im sweating as if Im
about to get married. Im so overcome with nerves that my teeth are clicking. The sun is
bright, which should make me happy, because the ball will be drier and lighter. But the
warmth of the day is also making me sweat that much more.
As the match begins, Im a sweat-soaked wreck. Im making stupid mistakes, rookie mistakes,
every kind of error and fuck-up you can make on a tennis court. It takes just nineteen
minutes to lose the first set, 61. Medvedev, meanwhile, couldnt look calmer. And why not?
Hes doing everything hes supposed to do, everything I told him to do in Monte Carlo. Hes
directing the pace, moving nimbly, ripping the backhand up the line whenever he chooses.
His game is cool, precise, pitiless. If I move in, if I try to take over a point by creeping forward,
he hits a crushing backhand past me.
Hes wearing plaid shorts, as if were at the beach, and in fact he looks as if hes frolicking
on the Riviera. Hes fresh, vigorous, having a holiday. He could be out here for days and days
and not get tired of this.
As the second set starts, dark clouds appear. Suddenly a light rain falls. Hundreds of umbrellas
appear in the stands. Play is halted. Medvedev runs into the locker room, and I follow.
No one is in there. I walk up and down. Water drips from a faucet. The sound pings off the
metal lockers. I sit on a bench, sweating, staring into an open locker.
In come Brad and Gil. Brad, wearing a white jacket and white hat, a stark contrast against
Gils all-black ensemble, slams the door as hard as he can and yells, Whats going on?
Hes too good, Brad. Hes just too good. I cant beat him. This fucker is six-five, serving
bombs, never missing. Hes hurting me with his serve, hes hurting me with his backhand, I
cant get back in the point on his serve. I dont have this.
Brad says nothing. I think of Nick, standing in about the same spot, saying nothing to me
during the rain delay when I lost to Courier eight years ago. Some things never change. Same
elusive tournament, same queasy feeling, same callous reaction from my coach.
I yell at Brad: Are you kidding me? Youre going to pick this moment, of all moments, to
decide not to talk? Of all times, this is the moment youre finally going to shut the hell up?
He stares. Then starts screaming. Brad, who never raises his voice to anybody, comes
apart.
What do you want me to say, Andre? What is it that you want me to say? You tell me hes
too good. How the fuck would you know? You cant judge how hes playing! Youre so confused
out there, so blind with panic, Im surprised you can even see him. Too good? Youre
making him look good.
But
Just start letting go. If youre going to lose, at least lose on your own terms. Hit the fucking
ball.
But
And if youre not sure where to hit it, heres an idea. Just hit it to the same place he hits it.
If he hits a backhand crosscourt, you hit a backhand crosscourt. Just hit yours a little better.
You dont have to be better than the whole fucking world, remember? You just have to be better
than one guy. There isnt one shot he has that you dont have. Fuck his serve. His serve
will break down when you start making your shots. Just hit. Just fucking hit. If were going to
lose today, fine, I can live with it, but lets lose on our terms. The last thirteen days, Ive seen
you lay it on the line. Ive seen you rip it, under pressure, maim guys. So please stop feeling
sorry for yourself, and stop telling me hes too good, and for the love of God stop trying to be
perfect! Just see the ball, hit the ball. Do you hear me, Andre? See the ball. Hit the ball. Make
this guy deal with you. Make him feel you out there. Youre not moving. Youre not hitting. You
may think you are, but trust me, youre just standing there. If youre going down, OK, go
down, but go down with guns blazing. Always, always, always, go down with both guns
blaaazing.
He opens a locker and slams it shut. The door flaps and clangs.
The referee appears.
Were back on court, gentlemen.
Brad and Gil walk out of the locker room. I notice that as they slip through the door Gil
gives Brads back a furtive pat.
I walk slowly onto the court. We have a brief warm-up, then resume play. Ive forgotten the
score. I have to look at the scoreboard to remind myself. Oh yes. I lead, 10, in the second
set. But Medvedev is serving. I think again of the final against Courier in 1991, the rain delay
that disrupted my rhythm. Maybe this will be payback. Tennis karma. Maybe, as that rain
delay befuddled me, this rain delay will help me right myself.
But Medvedev is counting on his own Ukrainian karma. He picks up right where he left off,
keeps the pressure on, forces me continually to retreat and play defense, which is not my
game. The day is now heavily overcast, and damp, which seems to further strengthen Medvedev.
He likes the pace slow. Hes an angry elephant, taking his sweet time, crushing me underfoot.
In the first game after the delay, he serves the ball 120 miles an hour. Within seconds
the score is even at 11.
Then he breaks me. Then he holds, then breaks me again, going on to win the second set
with remarkable ease, 62.
In the third set, we hold serve through five games. Suddenly, inexplicably, for the first time
in the match, I break him. Im ahead, 42. I hear gasps and murmurs in the crowd.
But Medvedev breaks me right back. He holds and knots the set at 4all.
The sun reappears. Its shining brightly, and the clay begins to dry. The pace of play picks
up considerably. Im serving, and at 15all we play a frantic point, which I win with a beautiful
backhand volley. Now, at 3015, I hear Brad telling me to see the ball, hit the ball. I let it fly. I
cut loose my first serve with an extra loud grunt. Out. I hurry the second serve. Out again.
Double fault. 3030.
So. There you have it. Im still going to loseMedvedev is now just six points from the
championshipbut Im going to lose on Brads terms instead of mine.
I serve again. Out. I stubbornly refuse to take anything off the second serve. Out again.
Two double faults in a row.
Now its 3040. Break point. I walk in circles, squeezing my eyes, on the verge of tears. I
need to pull myself together. I toe the line, toss the ball into the air, and miss yet another
serve. Ive now missed five straight serves. Im falling apart. Im one missed serve away from
Medvedev serving for the French Open.
He leans in, ready to obliterate this second serve. As a returner youre always guessing
about your opponents psyche, and Medvedev knows my psyche is in tatters after missing five
serves in a row. Hes guessing, therefore, with a high degree of certainty, that I wont have the
stomach to be aggressive. He expects a nice soft kick serve. He thinks I have no other
choice. He steps up, well inside the baseline, sending me a message that he anticipates a
softie, and when he gets hold of it hes going to ram it down my throat. He wears a look on his
face that unmistakably says: Go ahead, bitch. Be aggressive. I dare you.
This moment is the crucial test for both of us. This is the turning point in the match, perhaps
in both of our lives. Its a test of wills, of heart, of manhood. I toss the ball in the air and
refuse to back down. Contrary to Medvedevs expectations, I serve hard and aggressive to his
backhand. The ball takes a wicked skidding bounce. Medvedev stretches out and shovels the
ball to the center of the court. I hit a forehand behind him. He gets there, hits a backhand at
my feet. I bend, play an awkward forehand volley that lands on the line, he shovels it over the
net, and then I tap it ever so lightly back over, where it dies, a huge winner for such a soft
shot.
I go on to hold serve.
I have a bounce in my step as I walk to my chair. The crowd is going crazy. The momentum
hasnt shifted, but its twitched. That was Medvedevs moment, and he missed it, and
I think I can see on his face that he knows it.
Allez, Agassi! Allez!
One good game, I think. Play one good game, and youll have won a set, and then at least
you can walk out of here holding your head up.
The clouds have blown away. The sun has dried the clay hard and the pace is now lightning
fast. I catch Medvedev sneaking a worried look at the sky as we retake the court. He
wants those rain clouds to return. He wants no part of this blazing sun. Hes starting to sweat.
His nostrils are flaring. He looks like a horselike a dragon. You can beat the dragon. He
falls behind love40. I break him and win the third set.
Now we play on my terms. I move Medvedev side to side, hit the ball big, do everything
Brad said to do. Medvedev is a step slower, notably distracted. Hes had too long to think
about winning. He was five points away, five points, and its haunting him. Hes going over
and over it in his mind. Hes telling himself, I was so close. I was there. The finish line! Hes
living in the past, and Im in the present. Hes thinking, Im feeling. Dont think, Andre. Hit
harder.
In the fourth set, I break him again. Then we settle into a dogfight. We play good solid tennis,
each of us sprinting and grunting and digging deep. The set could go either way. But I
have one distinct advantage, a secret weapon I can pull out any time I need a pointmy net
play. Everything I do at the net is working, and its clearly troubling Medvedev, messing with
his head. He becomes skittish, almost paranoid. If I merely pretend to rush the net, he
flinches. I jump, he lunges.
I win the fourth set.
I break him early in the fifth set and go up 32. Its happening. Its turning. The thing that
should have been mine in 1990 and 1991 and 1995 is coming around again. Im up 53. Hes
serving, 4015. I have two match points. I need to win this thing right now, or Im going to
have to serve out the match, and I dont want that. If I dont win this thing right now, maybe I
dont win at all. If I dont win this thing right now, Ill be in Medvedevs shoes, haunted by how
close I was. If I dont win this thing right now, Ill have to think about the French Open in my
old age, in my rocking chair, mumbling about Medvedev with a plaid blanket over my legs.
Ive already obsessed about this tournament for the last ten years. I cant bear the idea of obsessing
about it for another eighty. After all this work and sweat, after this improbable
comeback and this miraculous tournament, if I dont win this thing right now, Ill never be
happy, truly happy, again. And Brad will have to be institutionalized. The finish line is close
enough to kiss. I feel it pulling me.
Medvedev wins both match points. He staves off death. Were back to deuce. I win the
next point, however. Match point, again.
I yell at myself: Now. Now. Win this now.
But he wins the next point, then wins the game.
The changeover takes an eternity. I mop my face with a towel. I look at Brad, expecting
him to be disconsolate, as I am. But his face is determined. He holds up four fingers. Four
more points. Four points equals all four slams. Come on! Lets go!
If Im going to lose this match, if Im doomed to live with withering regret, it wont be because
I didnt do what Brad said. I hear his voice in my ear: Go back to the well.
Medvedevs forehand is the well.
We walk onto the court. Im going to hit everything to Medvedevs forehand, and he knows
Im going to. On the first point hes tight, tentative on a passing shot up the line. He puts the
ball into the net.
He wins the next point, however, when I net my running forehand.
Suddenly I rediscover my serve. Out of nowhere I uncork a big first serve that he cant
handle. He hits a tired forehand that flies long. I hit my next first serve, even bigger, and he
nets a forehand.
Championship point. Half the crowd is yelling my name, the other half is yelling, Ssssh. I
hit another sizzling first serve, and when Medvedev steps to the side and takes a chicken-
wing swing, Im the second person to know that Ive won the French Open. Brad is the
first. Medvedev is third. The ball lands well beyond the baseline. Watching it fall is one of the
great joys of my life.
I raise my arms and my racket falls on the clay. Im sobbing. Im rubbing my head. Im terrified
by how good this feels. Winning isnt supposed to feel this good. Winning is never supposed
to matter this much. But it does, it does, I cant help it. Im overjoyed, grateful to Brad,
to Gil, to Pariseven to Brooke and Nick. Without Nick I wouldnt be here. Without all the ups
and downs with Brooke, even the misery of our final days, this wouldnt be possible. I even reserve
some gratitude for myself, for all the good and bad choices that led here.
I walk off the court, blowing kisses in all four directions, the most heartfelt gesture I can
think of to express the gratitude pulsing through me, the emotion that feels like the source of
all other emotions. I vow that I will do this from now on, win or lose, whenever I walk off a tennis
court. I will blow kisses to the four corners of the earth, thanking everyone.
WE HAVE A SMALL PARTY at an Italian restaurant, Stressa, in downtown Paris, close to
the Seine, close to the spot where I gave Brooke the tennis bracelet. Im drinking champagne
out of my trophy. Gil is drinking a Coke and hes physically incapable of not smiling. Every
now and then he puts his hand on mineits as heavy as a dictionaryand says, You did it.
We did it, Gilly.
McEnroe is there. He hands me a phone and says: Someone wants to say hello.
Andre? Andre! Congratulations. I got such joy watching you tonight. I envy you.
Borg.
Envy? Why?
Doing something so few of us have done.
The sun is coming up when Brad and I walk back to the hotel. He puts his arm around me
and says, The journey ended the right way.
Seconds after beating Andrei Medvedev to capture the 1999
French Open
How so?
He says, Usually in life the journey ends the wrong fucking way. But this one time it ended
the right way.
I throw an arm around Brad. Its one of the few things the prophet has gotten wrong all
month. The journey is just beginning.
23
ON THE CONCORDE BACK TO NEW YORK, Brad tells me its destinydestiny. Hes
had a couple of beers.
You won the 1999 French Open on the mens side, he says. And who should happen to
have won it on the womens side? Who? Tell me.
I smile.
Thats right. Steffi Graf. Its destiny you end up together. Only two people in the history of
the world have won all four slams and a gold medalyou and Steffi Graf. The Golden Slam.
Its destiny that you two should be married.
In fact, he says, heres my prediction. He takes the Concorde promotional literature from
the seat pocket and scribbles on the upper right-hand corner: 2001Steffi Agassi.
What the hell does that mean?
You guys will be married by 2001. And youll have your first kids together in 2002.
Brad, she has a boyfriend. Have you forgotten?
After the two weeks youve just had, youre going to tell me anything is impossible?
Well, Ill say this. Now that Ive won the French Open, I do feel slightly moreI dont know.
Worthy?
There. Now youre talking.
I dont believe people are destined to win tennis tournaments. Destined to come together,
maybe, but not destined to hit more winners and aces than their opponent. Still, Im reluctant
to question anything Brad says. So, just in case, and because I like the way it looks, I tear off
the corner of the Concorde program on which hes written his latest prophecy and I put it in
my pocket.
We spend the next five days on Fisher Island, recuperating and celebrating. Mostly the latter.
The party keeps growing. Brads wife, Kimmie, flies in. J.P. and Joni fly in. Late at night
we crank the stereo, listening over and over to Sinatra singing Thats Life, Kimmie and Joni
dancing like go-go girls atop the table and bed.
Then I take to the grass courts at the hotel. I hit with Brad for several days, and we board
a plane for London. Halfway across the Atlantic, I realize that were going to land on Steffis
birthday. What are the chances? What if we bump into her? It would be nice to have
something for her.
I look at Brad, sleeping. I know hell want to go straight from the airport to the practice
courts at Wimbledon, so there wont be time to stop at a stationery store. I should make some
kind of birthday card now. But with what?
I notice that the airplanes first-class menu is kind of cool. On the cover is a photo of a
country church under a sliver of moon. I combine two covers into one card and along the inside
I write: Dear Steffi, I wanted to take this opportunity to wish you a happy birthday. How
proud you must feel. Congratulations on what I know is only a sliver of what is out there for
you.
I punch holes in the two menus. Now I just need something to hold them together. I ask
the flight attendant if she has any string or ribbon. Maybe some tinsel? She gives me a bit of
raffia coiled around the neck of a champagne bottle. I carefully weave the raffia through the
holes. It feels as though Im stringing a tennis racket.
When the card is finished I wake Brad and show him my handiwork.
Old World craftsmanship, I say.
He twirls a knuckle in his eye, nods approvingly. All you need is a look, he says. An opening.
I tuck the card in my tennis bag and wait.
THERE ARE THREE LEVELS of practice courts at the Wimbledon practice site, Aorangi
Park. Its a tiered mountain, an Aztec temple of tennis courts. Brad and I hit on the middle tier
for half an hour. When were done I pack my tennis bag, taking my time, as always. Its hard
to get reorganized after a transatlantic flight. Im carefully arranging, rearranging, slipping my
wet shirt into a plastic bag, when Brad begins punching my shoulder.
Shes coming, dude, shes coming.
I look up like an Irish setter. If I had a tail it would be wagging. Shes thirty yards off, wearing
tight-fitting blue warm-up pants. I notice for the first time that she walks slightly pi-
geon-toed, like me. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail and gleaming in the sun. It
looks, yet again, like a halo.
I stand. She gives me the European double-cheek kiss.
Congratulations on the French, she says. I was so happy for you. I had tears in my eyes.
Me too.
She smiles.
Congratulations to you as well, I say. You paved the way. You warmed up the court for
me.
Thank you.
Silence.
Luckily, no fans or photographers are around, so she seems relaxed, in no hurry. Im
oddly relaxed as well. Brad, however, is making small squeaking noises, like air being slowly
let out of a balloon.
Oh, I say. Hey. I just remembered. I have a gift for you. I knew it was your birthday, so I
made you a card. Happy Birthday.
She takes the card, looks at it for several seconds, then looks up, touched.
How did you know it was my birthday?
I justknow.
Thank you, she says. Really.
She walks away quickly.
THE NEXT DAY shes coming off the practice courts just as Brad and I arrive. This time
there are mobs of fans and reporters all around and she seems painfully self-conscious. She
slows, gives us a half wave, and in a stage whisper says: How can I reach you?
Ill give my number to Heinz.
OK.
Goodbye.
Bye.
After practice Perry and Brad and I sit around the house weve rented, debating when
shes going to call.
Soon, Brad says.
Very soon, Perry says.
The day passes without a call.
Another day passes.
Im in agony. Wimbledon starts Monday, and I cant sleep, cant think. Sleeping pills are
powerless against this kind of anxiety.
She had better call, Brad says, or youre going to lose in the first round.
Saturday night, just after dinner, the phone rings.
Hello?
Hi. Its Stefanie.
Stefanie?
Stefanie.
StefanieGraf?
Yes.
Oh. You go by Stefanie?
She explains that her mother called her Steffi years ago, and the press picked it up and it
stuck. But she thinks of herself as Stefanie.
Stefanie it is, I say.
While talking to her I go skiing around the living room in my sweat socks. I schuss across
the wood floors. Brad pleads with me to stop, to sit in a chair. Hes sure Im going to break a
leg or tweak a knee. I settle into an easy cross-country motion around the perimeter of the
room. He smiles and tells Perry, Were going to have a good tournament. Its going to be a
good Wimbledon.
Sssh, I tell him.
Then I lock myself in a back room.
Listen, I tell Stefanie, back in Key Biscayne you said you didnt want any misunderstandings
with me. Well, I dont want any misunderstandings with you either. So I need to tell you, I
just need to say before we go any further, that I think you are beautiful. I respect you, I admire
you, and I would absolutely love to get to know you better. Thats my goal. Thats my only
agenda. Thats where I am. Tell me this is possible. Tell me we can go to dinner.
No.
Please.
Its not possiblenot here.
Not here. OK. Can we go somewhere else?
No. I have a boyfriend.
I think: the boyfriend. Still. Ive read about him. Race-car driver. The same boyfriend shes
had for six years. I try to come up with something clever to say, some way of telling her to
open herself to the possibility of being with me. With the silence stretching to an uncomfortable
length, the moment sliding away, all I can come up with is this:
Six years is a long time.
Yes, she says. Yes it is.
If youre not moving forward, youre moving backward. Ive lived that.
She doesnt say anything. But its the way she doesnt say anything. Ive struck a chord.
I continue. It cant be exactly what youre looking for. I mean, I dont want to make any assumptions
but.
I hold my breath. She doesnt contradict me.
I say, I dont want to be disrespectful, or take liberties, but just, can you just, please, could
you, maybe, I dont know, just get to know me?
No.
Coffee?
I cant be in public with you. It wouldnt be right.
What about letters? Can I write you?
She laughs.
Can I send you stuff? Can I let you know me before you decide if you want to get to know
me?
No.
Not even letters?
There is someone who reads my mail.
I see.
I knock my fist against my forehead. Think, Andre, think.
I say, OK, look, how about this. Youre playing your next tournament in San Francisco. Ill
be there practicing with Brad. You said you love San Francisco. Lets meet in San Francisco.
This ispossible.
This ispossible?
I wait for her to elaborate. She doesnt.
So can I call you, or do you just want to call me?
Call me after this tournament, she says. Lets both play, and call me when you finish the
tournament.
She gives me her cell phone number. I write it on a paper napkin, kiss it, and put it in my
tennis bag.
I REACH THE SEMIS AND PLAY RAFTER. I beat him in straight sets. I dont have to
wonder whos waiting for me in the final. Its Pete. As always, Pete. I stagger back to the
house, thinking shower, food, sleep. The phone ringsIm sure its Stefanie, wishing me luck
against Pete, confirming our San Francisco date.
But its Brooke. Shes in London and asks to come by and see me.
As I hang up the phone and turn, Perry is there, inches from my face.
Andre, please tell me you said no. Please tell me youre not letting that woman come here.
Shes coming. In the morning.
Before you play the final at Wimbledon?
Itll be fine.
SHE ARRIVES AT TEN, wearing an enormous British hat with a wide, floppy brim and
plastic flowers. I give her a quick tour of the house. We compare it to the houses she and I
used to rent, back in the day. I ask if shed like something to drink.
Do you have any tea?
Sure.
I hear Brad cough in the next room. I know what the cough means. Its the morning of the
final. An athlete should never change his routine on the morning of a final. Ive had coffee
every morning of the tournament. I should be having coffee now.
But I want to be a good host. I make a pot of tea, and we drink it at a table under the kitchen
window. We talk without saying anything. I ask if she has anything special she wanted to
tell me. She misses me, she says. She wanted to tell me that.
She sees a stack of magazines on the corner of the table, copies of a recent Sports Illustrated.
Im on the cover. The headline is Suddenly Andre. (Im suddenly starting to hate that
word, suddenly.) Tournament officials sent them over, I tell her. They want me to autograph
copies for fans and Wimbledon officials and staffers.
Brooke picks up one of the magazines, stares at my photo. I watch her stare. I think of that
day thirteen years ago, sitting with Perry in his bedroom, beneath hundreds of Sports Illustrated
covers, dreaming about Brooke. Now here she is, Im on the cover of Sports Illustrated,
Perry is a former producer of her TV show, and were all barely speaking.
She reads the headline aloud. Suddenly Andre. She reads it again. Suddenly Andre?
She looks up. Oh, Andre.
What?
Oh, Andre. Im so so sorry.
Why?
Here it is, your big moment, and they make it all about me.
STEFANIE IS IN THE FINAL TOO. She loses to Lindsay Davenport. She had been playing
mixed doubles as well, with McEnroe, and they had reached the semis, but she pulled out
because of a bad hamstring. Im in the locker room, getting dressed for my match with Pete,
and McEnroe is telling a group of players that Stefanie left him in the lurch.
Can you believe this bitch? She asks to play mixed doubles with me and I fucking do it
and then were in the semis and she backs out?
Brad puts a hand on my shoulder. Steady, champ.
I start strong against Pete. My mind is going in several directions at oncehow dare Mac
say those things about Stefanie? what was the deal with that hat Brooke was wearing?but
somehow Im playing solid, crisp tennis. Its 3all in the first set, Pete serving at love40.
Triple break point. I see Brad smiling, punching Perry, shouting, Come on! Lets go! I let myself
think about Borg, the last person to win the French and Wimbledon back to back, a feat
now within my grasp.
I imagine Borg phoning me again to congratulate me. Andre? Andre, its me. Bjrn. I envy
you.
Pete wakes me from my fantasy. Unreturnable serve. Unreturnable serve. Blur. Ace.
Game, Sampras.
I stare at Pete in shock. No one, living or dead, has ever served like that. No one in the
history of the game could have returned those serves.
He takes me out in straight sets, finishing me off with two aces, two fiery exclamation
points at the end of a seamless performance. Its the first match Ive lost in a slam in the last
fourteen matches, a streak of dominance almost without precedence in my career. But history
will record that its Petes sixth Wimbledon, and his twelfth slam overall, tying him for most all-
time among menas history should. Later, Pete tells me he never saw me hit the ball as hard
and clean as I did those first six games, and it made him raise his game, amp up his second
serve by twenty miles an hour.
In the locker room I need to take the standard drug test. I so badly want to piss and run
back to the house and call Stefanie, but I cant, because I have a bladder like a whale. It takes
forever. Finally my bladder cooperates with my heart.
I drop my bag in the front hall and lunge for the phone as if its a drop shot. Fingers trembling,
I dial. Straight to voice mail. I leave a message. Hi. Its Andre. Tournaments over. I lost
to Pete. Sorry about your loss to Lindsay. Call me when you can.
I sit. I wait. A day passes. No call. Another day. No call.
I hold the phone in front of my face and tell it: Ring.
I dial her again, leave another message. Nothing.
I fly back to the West Coast. As I step off the plane, I check my messages. Nothing.
I fly to New York for a charity event. I check my voice mail every fifteen minutes. Nothing.
J.P. meets me in New York City. We hit the town. P. J. Clarkes and Campagnola. A big
ovation when we walk in. I see my friend Bo Dietl, the cop-turned-TV personality. Hes sitting
at a long table with his crew: Mike the Russian, Shelly the Tailor, Al Tomatoes, Joey Pots and
Pans. They insist we join them.
J.P. asks Joey Pots and Pans how he got his nickname.
I love to cook!
Later we all break up laughing when Joeys cell phone rings. He flips it open and yells,
Pots!
Bo says hes having a party in the Hamptons this weekend. He insists that J.P. and I
come. Pots is cooking, he says. Tell him your favorite food, whatever it is, hell cook it. It
makes me think of those long-ago Thursday nights at Gils house.
I tell Bo we wouldnt miss it.
THE CROWD AT BOS HOUSE is like the cast of GoodFellas meets Forrest Gump. We
sit around the pool, smoking cigars, drinking tequila. Every now and then I pull Stefanies
number out of my pocket and study it. At one point I go into Bos house and call her from his
landline, in case shes screening my calls. Straight to voice mail.
Frustrated, restless, I drink three or four too many margaritas, then put my wallet and cell
phone on a chair and do a cannonball into the pool, still dressed. Everyone follows. An hour
later, I check my voicemail again. You have one new message.
For some reason my cell phone didnt ring.
Hi, she says. Im sorry I havent called you back. I got very sick. My body broke down after
Wimbledon. I had to pull out of San Francisco and come home to Germany. But Im feeling
better now. Call me back when you can.
She doesnt leave her number, of course, because she already gave me her number.
I pat my pockets. Where did I put that number?
My heart stops. I remember writing it on a paper napkin, which was in my pocket when I
jumped in the pool. Gingerly I reach into my pocket and pull out the napkin. It looks like
Tammy Faye Bakkers makeup.
I remember that I phoned Stefanie once from Bos landline. I grab him by the arm and tell
him that whatever it takes, whatever favors he has to call in, whoever he needs to grease or
bully or kill, he must get the phone records for his house, with all the outgoing phone calls
from today. And he must do it right now.
Done, Bo says.
He reaches out to a guy who knows a guy who has a friend who has a cousin who works
for the phone company. An hour later we have the records. The list of calls made from the
house looks like the Pittsburgh white pages. Bo yells at his crew: Im going to start keeping an
eye on you mutts! No wonder my frigging phone bill is so high!
But theres the number. I write it down in six different places, including my hand. I dial
Stefanie, and she answers on the third ring. I tell her what Ive been through tracking her
down. She laughs.
Were both playing near Los Angeles soon. Can we meet there? Maybe?
After your tournament, she says. Yes.
I FLY TO LOS ANGELES AND PLAY WELL. I meet Pete in the final. I lose 76, 76, and
dont care. Running off the court, Im the happiest guy in the world.
I shower, shave, dress. I grab my tennis bag and head for the doorand theres Brooke.
She heard I was in town and decided to come down and see me play. She gives me a
head-to-toe.
Wow, she says. Youre all dressed up. Got a big date?
Actually, yes.
Oh. With who?
I dont answer.
Gil, she says, who does he have a date with?
Brooke, I think you should probably ask Andre that.
She stares at me. I sigh.
Im going out with Stefanie Graf.
Stefanie?
Steffi.
I know were both thinking of the photo on the refrigerator door. I say, Please dont tell
anybody, Brooke. Shes a private person, and she doesnt like any attention.
I wont tell a soul.
Thank you.
You look nice.
Really?
Uh-huh.
Thanks.
I hoist my tennis bag. She walks me into the tunnel under the stadium, where players park
their cars.
Hello, Lily, she says, putting a hand on the gleaming white hood of the Cadillac. The top is
already down. I throw my bag on the backseat.
Have a nice time, Brooke says. She kisses me on the cheek.
I pull away slowly, glancing at Brooke in the rearview mirror. Once more I drive away from
her in Lily. But I know this time will be the last, and that well never speak again.
ON THE WAY TO SAN DIEGO, where Stefanie is playing, I phone J.P., who gives me a
pep talk. Dont try too hard, he says. Dont try to be perfect. Be yourself.
I think I know how to follow that advice on a tennis court, but on a date, Im at a loss.
Andre, he says, some people are thermometers, some are thermostats. Youre a thermostat.
You dont register the temperature in a room, you change it. So be confident, be yourself,
take charge. Show her your essential self.
I think I can do that. Should I pick her up with the top up or down?
Up. Girls worry about their hair.
Dont we all. But isnt it cooler with the top down?
Her hair, Andre, her hair.
I keep the top down. Id rather be cool than chivalrous.
STEFANIE IS RENTING A CONDO at a large resort. I find the resort but cant find the
condo, so I phone her for directions.
What kind of car are you driving?
A Cadillac as big as a Carnival cruise ship.
Ahh. Yes. I see you.
I look up. Shes standing on a tall grassy hill, waving.
She shouts: Wait there!
She comes running down the hill and makes as if to jump in my car.
Wait, I say. I have something I want to give you. Can I come up a minute?
Oh. Um.
Just a minute.
Reluctantly, she walks back up the hill. I drive around and park outside the front door of
her condo.
I present her with a gift, a box of fancy candles I bought for her in Los Angeles. She
seems to like them.
OK, she says. Ready?
I was hoping we could have a drink first.
A drink? Like what?
I dont know. Wine?
She says she doesnt have any wine.
We could order room service.
She sighs. She hands me a wine list and asks me to pick out a bottle.
When the room-service guy knocks at the door, she asks me to wait in the kitchen. She
says she doesnt want to be seen together. She feels uncomfortable about our date. Guilty.
She can imagine the room-service guy going back to tell his fellow room-service guys. She
has a boyfriend, she reminds me.
But were just
Theres no time to explain, she says. She pushes me into the kitchen.
I can hear the poor room-service guy, slightly enamored of Stefanie, whos just as
nervous, for very different reasons. Shes trying to rush him, hes fumbling with the bottle, and
of course he drops it. A 1989 Chteau Beychevelle.
When the guy leaves I help Stefanie pick up the pieces of broken glass.
I say, I think were off to a fine start, dont you?
IVE RESERVED A TABLE by the window at Georges on the Cove, overlooking the
ocean. We both order chicken and vegetables on a bed of mashed potatoes. Stefanie eats
faster than I and doesnt touch her wine. I realize shes not a foodie, not a three-course-mealand-
linger-over-coffee kind of girl. Shes also fidgeting, because someone she knows is sitting
behind us.
We talk about my foundation. Shes fascinated to hear about the charter school Im building;
she has her own foundation, which gives psychological counseling to children scarred by
war and violence in places like South Africa and Kosovo.
The subject of Brad, naturally, comes up. I tell her about his tremendous coaching skills,
his odd people skills. We laugh about his efforts to make tonight happen. I dont tell her about
his prediction. I dont ask about her boyfriend. I ask what she likes to do in her free time. She
says she loves the ocean.
Would you like to go to the beach tomorrow?
I thought you were supposed to go to Canada.
I could take a red-eye tomorrow night.
She thinks.
OK.
After dinner I drop her at the resort. She gives me the double-cheek kiss, which is starting
to feel like a karate self-defense move. She runs inside.
Driving away, I phone Brad. Hes already in Canada, and its hours later there. I woke him.
But he rouses himself when I tell him the date went well.
Come on, he says groggily, stifling a yawn. Lets go!
SHE SPREADS A TOWEL ON THE SAND and pulls off her jeans. Underneath shes
wearing a white one-piece bathing suit. She walks out into the water, up to her knees. She
stands with one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the sun, scanning the horizon.
She asks, You coming in?
I dont know.
Im wearing white tennis shorts. I didnt think to bring a bathing suit, because Im a desert
kid. I dont do well in the water. But Ill swim to China right now if thats what it takes. In just
my tennis shorts I walk out to where Stefanies standing. She laughs at my swimwear, and
pretends to be shocked that Im going commando. I tell her Ive been like this since the
French Open, and Im never going back.
We talk for the first time about tennis. When I tell her that I hate it, she turns to me with a
look that says, Of course. Doesnt everybody?
I talk about Gil. I ask about her conditioning. She mentions that she used to train with Germanys
Olympic track team.
Whats your best race?
Eight hundred meters.
Whoa. Thats a gut check. How fast can you run it?
She smiles shyly.
You dont want to tell me?
No answer.
Come on. How fast are you?
She points down the beach, at a red balloon in the distance.
See that red dot down there?
Yeah.
Youd never beat me to that.
Really.
Really.
She smiles. Off she goes. I go tearing after her. It feels as if Ive been chasing her all my
life, and now Im literally chasing her. At first its all I can do to keep pace, but near the finish
line I close the gap. She reaches the red balloon two lengths ahead of me. She turns, and
peals of her laughter carry back to me like streamers on the wind.
Ive never been so happy to lose.
24
IM IN CANADA, shes in New York. Im in Vegas, shes in Los Angeles. We stay connected
by phone. One night she asks for a rundown of my favorites. Song. Book. Food. Movie.
Youve probably never heard of my favorite movie.
Tell me, she says.
It came out several years ago. Its called Shadowlands. Its about C. S. Lewis, the writer.
I hear a sound like the phone dropping.
Thats impossible, she says. Thats simply not possible. Thats my favorite movie.
Its about committing, opening yourself to love.
Yes, she says. Yes, it is, I know.
We are like blocks of stone blows of His chisel which hurt us so much are what make
us perfect.
Yes. Yes. Perfect.
PLAYING IN MONTREAL, in the semis against Kafelnikov, I cant win a single point. Hes
number two in the world and he puts a beating on me that causes people in the stands to cover
their eyes. I tell myself: I have no say in the outcome of this match. I have no vote about
whats happening to me today. Im not just being defeated, Im being disenfranchised. But Im
OK. In the locker room I see Kafelnikovs coach, Larry, leaning against the wall, smiling.
Larry, that was the sickest display of tennis Ive ever seen. Im going to make you a promise.
Tell your boy he has a couple of beatings coming from me.
Later in the day I get a call from Stefanie. Shes at LAX.
I ask, Howd you do in your tournament?
I hurt myself.
Agh. Im sorry.
Yes. Thats it. Im done.
Where are you headed?
Back to Germany. I have somesome unfinished business.
I know what this means. Shes going to talk to her boyfriend, tell him about me, break
things off. I feel a goofy smile spread across my face.
When she returns from Germany, she says, shell meet me in New York. We can spend
time together before the 1999 U.S. Open. She mentions that shell need to call a news conference.
A news conference? For what?
My retirement.
Youryoure retiring?
Thats what I just said. Im done.
When you said done, I thought you meant done for the tournament! I didnt know you
meantdone.
I feel bereft, thinking of tennis without Stefanie Graf, the greatest womens player of all
time. I ask how it feels knowing shell never swing a racket in competition again. Its the kind
of question reporters ask me every day, but I cant help myself. I want to know. I ask with a
mixture of curiosity and envy.
She says it feels fine. Shes at peace, more than ready to be done.
I wonder if Im ready. I meditate on my own tennis mortality. But a week later, Im in Washington,
D.C., playing Kafelnikov in the final. I beat him 76, 61, and afterward I give his
coach, Larry, a look. A promise is a promise.
I realize Im not done. I have promises yet to keep.
IM ON THE VERGE of being number one again. This time its not my fathers goal, or
Perrys, or Brads, and I remind myself that its not mine either. It would be nice, thats all. It
would cap off the comeback. It would be a memorable milestone on the journey. I sprint up
one side of Gil Hill, down the other. Im training for the number one ranking, I tell Gil. And for
the U.S. Open. And, in a funny way, for Stefanie.
I cant wait for you to meet her, I say.
She arrives in New York and I whisk her upstate to a friends nineteenth-century farmhouse.
It has fifteen hundred acres and several large stone fireplaces. In every room we can
sit and stare into the flames and talk. I tell her Im a firebug. Me too, she says. The leaves are
just starting to turn, and each window frames a postcard view of red-gold woods and mountains.
There is no one around for miles.
We spend our time walking, hiking, driving into nearby towns, puttering in antique shops.
At night we lie on the couch and watch the original Pink Panther. After half an hour were both
laughing so hard at Peter Sellers that we have to stop the tape and catch our breath.
She leaves after three days. She has to go on holiday with her family. I beg her to come
back for the final weekend of the U.S. Open. To be there for me. In my box. I wonder if Im
jinxing myself, presuming that Ill be playing on the final weekend, but I dont care.
She says shell try.
I reach the semis. Im scheduled to play Kafelnikov. Stefanie phones and says shell
come. But she wont sit in my box. Shes not ready for that.
Well then, let me arrange a seat for you.
Ill find my own seat, she says. Dont worry about me. I know my way around that place.
I laugh. I guess so.
She watches from the upper deck, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Of
course the CBS cameras pick her out of the crowd, and McEnroe, doing commentary, says
U.S. Open officials should be ashamed, not getting Steffi Graf a better seat. I beat Kafelnikov
again. Tell Larry I said hello.
In the final I face Martin. I thought it would be Pete. I said publicly that I wanted Pete, but
he pulled out of the tournament with a bad back. So its Martin, whos been there, across the
net, at so many critical junctures. At Wimbledon, in 1994, when I was still struggling to absorb
Brads teachings, I lost to Martin in a nip-and-tuck five-setter. At the U.S. Open that same
year, Lupica predicted that Martin would upend me in the semis, and I believed him, but still
managed to beat Martin and win the tournament. In Stuttgart, in 1997, it was my appalling
first-round loss to Martin that finally pushed Brad to the breaking point. Now its Martin who
will be a test of my newfound maturity, who will show if the changes in me are fleeting or
meaningful.
I break him in the very first game. The crowd is solidly behind me. Martin doesnt hang his
head, however, doesnt lose any poise. He makes me work for the first set, then comes out
stronger in the second, taking it in a tight tiebreak. He then wins the third setan even tighter
tiebreak. He leads two sets to one, a commanding lead at this tournament. No one ever
comes back from such a deficit in the final here. It hasnt happened in twenty-six years. I see
in Martins eyes that hes feeling it, and waiting for me to show the old cracks in my mental ar
mor. Hes waiting for me to crumble, to revert to that jittery, emotional Andre hes played so
often in years past. But I neither fold nor yield. I win the fourth set, 63, and in the fifth set,
with Martin looking spent, Im on the balls of my feet. I win the set, 62, and walk away knowing
Im healed, Im back, exulting that Stefanie was here to see it. Ive made only five unforced
errors in the final two sets. Not once all day have I lost my serve, the first five-setter of my career
in which I havent lost my serve, and it comes as I capture my fifth slam. When I get back
to Vegas I want to put five hundred on number five at a roulette table.
In the press room, one reporter asks why I think the New York crowd was pulling for me,
cheering so loudly.
I wish I knew. But I take a guess: Theyve watched me grow up.
Of course fans everywhere have watched me grow up, but in New York their expectations
were higher, which helped accelerate and validate my growth.
Its the first time Ive felt, or dared to say aloud, that Im a grown-up.
STEFANIE FLIES WITH ME TO VEGAS. We do all the typical Vegasy things. We gamble,
see a show, take in a boxing match with Brad and Kimmie. Oscar De La Hoya vs. Flix Trinidad
our first official public date. Our coming-out party. The next day a photo of us holding
hands, kissing at ringside, appears in newspapers.
No turning back now, I tell her.
She stares, then slowly, thankfully, smiles.
She spends the weekend at my house. The weekend turns into a week. Then a month.
J.P. phones one day and asks how things are going.
Ive never been better.
When are you going to see Stefanie again?
Shes still here.
What do you mean?
I cup my hand over my mouth and whisper: Its still Date Three. She hasnt left.
Wellwhat?
I assume shell leave eventually, go back to Germany, get her stuff, but we dont talk
about it, and I dont want to bring it up. I dont want to do anything to disrupt things.
The way youre not supposed to wake a sleepwalker.
But soon its time for me to go back to Germany. To play Stuttgart. She wants to come
alongshe even agrees to sit in my boxand Im delighted to have her there with me. After
all, Stuttgart is an important city for us both. Its where she turned pro, and where I re-turned
pro. And yet we dont talk about tennis on the flight. We talk kids. I tell her I want themwith
her. A bold thing to say, but I cant help myself. She takes my hand, tears in her eyes, then
looks out the window.
On our last morning in Stuttgart, Stefanie needs to get up early, she has an early flight.
She kisses my forehead goodbye. I pull the pillow over my head and go back to sleep. When I
wake an hour later and stumble to the bathroom, I see, lying in my open shaving kit,
Stefanies birth control pills. As if to say: I wont be needing these anymore.
I NOT ONLY REACH NUMBER ONE, I finish 1999 number one, the first time Ive ever
ended a year in the top slot. I snap Petes streak of six year-end finishes at number one. I
then win the Paris Open and become the first man ever to win the Paris Open and the French
Open in the same year. But at the ATP World Tour Championship I lose to Pete. Our twenty-
eighth meeting. He leads 1711. In slam finals he leads 31. Not much of a rivalry,
sportswriters say, since Pete usually wins. I cant argue, and I cant be upset about Pete anymore.
I do the only thing I can do. I go to Gils house and burn muscles. I run up and down Gil
Hill until I see visions. I run in the morning, I run in the evening. I run on Christmas Eve, Gil
timing me with a stopwatch. He says Im breathing so loudly when I reach the top of the hill
that he can hear me from the bottom. I run until I lean over the sticker bushes and vomit. Finally
he meets me at the summit and tells me to stop. We stand and look at all the Christmas
lights in the distance, and then we watch for shooting stars.
Im proud of you, he says. Being out here. Tonight. Christmas Eve. It says something.
I thank him for being out here with me. For giving up his Christmas Eve.
Must be so many other places that youd rather be.
No place Id rather be, he says.
As the 2000 Australian Open begins I beat Mariano Puerta in straight sets and he publicly
praises my concentration. I feel it, Im on a collision course with Pete again, and sure enough
we face off in the semis. Ive lost four of the last five times weve played, and hes as good
this day as ever. He hits me with thirty-seven aces, more than hes ever notched against me.
But Ive got Christmas Eve with Gil. Two points from losing the match I mount a furious
comeback. I win the match and become the first man since Laver to reach the final in four
straight slams.
In the final I face Kafelnikov again. It takes time to warm up. Im still rubbery after my
tussle with Pete. I lose the first set, but find my stride, my touch, and take him in four. My sixth
slam. At the post-match news conference I thank Brad and Gil for teaching me that my best is
good enough. A fan shouts out Stefanies name, asks whats the story there.
Mind your business, I say, joking. Id actually like to tell the world about it. And I will. Soon.
Gil tells the New York Times: I really believe we will never see Andre stop fighting ever
again.
Brad tells the Washington Post: Hes got a 271 match record over the last four Grand
Slams. Only Rod Laver, Don Budge, and Steffi Graf have ever done better.
Even Brad doesnt fully realize how floored I am to be mentioned in that company.
STEFANIE TELLS ME her father is coming to Vegas for a visit. (Her parents are long divorced,
and her mother, Heidi, already lives fifteen minutes from us.) Thus, the unavoidable
moment has arrived. Our fathers are going to meet. The prospect unnerves us both.
Peter Graf is suave, sophisticated, well read. He likes to make jokes, lots of jokes, none of
which I get, because his English is spotty. I want to like him, and I see that he wants me to
like him, but Im uneasy in his presence, because I know the history. Hes the German Mike
Agassi. A former soccer player, a tennis fanatic, he started Stefanie playing before she was
out of diapers. Unlike my father, however, Peter never stopped managing her career and her
finances, and he spent two years in jail for tax evasion. The subject never comes up, but feels
at times like the German Elefant in the room.
I should have expected it: the first thing Peter wants to see when he arrives in Nevada
isnt Hoover Dam or the Strip but my fathers ball machine. Hes heard all about it, and now he
wants to study it up close. I drive him to my fathers house, and along the way he chatters
amiably. But I dont understand much. Is it German? No, its a hybrid of German and English
and tennis. Hes asking questions about my fathers game. How often does my father play?
How well does he play? Hes trying to size up my father before we get there.
My father doesnt do well with people who dont speak perfect English, and he doesnt do
well with strangers, so I know we have two strikes on us as we walk through my parents front
door. Im relieved, however, to see that sport is a universal language, that these two men,
both aficionados, both former athletes, know how to use their bodies to communicate, through
swings and gestures and grunts. I tell my father that Peter would like to see the famous ball
machine. My father is flattered. He takes us outside to his backyard court and wheels out the
dragon. He revs the motor, raises the pedestal high. Hes talking nonstop, giving Peter a lecture,
shouting to be heard above the dragonblissfully unaware that Peter doesnt understand
a word.
Go stand there, my father tells me.
He hands me a racket, points me to the other side of the court, aims the machine at my
head.
Demonstrate, he says.
Im having shuddering, violent flashbacks, and only the thought of the tequila waiting for
me back home keeps me functioning.
Peter positions himself behind me and watches while I hit.
Ahh, he says. Ja. Good.
My father cranks up the machine. He clicks the dial until the balls are coming almost in
twos. My father must have added a gear to the dragon. I dont remember balls ever coming
this fast. I dont have time to bring back my racket and hit the second ball. Peter scolds me for
missing. He takes the racket from me, pushes me aside. This, he says, is the shot you should
have had. You never had this shot. He shows me the famous Stefanie Slice, which he claims
to have taught Stefanie. You need a quieter racket, he says. Like this.
My father is livid. In the first place, Peter isnt listening to my fathers lecture. In the second
place, Peter is interfering with my fathers star pupil. My father comes around the net, shouting:
That slice is bullshit! If Stefanie had this shot, she would have been better off. He then
demonstrates the two-handed backhand he taught me.
With this shot, my father says, Stefanie would have won thirty-two slams!
The two men cant understand each other, and yet theyre managing a heated argument. I
turn my back, concentrate on hitting balls. I train all my attention on the dragon. Occasionally I
hear Peter mention my rivals, Pete and Rafter, and then my father responds with Stefanies
nemeses, Monica Seles and Lindsay Davenport. My father then mentions boxing. He uses a
boxing analogy, and Peter howls in protest.
I was a boxer too, Peter saysand I would have knocked you out.
You can say a lot of things to my father. But not that. Never that. I cringe, knowing whats
coming. I wheel just in time to see Stefanies sixty-three-year-old father take off his shirt and
tell my sixty-nine-year-old father: Look at me. Look at the shape Im in. Im taller than you. I
can keep you at bay with my jab.
My father says, You think so? Come on! You and me.
Peter is trash-talking in German, my father is trash-talking in Assyrian, and theyre both
putting up their fists. Theyre circling, feinting, bobbing and weaving, and just before one of
them throws hands, I step in, push them apart.
My father shouts, This fucker is talking shit!
That may be, Pops, butplease.
Theyre winded, sweating. My fathers eyes are dilated. Peters bare chest is beaded with
sweat. They see, however, that Im not going to let them mix it up, so they go to neutral
corners. I turn off the dragon, and we all walk off the court.
At home, Stefanie kisses me and asks how it went.
Ill tell you later, I say, reaching for the tequila.
I dont know when a margarita has ever tasted so good.
AFTER PLAYING WELL IN THE DAVIS CUP, I lose early in Scottsdale, a tournament I
typically own. I play poorly in Atlanta and pull a hamstring. I lose in the third round in Rome
and realize, reluctantly, that this cant go on. I cant play every tournament. Approaching thirty
years old, I must choose my battles more carefully.
Every other interview now is about the end. I tell reporters that my best tennis is ahead of
me, and they smile, wincingly, as if they hope Im kidding. Ive never been more serious.
When the time comes to defend at the 2000 French Open, I walk into Roland Garros expecting
to feel waves of nostalgia. But its all differentthe place has been renovated.
Theyve added more seats. Theyve redone the locker rooms. I dont like it. Not one bit. I
wanted Roland Garros to stay the same forever. I want everything to stay the same. I hoped
to walk on center court every year and conjure up 1999when life changed. At the news conference
after my win against Medvedev I told reporters that I could now leave tennis with no
regrets. But one year later I realize that I was wrong. I will always have one regretthat I
cant go back and relive the 1999 French Open again and again.
In the second round I face Kucera. He always has my number. The mere sight of me fills
him with a quart of adrenaline. Even when I see him in the locker room before our match, he
looks as if hes just been reminiscing about the time he beat me at the 1998 U.S. Open. He
comes out playing superbly, running me ragged, and though Im keeping pace, I develop
blisters all over my right foot. I limp to the side and ask for an injury timeout. A trainer re-tapes
my foot, but the real blister is on my brain. I dont win another game from that point on.
I look up at my box. Stefanie has her head down. Shes never seen me lose like this.
Later I tell her that I dont understand why I sometimes come apartstill. She gives me insights
from her experience. Stop thinking, she says. Feeling is the thing. Feeling.
Its nothing I havent heard before. It sounds like a sweeter, softer version of my father.
But when Stefanie says it, the words go in deeper.
We talk for days about thinking versus feeling. She says its one thing not to think, but you
cant then decide to feel. You cant try to feel. You have to let yourself feel.
Other times, Stefanie knows there is nothing to be said. She touches my cheek and tilts
her head and I see that she gets itthat shes been thereand thats enough. Thats exactly
what I need.
We go to the 2000 Wimbledon. I take great pleasure in watching Stefanie explore London.
At last, she says, she can actually see this beautiful city, because shes not looking at it
through a haze of pressure and injuries. Tennis players travel as much as any athletes, but
the stress and rigors of the game keep us from seeing. Now Stefanie gets to see everything.
She walks everywhere, exploring all the shops and parks. She drops into a famous pancake
restaurant shes always wanted to try. It serves 150 different kinds of pancake, and she
samples just about every kind, without having to worry about feeling heavy-footed on the
court.
True to form, I see nothing in London but my draw. With blinders on I fight my way to the
semis. I face Rafter. Hes putting together a beautiful career. Two-time U.S. Open champ.
Former number one. Now they say hes trying to come back from shoulder surgery, though
hes acing me left and right. When hes not acing me hes dancing in behind his serve, letting
nothing past. I try lobbing him. I hit what feel like unreturnable shots as they leave my racket,
but he always gets back in time. We play for three and a half hours, high-quality tennis, and it
all comes down to the sixth game of the fifth set. Trying to put something extra on a second
serve, I double-fault.
Break point.
I serve, he hits a crisp return, I net the ball.
I cant break him back. Hes landing 74 percent of his first serves, and he first-serves his
way into the final. Hes earned the right to play Pete for the championship. I wanted to play
Pete with Stefanie watching, but its not to be. A year ago I beat Rafter here in the semis,
when he felt the first twinges in his shoulder. Now he comes back and beats me in the semis
with his shoulder fully healed. I like Rafter, and I like symmetry. I cant argue with that story
line.
Stefanie and I fly home. I need rest. Then the bad news starts pouring in. My sister Tami
has gotten a diagnosis of breast cancer. Days later, my mother gets the same diagnosis. I
give up my spot on the Olympic team going to Sydney. I want to spend as much time as possible
with my family. I need to shut down for the year, until January at least.
My mother wont hear of it.
Go, she says. Play. Do your job.
I try. I go to D.C., but play the way I always do when I cant concentrate. Against Corretja I
break three rackets in anger and lose in two spiritless sets.
At the 2000 U.S. Open, Im the number one seed. The favorite to win it. On the eve of the
tournament, I sit with Gil at the Lowell Hotel, feeling not favored, but fucked. It should be a
happy time. I could win this thing, I could shock the world. And I dont care.
Gil, why go on?
Maybe you shouldnt.
Why do I feelthis waythe old wayagain?
Its a rhetorical question. Kacey is fully recovered, thriving, talking about college, but Gil
never forgets what its like to have someone you love lying in a hospital bed. He knows what
Im saying without my saying it: Why must the people we love suffer? Why cant life be perfect?
Why, every day, somewhere on this earth, does someone have to lose?
You cant play, Gil says, unless you feel inspired. Thats your nature. Thats always been
your nature, since you were nineteen years old. But you cant feel inspired unless the people
around you are OK. I love you for that.
Im letting people down if I dont play. Im letting my family down if I do.
He nods.
Why do tennis and life always seem opposed?
He says nothing.
Weve done it, havent we? I mean, weve run the raceright? Were at the end of this
bullshit, no?
I cant answer that, he says. I only know that there is still more inside you, and there is
more inside me. If we walk away, fine. But we still have something left, and I think you promised
yourself that you were going to see your game to the finish line.
On the first day of practice, hitting with Brad, I cant make a serve to save my life. I walk
off the court, and Brad knows not to ask. I go back to the hotel and lie on the bed and stare at
the ceiling for two hours, knowing Im not going to be in New York for long.
In the first round I play a Stanford student, Alex Kim, whos sick with anxiety. I feel for him,
but take him out in straight sets. In the second round I meet Clment. Its a hot day and we
both have a full sweat going before the first point. I start fine, break him, go ahead 31. Alls
well. Then, suddenly, Ive never played tennis before. In front of a packed house I disintegrate.
Again the sportswriters sound the old dirge. The end nears for Agassi. Gil tries to tell them
what Im going through. He says: Andre is fueled by his heart, emotions, and beliefs, and
those he holds dearest to him. When all is not well you can see it in his actions.
On the way out of Arthur Ashe Stadium, a young girl says, Im sorry you lost.
Oh honey, dont be too sorry.
She smiles.
I HURRY HOME TO VEGAS, to spend time with my mother. But shes untroubled, absorbed
in her books and jigsaw puzzles, putting the rest of us to shame with her unshakable
calm. I see that Ive underestimated her through the years. Ive mistaken her silence for weakness,
acquiescence. I see that she is what my father made her, as we all are, and yet, beneath
the surface, shes so much more.
I also see that, in this perilous moment of her life, shed like a little credit. Ive always taken
it for granted that my mother wanted to be taken for granted, that she wanted to blend into the
woodwork. But what she wants right now is to be noticed, appreciated. She wants me to know
that shes stronger than I suspected. Shes getting her treatments, not complaining, and if she
takes pride in this, if she wants me to be proud, she also wants me to know Im made of the
same stuff. She survived my father, as did I. Shell survive this, and I will too.
Tami, getting treatment in Seattle, is also doing better. Shes had surgery, and before she
starts chemotherapy she comes to Vegas to spend time with the family. She tells me shes
dreading the loss of her hair. I tell her I dont know why. Losing my hair was the best thing that
ever happened to me. She laughs.
She says maybe it would be a good idea to get rid of her hair before the cancer takes it.
An act of defiance, a seizing of control.
I like the sound of that, I say. Ill help.
We arrange a barbecue at my house, and before everyone arrives we shut ourselves into
a bathroom. With only Philly and Stefanie as witnesses, we hold a formal head-shaving ceremony.
Tami wants me to do the honors. She hands me the electric shearer. I set the blade at
000, the tightest setting, and ask if she wants a mohawk first.
This might be your last chance to see how you look with one.
No, she says. Lets just go for broke.
I shave her fast and close. She smiles like Elvis on the day he went into the Army. As her
hair cascades to the floor, I tell her everythings going to be great. Youre free now, Tami.
Free. Also, I tell her, at least your hair will grow back. With me and Phillyits gone forever,
baby. She laughs and laughs, and it feels good to make my sister laugh when every day does
its best to make her cry.
BY NOVEMBER 2000 MY FAMILY is sufficiently on the mend that Im ready to train again.
In January we fly to Australia. I feel good when we land. I do love this place. I must have been
an aborigine in another life. I always feel at home here. I always enjoy walking into Rod Laver
Arena, playing under Lavers name.
I bet Brad that Im going to win the whole thing. I can feel it. And when I do, he will have to
jump in the Yarra Rivera fetid, polluted tributary that wends through Melbourne. I batter my
way to the semis and face Rafter again. We play three hours of hammer-and-tong tennis,
filled with endless I-grunt-you-grunt rallies. Hes ahead, two sets to one. Then he withers. The
Australian heat. Were both drenched with sweat, but hes cramping. I win the next two sets.
In the final I face Clment, a grudge match four months after he knocked me out of the
U.S. Open. I rarely leave the baseline. I make few mistakes, and those I do make, I put
quickly behind me. While Clment is muttering to himself in French, I feel a serene calm. My
mothers son. I beat him in straight sets.
Its my seventh slam, putting me tenth on the all-time list. Im tied with McEnroe, Wilander,
and othersone ahead of Becker and Edberg. Wilander and I are the only ones to win three
Australian Opens in the open era. At the moment, however, all I care about is seeing Brad do
the backstroke in the Yarra, then getting home to Stefanie.
WE SPEND THE EARLY PART of 2001 nesting at Bachelor Pad II, converting it from
bachelor pad to proper home. We shop for furniture that we both like. We give small dinner
parties. We talk late into the night about the future. She buys me a kitchen chalkboard, for
honey-do lists, but I convert it into an Appreciation Board. I hang the board on the kitchen wall
and promise Stefanie that every evening Ill write something about my love for herand the
next evening Ill wipe the board clean and write something new. I also buy a crate of 1989
Beychevelle and we promise to share a bottle every year on the anniversary of our first date.
At Indian Wells I reach the final and face Pete. I beat him, and in the locker room after the
match he tells me hes going to marry Bridgette Wilson, the actress hes been dating.
Im still allergic to actress, I say.
He laughs, but Im not kidding.
He tells me he met her on the set of a movieLove Stinks.
I laugh, but hes not kidding.
There is much I want to say to Pete, about marriage, about actresses, but I cant. Ours
isnt that kind of relationship. There is much Id like to ask himabout how he stays so focused,
about whether or not he regrets devoting so much of his life to tennis. Our different
personalities, our ongoing rivalry, precludes such intimacy. I realize that despite the effect
weve had on each other, despite our quasi-friendship, were strangers, and may always be. I
wish him the best, and I mean it. To my mind, being with the right woman is true happiness.
After all the time Ive spent putting together my so-called team, the only thing I want now is to
feel like a valued member of Stefanies team. I hope he feels the same way about his fiance.
I hope he cares as much about his place in her heart as he seems to care about his place in
history. I wish I could tell him so.
An hour after the tournament, Stefanie and I give a tennis lesson. Wayne Gretzky bought
us at a charity auction, and he wants us to teach his kids. We have fun with the Gretzkys.
Then, as darkness falls, we drive slowly back to Los Angeles. Along the way we talk about
how cute the kids were. I think of the Costner kids.
Stefanie squints out the window, then at me. She says: I think Im late.
What for?
Late.
Oh. You meanoh!
We stop at several drugstores, buy every kind of pregnancy test on the shelves, then hole
up at the Hotel Bel-Air. Stefanie goes into the bathroom, and when she comes out her expression
is unreadable. She hands me the stick.
Blue.
What does blue mean?
I think it meansyou know.
A boy?
I think it means Im pregnant.
She does the test again. And again. Blue every time.
Its what we both wanted, and shes delighted, but frightened too. So many changes. What
will happen to her body? We only have a few hours left together before I catch a red-eye to
Miami and she flies to Germany. We go out to dinner, to Matsuhisa. We sit at the sushi bar,
holding hands, telling each other its going to be fantastic. I dont realize until later that this is
the same restaurant where it all unraveled with Brooke. Just like tennis. The same court on
which you suffer your bloodiest defeat can become the scene of your sweetest triumph.
After were done eating and crying and celebrating, I say: I guess we should get married.
Her eyes widen. I guess so.
There will be no hoopla, we decide. No church. No cake. No dress. Well do it on a free
day during a lull in the tennis season.
I SIT DOWN FOR AN HOUR-LONG INTERVIEW with Charlie Rose, the genial TV host,
during which I lie through my teeth.
I dont mean to lie, but each question Rose asks seems to come with an implied answer,
an answer hes ready and eager to hear.
Did you love tennis at an early age?
Yes.
You loved the game.
I would sleep with a racket.
You look back on what your father did for you, do you say now: Im glad that he gave me
those early things that made me tough?
Im definitely glad that I play tennis. Im glad my dad started me in tennis.
I sound as though Ive been hypnotized, or brainwashed, which isnt new. I say the same
things Ive said before, the same things Ive mouthed during countless news conferences and
interviews and cocktail-party conversations. Are they lies if Ive come to partially believe
them? Are they lies if, through sheer repetition, theyve taken on a veneer of truth?
This time, however, the lies sound and feel different. They hang in the air, they have a bitter
aftertaste. When the interview is over I feel a vague queasiness. Not guilt so much, but regret.
A sense of missed opportunity. I wonder what would have happened, what Rose might
have done or said, how much more we might have enjoyed the hour, if Id leveled with him,
and with myself. Actually, Charlie, I hate tennis.
The queasiness stays with me for days. It gets worse when the interview airs. I promise
myself that one day Ill look an interviewer of Roses stature right in the eye and tell him the
unvarnished truth.
AT THE 2001 FRENCH OPEN, an invisible person is in my box. Stefanie is four months
along, and the presence of our unborn child gives me the legs of a teenager. I reach the
round of sixteen and play Squillari, with whom I have such history. It feels as we walk onto the
court as if we have more history than France has with England. The sight of Squillari takes
me straight back to 1999one of the toughest matches of my career. One of the turning
points. If hed beaten me that day, two years ago, I dont know if Id be here. I dont know if
Stefanie would be hereand therefore our unborn child wouldnt be here.
Inspired by these thoughts, Im locked in. As the match wears on, I grow fresher, more focused.
My concentration is unbreakable. An unruly fan yells something obscene about me. I
laugh. I take a nasty fall, twisting and cutting my knee. I shrug it off. Nothing can deter
meleast of all Squillari. Gradually I lose all awareness of him. Im out here by myself, more
so than usual.
In the quarters I play Sbastien Grosjean, from France. I breeze through the first set, losing
only one game, then Grosjean taps into some hidden reservoir of faith that he can win.
Now our self-confidence is equal, but his shot-making is superior. He breaks me to go up 20,
then breaks me again and wins the second set as easily as I won the first.
In the third set he breaks me right away, winning the game with a pretty lob. Then he
holds, then breaks me again. Im done for.
In the fourth set I have chances to break his serve, but I cant capitalize. I hit a backhand
thats weak, unworthy of me, and as I watch it sail wide I know Im running out of time. Hes
serving for the match, Im holding on by my fingernails, and then I net a forehand. Match
point. He closes me out with an ace.
Afterward, reporters ask if my concentration was broken by the arrival of President Bill
Clinton. Of all the reasons Ive ever heard, and offered, for losing a match, even I couldnt
come up with one that lame. I didnt even know Clinton was there, I tell them. I had other
things on my mind. Other invisible spectators.
I BRING STEFANIE TO GILS GYM, under the guise of a workout. Shes beaming, because
she knows why were really here.
Gil asks Stefanie if shes feeling all right, if shed like something to drink, if shed like to sit.
He guides her to an exercise cycle and she mounts sidesaddle. She studies the shelf Gil has
built along one wall, to hold the trophies from my slams, including those Ive had replaced
since my post-Friends tantrum.
I fiddle with a stretching cord and then say: So, uhh, Gil, listen. Weve picked out a name
for our son.
Aw. What is it?
Jaden.
I like that, Gil says, smiling, nodding. Yes I do. I like that.
Andwe also think weve got the perfect middle name.
Whats that?
Gil.
He stares.
I say, Jaden Gil Agassi. If he grows up to be half the man you are, hell be phenomenally
successful, and if I can be half the father youve been to me, Ill have surpassed my own
standards.
Stefanie is crying. My eyes are filled with tears. Gil is standing ten feet away, in front of the
leg extension machine. He has his trademark pencil behind his ear, his glasses on the end of
his nose, his da Vinci notebook open. He reaches me in three steps and folds me in his arms.
I feel his necklace against my cheek. Father, Son, Holy Ghost.
IM CLOSE TO BEATING RAFTER at the 2001 Wimbledon. Fifth set, serving for the
match, two points from winning, I net a tentative forehand. On the next point I miss an easy
backhand. Hes broken back. Now its he who thinks hes close to beating me.
I shout, Motherfucker.
A lineswoman promptly reports me to the umpire.
I get an obscenity warning.
Now I can think of nothing but this busybody lineswoman. I lose the set, 86, and the
match. It feels disappointing and unimportant at the same time.
Along with Stefanies health and our budding family, my thoughts are never far from my
school, which is due to open this fall, with two hundred students, grades three through
fivethough we have plans to expand quickly to include kindergarten through twelfth grade.
In two years well have the middle school built. In another two years, the high school.
I love our concepts, our designs, but Im particularly proud of our commitment to putting
money behind our ideas. Lots of money. Perry and I were horrified to learn that Nevada
spends less than almost any other state on education$6,800 per pupil, as compared with
the national average of nearly $8,600. Thus, at my school weve vowed to make up the difference,
and then some. Through a mix of state funding and private donors, were going to invest
heavily in kids and thereby prove that in education, as in all things, you get what you pay
for.
Were also going to keep our kids in school more hours each dayeight instead of
Nevadas customary six. If Ive learned nothing else, its that time and practice equal achievement.
Further, were going to insist that parents become intimately involved with the school.
At least one parent per child will be required to spend twelve hours a month volunteering as a
student aide in the classrooms or a monitor on school trips. We want parents to feel like
shareholders. We want them fully committed and responsible for getting their children into college.
Many days, when I feel run-down or low, I drive to the neighborhood and watch the school
take shape. Of all my contradictions, this is the most amazing, and the most amusinga boy
who despised and feared school becomes a man inspired and reenergized by the sight of his
own school being built.
I cant be there on opening day, however. Im playing in the 2001 U.S. Open. Im playing
for the school, therefore playing my best. I burn through four rounds and meet Pete in the
quarters. From the moment we come out of the tunnel, we know this will be our fiercest battle
yet. We just know. Its the thirty-second time weve played, he leads 1714, and each of us
wears an unusually grim game face. Right here, right now, this one will decide the rivalry.
Winner take all.
Pete is supposed to be at half speed. He hasnt won a slam in fourteen months. Hes been
balky, and openly talking retirement. But all of that is irrelevant, because hes playing me. Still,
I win the first set in a tiebreak, and now I feel good about my chances. I have a 491 record at
this tournament when I win the first set.
Someone please remind Pete of the stats. He wins the second set in a tiebreak.
The third set also goes to a tiebreak. I make several foolish mistakes. Fatigue. He wins
the third set.
In the fourth set we have several epic rallies. We go to still another tiebreak. Weve played
three hours, and neither of us has yet broken the others serve. Its after midnight. The
fans23,000 plusrise. They wont let us start the fourth tiebreak. Stomping and clapping,
theyre staging their own tiebreak. Before we press on they want to say thanks.
Im moved. I see that Pete is moved. But I cant think about the fans. I cant let myself
think about anything but reaching the sanctuary of a fifth set.
Pete knows that the advantage tips in my direction if this goes five sets. He knows that he
needs to play a perfect tiebreak to prevent a fifth set. And so he does. A night of flawless tennis
ends with my forehand in the net.
Pete screams.
I actually feel my pulse decrease. I dont feel bad. I try to feel bad, but I cant. I wonder if
Im growing accustomed to losing to Pete in big matches, or simply growing content with my
career and life. Whatever the case, I put my hand on Petes shoulder and wish him well, and
though it doesnt feel like goodbye, it feels like a rehearsal for a goodbye that cant be far off.
IN OCTOBER 2001, three days before Stefanie is due to give birth, we invite our mothers
and a Nevada judge to the house.
I love watching Stefanie with my mother. The two shy women in my life. Stefanie often
brings her a couple of new jigsaw puzzles. And I adore Stefanies mother, Heidi. She looks
like Stefanie, so she had me at guten tag. Stefanie and I, barefoot and wearing jeans, stand
before the judge in the courtyard. For wedding bands we use twists of old raffia Stefanie
found in a drawerthe same stuff I used to decorate her first birthday card. Neither of us notices
the coincidence until later.
My father insists hes not the least bit slighted by not getting an invite. He doesnt want an
invite. The last thing he wants to do is attend a wedding. He doesnt like weddings. (He
walked out in the middle of my first.) He doesnt care where or when or how I make Stefanie
my wife, he says, so long as I do it. Shes the greatest womens tennis player of all time, he
says. Whats not to like?
The judge runs through his legal rigmarole, and Stefanie and I are just about to say I do,
when a team of landscapers arrive. I run outside and ask them to please turn off their lawn-
mowers and leaf blowers for five minutes so that we can get married. They apologize. One
holds a finger over his lips.
By the power vested in me, the judge says, and at last, at long last, with two mothers and
three landscapers looking on, Steffi Graf becomes Stefanie Agassi.
26
A SEASON OF BIRTH AND REBIRTH. Weeks after my school opens, my son arrives. In
the delivery room, when the doctor hands me Jaden Gil, I feel bewildered. I love him so much
that my heart splits open, like something overripe. I cant wait to get to know him, and yet, and
yet. I also wonder, Just who is this beautiful intruder? Are Stefanie and I ready for a perfect
stranger in the house? Im a stranger to myselfwhat will I be to my son? Will he like me?
We bring Jaden home, and I spend hours staring at him. I ask him who he is, where he
came from, what hell be. I ask myself how I can be everything to him that I needed and never
had. I want to retire, immediately, spend all my time with him. But now more than ever I need
to play. For him, his future, and my other children at my school.
My first match as a father is a win against Rafter at the Tennis Masters Series tournament
in Sydney. I tell reporters afterward that I doubt Ill be able to do this long enough that my new
son will get to see me play, but it sure is a nice dream.
Then I pull out of the 2002 Australian Open. My wrist is throbbing, and I cant compete.
Brad is frustrated. I wouldnt expect anything less. But this time he has trouble brushing aside
his frustration. This time is different.
Days later he says we need to talk. We meet for coffee, and he lays it out.
Weve had a great run, Andre, but weve gone as far as we can go. Were growing stagnant.
Creatively. Ive burned through my bag of tricks, buddy.
But
Weve had eight years, we could go on a few more, but youre thirty-two. You have a new
family, new interests. It might not be such a bad idea to find a new voice for your home
stretch. Someone to re-motivate you.
After beating Pete at Indian Wells, I celebrate with Brad, not
knowing it will be one of our last tournament victories
together.
He pauses. He looks at me, then looks away. Bottom line, he says. Were so close, my worst
fear is that we get into an argument as the end approaches, and it carries over.
I think: That could never happen, but better safe than sorry.
We hug.
As he walks out the door I feel the kind of melancholy you feel on a Sunday night after an
idyllic weekend. I know Brad does too. It might not be the right way to end our journey, but its
the best way possible.
I CLOSE MY EYES and try to picture myself with someone new. The first face I see is
Darren Cahill. Hes just finished a brilliant span coaching Lleyton Hewitt, whos ranked number
one, and among the best shot selectors in the history of tennis, and a great deal of the
credit must go to Darren. Also, I recently bumped into Darren down in Sydney and we had a
long talk about fatherhood. It was a bonding moment. Darren, a fellow new father, turned me
on to a book about getting infants to sleep. He swore by this book and said his son is known
on tour as the baby who sleeps like a drunkard.
Ive always liked Darren. I like his easygoing style. I find his Aussie accent soothing. It almost
puts me to sleep. I read the book he recommended and phoned Stefanie from Australia
to read her passages. It worked. Now I dial him and tell him Ive parted from Brad. I ask if he
has any interest in the job.
He says hes flattered, but hes on the verge of signing to coach Safin. Hell think about it,
though, and get back to me.
No problem, I say. Take your time.
I call him back in half an hour. I ask him, What the hell is there to think about? You cant
coach Safin. Hes a loose cannon. Youve got to work with me. It feels right. I promise you,
Darren, I have game left. Im not done. Im focusedI just need someone to help me keep the
focus.
OK, he says, laughing. OK, mate.
He never once mentions money.
STEFANIE AND JADEN COME WITH ME to Key Biscayne. Its April 2002, days before
my thirty-second birthday, and the tournament is crawling with players half my age, young
Turks like Andy Roddick, the next next savior of American tennis, poor bastard. Also, theres
a hot new wunderkind from Switzerland named Roger Federer.
Id like to win this tournament for my wife and six-month-old son, and yet I dont worry
about losing, dont care if I lose, because of them. Each night, within minutes of coming home
from the courts, as Im cradling Jaden and cuddling Stefanie, I can barely recall if I won or
lost. Tennis fades as quickly as the daylight. I almost imagine that the calluses on my playing
hand are disappearing, the inflamed nerves in my back cooling and mending. Im a father first,
a tennis player second, and this evolution happens without my being aware.
One morning Stefanie goes off to buy groceries and get in a fast workout. She dares to
leave me alone with Jaden. My first time flying solo.
You two going to be OK? she asks.
Of course.
I sit Jaden on the bathroom counter, lean him against the mirror, let him play with my
toothbrush while I get ready. He likes to suck on the toothbrush while watching me shave my
head with the electric shearers.
I ask him, What do you think of your bald daddy?
He smiles.
You know, son, I was once like you: long hair flowing in every direction. Youre not fooling
anyone with that comb-over.
He smiles wider, no idea what Im saying, of course.
I measure his hair with my fingers.
Actually, you look a little ratty there, buddy. You could use a clean-up.
I put a different attachment on the shearer, the attachment for trimming. When I run the
shearer across Jadens little head, however, it leaves a bright stripe of scalp down the middle,
as white as a baseline.
Wrong attachment.
Stefanie will murder me. I need to even this boys hair out before she gets home. But in
my frantic attempt to even out the hair, I make it shorter. Before I know whats happened, my
son is balder than I. He looks like Mini-Me.
When Stefanie comes through the door she stops in her tracks and stares, saucer-eyed.
What the? Andre, she says, what on earth is the matter with you? I leave you alone for
forty-five minutes and you shave the baby?
Then she lets fly a burst of histrionic German.
I tell her it was an accident. The wrong attachment. I beg her forgiveness.
I know, I say, it looks like I did this on purpose. I know Im always joking about wanting to
shave the world. But honest, Stefanie, this was a mistake.
I try to remind her of that old wives tale, that if you shave a childs head the hair will grow
back faster and thicker, but she holds up a hand and starts laughing. Shes bent over laugh
ing. Now Jaden is laughing at Mommy laughing. Now were all giggling, rubbing Jadens head
and mine, joking that the only one left is Stefanie, and shed better sleep with one eye open.
Im laughing too hard to speak, and days later, in the final of Key Biscayne, I beat Federer. Its
a good win. Hes as hot as anyone on tour. He came into this tournament with twenty-three
wins so far this year.
Its my fifty-first tournament victory, my seven hundredth victory overall. And yet I have no
doubt Ill remember this tournament less for beating Federer than for that one belly laugh. I
wonder if the laugh had something to do with the win. Its easier to be free and loose, to be
yourself, after laughing with the ones you love. The right attachments.
I FALL INTO A NICE GROOVE with Darren in early 2002. We speak the same language,
see the world in similar colors. Then he cements my trust, my unwavering confidence, by daring
to fuss with my racket stringsand improving them.
Ive always played with ProBlend, a string thats half Kevlar, half nylon. You can reel in an
eight-hundred-pound marlin with ProBlend. It never breaks, never forgives, but also never
generates spin. Its like hitting the ball with a garbage can lid. People talk about the game
changing, about players growing more powerful, and rackets getting bigger, but the most dramatic
change in recent years is the strings. The advent of a new elastic polyester string,
which creates vicious topspin, has turned average players into greats, and greats into legends.
Still, Ive always been reluctant to change. Now Darren urges me to try. Were in Italy, at
the Italian Open. Ive just played Nicolas Kiefer, from Germany, in the first round. Ive beaten
him, 63, 62, and Im telling Darren that I should have lost. I played lousy. I have no confidence
on this dirt, I tell him. The clay game has passed me by.
Give the new string a go, mate.
I frown. Im skeptical. I tried changing my racket once. It wasnt pretty.
He puts the string on one of my rackets and says again, Just try.
In a practice session I dont miss a ball for two hours. Then I dont miss a ball for the rest
of the tournament. Ive never won the Italian Open before, but I win it now, because of Darren
and his miracle string.
I SUDDENLY LOOK FORWARD TO the 2002 French Open. Im excited, eager for the
fight, and guardedly optimistic. Im coming off a win, Jaden is sleeping a bit more, and I have
a new weapon. In the fourth round Im down two sets and a break to a wild card, a Frenchman
named Paul-Henri Mathieu. Hes twenty, but hes not in the shape Im in. Theres no
clock in tennis, son. I can be out here all day.
Down comes the rain. I sit in the locker room and reminisce about Brad yelling at me in
1999. I hear his tirade, word for word. When we walk back onto the court Im smiling. Im up
40love, and Mathieu breaks me. I dont care. I simply break back. In the fifth set he goes up,
31. Again I refuse to lose.
If it had been anyone but Agassi, Mathieu tells reporters afterward, I would have won.
Next I face Juan Carlos Ferrero, from Spain. Again it rains; this time I ask that the match
be halted for the night. Ferrero is ahead, and he doesnt want to stop. He gets surly when officials
grant my request and suspend the match. The next day he takes his surliness out on
me. I have a small opportunity in the third set, but he quickly closes it. He wins the set, and I
can see his confidence rising off him like steam as he closes me out.
I feel peaceful walking with Darren off the court. I like the way I played. I made mistakes,
my game sprang leaks, but I know well work to patch them. My back is sore, but mostly from
stooping to help Jaden walk. A wonderful soreness.
Weeks later we go to the 2002 Wimbledon, and my great new attitude abandons me, because
my new string undoes me. On grass my newly augmented topspin makes the ball sit
up like a helium balloon. In the second round I play Paradorn Srichaphan, from Thailand. Hes
good, but not this good. Hes crushing everything I hit. Hes ranked number sixty-seven, and I
think its impossible that hell beat me, and then he breaks me in the first set.
I try everything to get back on track. Nothing works. My ball is a cream puff, and
Srichaphan devours it. Ive never seen an opponents eyes grow quite so large as
Srichaphans when he tees up my forehand. Hes swinging from his heels, and my only conscious,
coherent thought is: I wish I could swing from my heels and be rewarded. How can I
let everyone in this stadium know that this isnt me, this isnt my fault? Its the strings. In the
second set I make adjustments, fight back, play well, but Srichaphan is supremely confident.
He thinks its his day, and when you think its your day, it usually is. He hits a wild shot that
magically catches a piece of the back line, then wins a tiebreak, going up two sets. In the third
set I surrender peacefully.
Its cold comfort that, the same day, Pete loses.
Darren and I spend the next two days experimenting with different combinations of strings.
I tell him I cant continue with his new polyester, and yet hes ruined me for the old string. If I
have to go back to ProBlend, I say, I wont play tennis anymore.
He looks grim. After being my coach for six months, hes made one tiny adjustment to my
strings, and he may have inadvertently hastened my retirement. He promises that hell do
everything in his power to find a combination of strings thats just right.
Find something, I tell him, that lets me swing from my heels and get rewarded. Like
Srichaphan. Make me like Srichaphan.
Done, mate.
He works night and day and comes up with a combination he likes. We go to Los Angeles,
and its perfection. I win the Mercedes-Benz Cup.
We go to Cincinnati and I play well, just not well enough to win. Then in D.C. I beat Enqvist,
always a tough matchup for me. I then face another kid whos supposed to be the next big
thingtwenty-two-year-old James Blake. He plays pretty, graceful tennis, and Im not in his
league, not today. Hes simply younger, faster, a better athlete. He also thinks enough of my
history, my accomplishments, to bring his A game. I like that he comes out loaded for bear.
Its flattering, even though it means I have no chance. The loss is nothing I can blame on my
strings.
I go to the 2002 U.S. Open unsure what to expect from myself. I sail through the early
rounds, and in the quarters I face Max Mirnyi, a Belarusian from Minsk. They call him the
Beast, and its an understatement. Hes six foot five and hits a serve thats among the scariest
Ive ever faced. It has a burning yellow tail, like a comet, as it arcs high above the net and
then swoops down upon you. I have no answer for that serve. He wins the first set with
beastly ease.
In the second set, however, Mirnyi makes several unforced errors, giving me a boost, a bit
of momentum. I start to see his first serve a little better. We play high-quality tennis all the
way to the finish, and when his last forehand flies long, I cant believe it. Im in the semis.
For my efforts I win a date with Hewitt, the number one seed, the winner of this years
Wimbledon. More germane, hes Darrens former pupil. That Darren coached Hewitt for years
adds an extra level of intensity and pressure. Darren wants me to beat Hewitt; I want to beat
Hewitt for Darren. But in the first set I quickly fall behind, 03. I have all this information in my
head about Hewitt, data from Darren and from past experience, but it takes a while to sort
through the data and solve him. When I do, everything quickly changes. I storm back and win
the first set, 64. I see the pilot light in Hewitts eyes go out. I win the second set. He rallies,
wins the third. In the fourth set he suddenly cant make a first serve, and Im able to pounce
on his second. Jesus, Im in the final.
Which means Pete. As always, Pete. Weve played thirty-three times in our careers, four
times in slam finals. Hes got the overall edge, 1914, and 31 in slam finals. He says I bring
out the best in him, but I think hes brought out the worst in me. The night before the final I
cant help but think of all the different times I thought I was going to beat Pete, knew I was going
to beat Pete, needed to beat Pete, only to lose. And his success against me started right
here, in New York, twelve years ago, when he stunned me in straight sets. I was the favorite
then, as I am now.
Sipping Gils magic water before bed, I tell myself that this time will be different. Pete
hasnt won a slam in more than two years. Hes nearing the end. Im just starting over.
I climb under the covers and remember a time in Palm Springs, several years ago. Brad
and I were eating at an Italian restaurant, Mama Ginas, and we saw Pete eating with friends
on the other side of the dining room. He stopped by and said hello on his way out. Good luck
tomorrow. You too. Then we watched him through the restaurant window, waiting for his car.
We said nothing, each of us thinking of the difference hed made in our lives. As Pete drove
away I asked Brad how much he thought Pete tipped the valet.
Brad hooted. Five bucks, tops.
No way, I said. The guys got millions. Hes earned forty mil in prize money alone. Hes got
to be good for at least a ten spot.
Bet?
Bet.
We ate fast and rushed outside. Listen, I told the valet, give us the absolute truth: How
much did Mr. Sampras tip you?
The kid looked at his feet. He didnt want to tell. He was weighing, wondering if he was on
a hidden-camera show.
We told the kid we had a bet riding on this, so we absolutely were insisting he tell us. Finally
he whispered: You really want to know?
Shoot.
He gave me a dollar.
Brad put a hand on his heart.
But thats not all, the kid said. He gave me a dollarand he told me to be sure to give it to
whichever kid actually brought his car around.
We could not be more different, Pete and I, and as I fall asleep the night before perhaps
our final final, I vow that the world will see our differences tomorrow.
WE GET A LATE START, thanks to a New York Jets game that goes into overtime, delaying
the TV broadcast, and this favors me. Im in better shape, and I like that were going to be
out on the court until midnight. But I immediately fall behind two sets. Another drubbing at the
hands of PeteI cannot believe this is happening.
Then I notice Pete looking wrung out. And old. I win the third set by a mile, and the whole
stadium can feel the momentum slide my way. The crowd is crazy. They dont care who wins,
they just want to see an Agassi-Sampras five-setter. As the fourth set gets under way I know,
deep in my heart, as I always know with Pete, that if I can get this thing to a fifth set, Ill win.
Im fresher. Im playing better. Were the oldest players to meet in the U.S. Open final in more
than thirty years, but Im feeling like one of the teenagers who have lately been kicking ass on
tour. I feel like part of the new generation.
A private word with Pete Sampras after the final of the 2002
U.S. Open
At 34, Pete is serving, and I have two break points. If I win this game Ill serve for the set. So
this is it, the game of the match. He locks in, saves the first, and on the second break point I
hit a scorching return at his shoes. I think the ball is well behind himIm already celebrating
but somehow he turns and finds it and hits a half-volley that flops and dies on my side of
the net. Deuce.
Im spooked. Pete closes out the game, then goes on to break me.
Now hes serving for the match, and when Pete serves for a match, hes a coldblooded
killer. Everything happens very fast.
Ace. Blur. Backhand volley, no way to reach it.
Applause. Handshake at the net.
Pete gives me a friendly smile, a pat on the back, but the expression on his face is unmistakable.
Ive seen it before.
Heres a buck, kid. Bring my car around.
27
I OPEN MY EYES SLOWLY. Im on the floor beside my bed. I sit up to say good morning
to Stefanie, then realize shes in Vegas and Im in St. Petersburg. No, waitSt. Petersburg
was last week.
Im in Paris.
No, Paris was after St. Petersburg.
Im in Shanghai. Yes, thats right, China.
I go to the window, draw back the curtains. A skyline designed by someone on mushrooms.
A skyline that looks like a sci-fi Vegas. Every building is crazily different, and all set
against a hard blue sky. It doesnt matter where I am, strictly speaking, because parts of me
are still in Russia and France and the last dozen places Ive played. And the biggest part of
me, as always, is home with Stefanie and Jaden.
No matter where I am, however, the tennis court is the same, and so is the goalI want to
be number one at the end of 2002. If I can put together a win here in Shanghai, one little win,
Ill be the oldest year-end number one in mens tennis history, breaking Connorss record.
Hes a punkyoure a legend!
I want this, I tell myself. I dont need it, but I do want it.
I order coffee from room service, then sit at the desk and write in my journal. Its not like
me to keep a journal, but Ive recently begun one, and its quickly become a habit. Im compelled
to write. Im obsessed with leaving a record, in part because Ive developed a gnawing
fear that I wont be around long enough for Jaden to know me. I live on airplanes, and with the
world becoming more dangerous, more unpredictable, I fear that I wont be able to tell Jaden
all that Ive seen and learned. So every night, wherever I am, I jot a few lines to him. Random
thoughts, impressions, lessons learned. Now, before going to the Shanghai stadium, I write:
Hey Buddy. Youre in Vegas with Mom and Im in Shanghai, missing you. I have a chance
at finishing number one after this tournament. But I promise I can only think about getting
home to you. I put a lot of pressure on myself with my tennis. But Im strangely driven to continue.
It took me a while to figure that out. I fought it for so long. Now I just work as hard as I
can and let the rest fall where it may. It still doesnt feel great most of the time, but I push
through it, for the sake of so much good. Good for the game, good for your future, good for
many at my school. Always value others, Jaden. There is so much peace in taking care of
people. I love you and am there for you always.
I close the journal, walk out of the room, and get clipped by Jiri Novak, from the Czech Republic.
Humiliating. Worse, I cant leave the country and go home. I have to hang around an
extra day to play a kind of consolation match.
Back at the hotel, choked with emotion, I write again to Jaden:
I just lost my match and I feel terrible. I dont want to go back out there tomorrow. So
much so I was actually wishing for an injury. Picture that, not wanting to do something so
much that you wish upon yourself injury. Jaden, if you ever feel overwhelmed with something
like I was tonight, just keep your head down and keep working and keep trying. Face it at its
worst and realize its not so bad. That will be your chance for peace. I wanted to quit and
leave and go home and see you. Its hard to stay and play, its easy to go home and be with
you. Thats why Im staying.
AT THE END OF THE YEAR, as expected, Hewitt is number one. I tell Gil we need to
take it up a notch. He outlines a new regimen for the older me. He pulls ideas from his da
Vinci notebooks, and we spend weeks working solely on my deteriorating lower body. Day in,
day out, he stands over me as I build my legs, yelling, Big thunder! Australias calling!
Weak legs command, Gil says. Strong legs obey.
By the time we board the Ambien Express, Vegas to Melbourne, I feel as if I could run or
swim there. Im the second seed in the 2003 Australian Open, and I come out growling, ferocious.
I reach the semis and beat Ferreira in ninety minutes. In six matches Ive dropped only
one set.
In the final I face Rainer Schuettler, from Germany. I win three straight sets, losing only
five games and tying the most lopsided victory ever at the Australian Open. My eighth slam,
and its my best performance ever. I tease Stefanie that its like one of her matches, the
closest Ill ever come to experiencing her kind of dominance.
As they hand me the trophy, I tell the crowd: Theres not a single day thats guaranteed to
us, and certainly days like this are very rare.
Someone says later that I sounded as if Id had a near-death experience.
More like a near-life experience. Its how a person talks when he almost didnt live.
Im the oldest player in thirty-one years to win a slam, and reporters wont let me hear the
end of it. Again and again, before I leave Australia, reporters ask if I have a plan for retirement.
I tell them I dont plan endings any more than I plan beginnings. Im the last of a generation,
they say. Last of the 1980s Mohicans. Chang announces hes retiring. Courier is
already three years into his retirement. People treat me like a codger, because Stefanie is expecting
again and its well known that we tool around Vegas in a minivan. Still, I feel eternal.
Ironically, my lack of flexibility seems to be stretching out my career. It helps my durability.
Since I cant turn well, I always keep the racket close to my body, always keep the ball out in
front of me. Thus, I dont put unnecessary stress and torque on my frame. With such form, Gil
says, my body might have another three years in it.
AFTER A SHORT BREATHER IN VEGAS, we fly to Key Biscayne. Ive won this tournament
two years in a row, five times overall, and nothing can stop me. I reach the final and
beat Moy, my old adversary from the French Open, whos ranked number five. Straight sets.
My sixth win here, which tops Stefanies record. Again, I tease her about finally doing
something better than she did it. Shes so competitive, however, I know not to tease her too
much.
PLAYING IN THE U.S. MENS CLAY COURT CHAMPIONSHIPS, in Houston, I just need
to reach the finals and Ill be ranked number one again. And I do. I beat Jrgen Melzer, 64,
61, and go out with Darren and Gil to celebrate. I throw down several vodka-cranberries. I
dont care that Im playing in the final against Roddick tomorrowIm already ranked number
one.
Which is why I beat him. That perfect blend of caring and not caring, the best preparation.
Days before my thirty-third birthday, Im the oldest player ever ranked number one. I fly to
Rome, feeling like Ponce de Len, and get off the plane feeling a geriatric twinge in my
shoulder. In the first round I play poorly, but dont dwell on it, put it out of my mind. Weeks
later, at the 2003 French Open, my shoulder is still sore, but my practices are crisp. Darren
says Im a force.
In the second round, Im on the Suzanne Lenglen Court, a court filled with bad memories.
Losing to Woodruff in 1996. Losing to Safin in 1998. Im playing a kid from Croatia, Mario
Ancic. I lose the first two sets and trail in the third. Hes nineteen years old, six foot five, a
serve-and-volleyer with no fear of me. The Lenglen court is supposed to be denser, slower,
but today the ball is moving fast. Im having an unusually hard time controlling it. I gather my
self, however, and win the next two sets. In the fifth, exhausted, my shoulder falling off, I have
match point four times, and lose them all. I double fault three of them. I beat the kid, at last,
but only because hes slightly more afraid of losing than I am.
Im in the quarters against Guillermo Coria, from Argentina, another youngster. He says
publicly Im his idol. Listen, I tell reporters, Id rather not be his idol and play him on hard court
than be his idol and play him on clay. How I hate this dirt. I lose four of the first five games.
Then I win the set. How I love this dirt.
Coria shows no emotion, however. In the second set he jumps out to a 51 lead. He
misses nothing. Hes fast and getting faster. Was I ever that fast? I try to confuse him, rush
the netto no avail. Hes just better than me today. He knocks me out of the tournament, and
out of the number one slot.
In England, at a warm-up tournament before Wimbledon, I beat Peter Luczak, from Australia.
Its the one thousandth match of my career. When someone tells me this, I feel an overpowering
need to sit down. I have a glass of wine with Stefanie and try to run my mind over all
one thousand matches. I remember every one of them, I tell her.
Of course, she says.
For Stefanies birthday I take her to see Annie Lennox in London. Shes one of Stefanies
favorites, but tonight shes my muse. Tonight shes singing, speaking, directly to me. In fact I
make a point to tell Gil that well need to include some Lennox on Belly Cramps 2. I might
listen to her before every match.
My two greatest sources of strength, Gil and Stefanie, sitting
in my box at the 2003 Australian Open
Shortly after winning the 2003 Australian Open
This is the path Ill never tread
These are the dreams Ill dream instead
IM ONE OF THE FAVORITES at the 2003 Wimbledon. How? No father has won Wimbledon
since the 1980s. Fathers dont win slams. In the third round I play Younes El Aynaoui,
from Morocco. Hes a new father too. I joke with reporters that I look forward to playing a man
who gets as little sleep as I.
In his pre-match instructions Darren says: When you get this guy bled out to the backhand,
early in the match, when you see him hit his slice, be sure to take it out of the air. That
way youll put him on notice that he cant get away with safe shots from a defensive position.
He needs to hit something special. Thats how youll send him a message early and force him
into errors later in the match.
Good advice. I quickly grab a lead, two sets to one, but El Aynaoui wont cave. He pours it
on in the fourth, gets three set points. I dont want this thing going five. I refuse to let it go five.
The final points of the fourth set are grueling, and I do everything required, everything Darren
advised. When its over, when Ive won the set and match, Im wiped out. I have a day off, but
I know its not nearly enough.
In the fourth round I face Mark Philippoussis, an Australian kid with tons of talent and a
reputation for squandering it. His serve is big, infamously big, and never bigger than today.
Hes topping out at 140 miles an hour. He aces me forty-six times. Still, the match goes where
we both know its going, a fifth set. At 34, hes serving, and somehow I have break point. He
misses the first serve. I taste the victory. He unloads a 138-mile-per-hour second serve,
straight up the middle. Obscene speed, but thats right where I thought hed hit it. I put the
racket out, reflex the ball back to him, and he can only stand and watch. He almost gets whiplash.
And yet it lands a half inch behind the baseline. Out.
Had it fallen in, Id have had the break, the momentum, and Id be serving for the match.
But its not to be. Now, believing he can win, Philippoussis stands a little taller, and breaks
me. Its all gone in a blink. One minute, Im almost serving for the match, the next minute hes
raising his arms in conquest. Tennis.
In the locker room my body feels different. Grass has become an ordeal, and a five-setter
on grass leaves me physically shattered. Also, the courts at Wimbledon are playing truer this
year, which has meant longer rallies, more movement, more lunging and bending. My back is
suddenly an issue. Its never been good, but now its actively, troublingly bad. Pain runs from
my back, down my butt, circumvents my knee, then reconnects with my shin and shoots down
to my ankle. Im grateful that I havent beaten Philippoussis, that I havent advanced in the
tournament, because Id have to forfeit the next match.
AS THE 2003 U.S. OPEN GETS UNDER WAY, Pete announces his retirement. He stops
several times during his news conference to collect himself. I find myself deeply affected as
well. Our rivalry has been one of the lodestars of my career. Losing to Pete has caused me
enormous pain, but in the long run its also made me more resilient. If Id beaten Pete more
often, or if hed come along in a different generation, Id have a better record, and I might go
down as a better player, but Id be less.
For hours after Petes news conference I feel a sharp loneliness. Im the last one standing.
Im the last American slam winner still playing. I tell reporters: You sort of expect to leave the
dance with the ones you came with. Then I realize this is the wrong analogy, because Im not
leaving the dancethey are. Im still dancing.
I reach the quarters. I face Coria, who knocked me out of the French Open. Im itching to
lace them up, get out there, but were delayed for days by rain. Holed up in the hotel, there is
nothing to do but wait and read. I watch raindrops slide down the window, each one as gray
as the hairs of my stubble. Each raindrop seems like a minute forever melting away.
Gil forces me to drink Gil Water and rest. He says its going to be good, but he knows.
Time is running out. Finally the clouds part and were on the court and Coria isnt the same
guy I saw in Paris. He has a leg injury, which I exploit. I run him, merciless, grind him down to
dust, and win the first two sets.
In the third set I have four match pointsand lose them all. I look to the box and see Gil,
squirming. In my entire career hes never once taken a bathroom break during one of my
matches. Never. Not once. He says he doesnt want to take the chance that Ill look to my box
and not see him there and panic. He deserves better than this. I refocus. I click the lens left,
then right, and serve out the match.
There is no time to rest. All the rain has shrunk the tournament schedule. I have to play
the semifinal the next day, against Ferrero, who just won the French Open. He has so much
confidence, its shooting from his pores. Hes a hundred years younger than I am, and it
shows. He puts me away in four sets.
I bow to all four corners, blow kisses to the crowd, and I think they know Ive given them
everything. I see Jaden and Stefanie waiting outside the locker room, Stefanie eight months
pregnant with our second child, and the disappointment of the loss slides away like a raindrop.
OUR DAUGHTER IS BORN OCTOBER 3, 2003, another beautiful intruder. We name her
Jaz Elleand, as we did with our son, we secretly vow she wont play tennis. (We dont even
have a tennis court in our backyard.) But there is something else that Jaz Agassi wont
dosleep. She makes her brother seem like a narcoleptic. Thus, I leave for the 2004 Australian
Open looking like a vampire. Every other player, meanwhile, looks as if hes had twelve
hours of sack time. Theyre all bright-eyedand muscular. They seem bulkier than in years
past, as if they all have their own Gils.
My legs stay fresh until the semis, when I run into Safin, who plays like a dingo. He
missed most of last year with a wrist injury. Now, fully healed and rested, hes unstoppable.
Side to side, back and forth, our rallies take forever. Each of us refuses to miss, to make an
unforced error, and after four hours neither of us wants the win any less. In fact, we each
want it a little more. The difference is Safins serve. He takes the fifth set, and I wonder if Ive
just had my last hurrah in Australia.
Is this the end? Ive heard this question every other day for months, years, but this is the
first time Im the one asking.
REST IS YOUR FRIEND, Gil says. You need more rest between tournaments, and you
need to choose your battles ever more carefully. Rome and Hamburg? Pass. Davis Cup?
Sorry, cant do it. You need to save up your sap for the big ones, and the next big one is the
French Open.
As a result, when we arrive in Paris, I feel years younger. Darren looks over my draw and
projects a clear path to the semis.
In the first round I play Jrme Haehnel, a twenty-three-year-old from Alsace, ranked
number 271, who doesnt even have a coach. No problem, Darren says.
Big problem. I come out flat. Every backhand finds the net. I scream at myself, Youre better
than this! Its not over yet! Dont let it end like this! Gil, sitting in the front row, purses his
lips.
Its not just age, and its not just the clay. Im not hitting the ball cleanly. Im rested, but
rusty from the time off.
Newspapers call it the worst loss of my career. Haehnel tells reporters that his friends
pumped him up before the match by assuring him that he was going to win, because Id recently
lost to a player just like him. Asked what he meant by a player just like him, he says:
Bad.
Were down the homestretch, Gil tells reportersall I can ask is that we dont limp across
the finish line.
Come June, I pull out of Wimbledon. Ive lost four straight matchesmy worst losing
streak since 1997and my bones feel like china. Gil sits me down and says he doesnt know
how much longer he can watch me go on like this. I need to think long and hard, for both our
sakes, about the end.
I tell him Ill think about my retirement, but first I need to think about Stefanies. Shes been
voted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame, of course: she has more slams than anyone
in the history of tennis besides Margaret Court. She wants me to introduce her at the induction
ceremony. We fly to Newport, Rhode Island. A big day. The first time weve ever left the
children with someone else overnight, and the first time Ive ever seen Stefanie truly, rigidly
nervous. She dreads the ceremony. She doesnt want the attention. She worries that shell
say the wrong thing or forget to thank someone. Shes shaking.
Im not all that loose myself. Ive obsessed for weeks about my speech. Its the first time
Ive ever spoken in public about Stefanie, and its like writing something on the kitchen Appreciation
Board for the world to read. J.P. helps me work through various drafts. Im over-
prepared, and as I walk to the dais, Im breathing hard. Then, the moment I start speaking, I
relax, because the subject is my favorite and I consider myself an expert. Every man should
have the chance to introduce his wife at her Hall of Fame induction ceremony.
I look out over the crowd, the fans, the faces of former champions, and I want to tell them
about Stefanie. I want them to know what I know. I compare her to the artisans and craftsmen
who built the great medieval cathedrals: they didnt curtail their perfectionism when building
the roof or the cellar or other unseen parts of the cathedrals. They were perfectionists about
every crevice and invisible cornerand thats Stefanie. And yet also shes a cathedral, a
monument to perfection. I spend five minutes extolling her work ethic, her dignity, her legacy,
her strength, her grace. In closing, I utter the truest thing Ive ever said about her.
Ladies and gentleman, I introduce you to the greatest person I have ever known.
28
EVERYONE AROUND ME TALKS INCESSANTLY OF RETIREMENT. Stefanies retirement,
Petes retirement, mine. Meanwhile, I do nothing but play and keep my eye on the next
slam. In Cincinnati, to everyones surprise, I beat Roddick in the semis, which propels me to
my first ATP final since last November. Then I beat Hewitt, making me the oldest winner of an
ATP event since Connors.
The next month, at the 2004 U.S. Open, I tell reporters that I think I have a shot at winning
this whole thing. They smile as if Im demented.
Stefanie and I rent a house outside the city, in Westchester. Its roomier than a hotel, and
we dont have to worry about pushing the stroller across busy Manhattan streets. Best of all,
the house has a basement playroom, which is my bedroom the night before a match. In the
basement I can move from the bed to the floor when my back wakes me, without disturbing
Stefanie. Since fathers dont win slams, Stefanie likes to say, you can go to the basement and
feel as single as you need to feel.
I see my life wearing on her. Im a distracted husband, a tired father. She needs to carry
more of the load with the children. Still, she never complains. She understands. Her mission,
her passion every day, is to create an atmosphere in which I can think solely about tennis.
She remembers how vital that was when she played. For instance, driving to the stadium,
Stefanie knows exactly which Elmo songs on the car stereo will keep Jaden and Jaz quiet, so
Darren and I can talk strategy. Also, shes like Gil about food: she never forgets that when
you eat is as important as what you eat. After a match, driving home with Darren and Gil, I
know that as we walk through the door there will be hot lasagna piled on a plate, the cheese
still bubbling.
I also know Darrens kids and Jaden and Jaz will be fed and clean and tucked away for
the night.
Because of Stefanie, I make it to the quarters, where I face the number one seed, Federer.
Hes not the man I beat in Key Biscayne. Hes growing before my eyes into one of the
games all-time greats. He methodically builds a lead, two sets to one, and I cant help but
stand back and admire his immense skills, his magnificent composure. Hes the most regal
player Ive ever witnessed. Before he can finish me off, however, play is halted due to rain.
Driving back to Westchester, I stare out the window and tell myself: Dont think about tomorrow.
Also, dont even think about dinner, because the match was cut short and Im coming
home hours earlier than expected. But of course Stefanie has a source with the weather service.
Someone gave her a heads-up about the storm as it was swooping down from Albany,
and she jumped into the car and rushed home and got everything ready. Now, as we walk
through the door, she kisses us all and hands us plates in a single motion, fluid as her serve. I
want to invite a judge to the house and renew our vows.
THE NEXT DAY howling winds come. Gusts of forty miles an hour. I fight through the
winds, and through Federers hurricane-force skills, and tie the match at two sets apiece. Federer
glances at his feet, which is how he registers shock.
Then he adjusts better than I do. I have a sense he can adjust to anything, on the fly. He
pulls out a tough fifth set, and I tell anyone wholl listen that hes on his way to becoming the
best ever.
Before the winds settle down, retirement talk swirls again. Reporters want to know why I
keep going. I explain that this is what I do for a living. I have a family and a school to support.
Many people benefit from every tennis ball I hit. (One month after the U.S. Open, Stefanie
and I host the ninth annual Grand Slam for Children, which collects $6 million. All told, weve
raised $40 million for my foundation.)
Also, I tell reporters, I have game left. I dont know how much, but some. I still think I can
win.
Again they stare.
Maybe theyre confused because I dont tell them the full story, dont explain my full motivation.
I cant, since Im only slowly becoming aware of it myself. I play and keep playing because
I choose to play. Even if its not your ideal life, you can always choose it. No matter
what your life is, choosing it changes everything.
AT THE 2005 AUSTRALIAN OPEN I beat Taylor Dent in three sets, advancing to the
fourth round, and outside the locker room I stop for a very engaging TV commentator
Courier. Its odd to see him in this new role. I cant stop seeing him as a great champion.
And yet TV suits him. He does it well and seems happy. I feel a good deal of respect for him,
and I hope he feels some for me. Our differences feel long ago and juvenile.
He puts the microphone in front of my mouth and asks: How long before Jaden Agassi
plays Petes son?
I look into the camera and say: My biggest hope for my child is that hes focused on
something.
Then I add: Hopefully hell choose tennis, because I love it so much.
The old, old lie. But now its even more shameful, because Ive attached it to my son. The
lie threatens to become my legacy. Stefanie and I are more resolved than ever that we dont
want this crazy life for Jaden or Jaz, so what made me say it? As always, I suppose it was
what I knew people wanted to hear. Also, flush from a win, I felt that tennis is a beautiful sport,
which has treated me well, and I wanted to honor it. And maybe, standing before a champion
I respected, I felt guilty for hating it. The lie may have been my way of hiding my guilt, or atoning
for it.
IN THE LAST FEW MONTHS Gil has given a few hard twists to my training. Hes had me
eating like a Spartan warrior, and the new diet has honed me to a fine edge.
Also, Ive had a cortisone shot, my third in the last year. Four is the maximum annual number
recommended. There are risks, the doctors say. We simply dont know cortisones long-
term consequences for the spine and liver. But I dont care. So long as my back behaves.
And it does. I reach the quarters, where again I face Federer. I cant win a set. He dismisses
me like a teacher with a dense pupil. He, more than any of the young guns taking control
of the game, makes me feel my age. When I look at him, with his suave agility, his shot-
making prowess and puma-like smoothness, I remember that Ive been around since the days
of wooden rackets. My brother-in-law, after all, was Pancho Gonzalez, a champion during the
Berlin airlift, a rival of Fred Perry, and Federer was born the year I met my friend Perry.
I TURN THIRTY-FIVE just before Rome. Stefanie and the children come with me to Italy. I
want to get out with Stefanie, see the Colosseum, the Pantheon, but I cant. When I came
here as a boy, and as a young man, I was too consumed by inner torments and shyness to
leave the hotel. Now, though Id love to see the sights, my back wont permit it. The doctor
says one long walk on pavement can mean the difference between the cortisone lasting three
months or one.
I win my first four matches. Then I lose to Coria. Disgusted with myself, I feel guilty about
getting a standing ovation. Again, reporters press the question of retirement.
I say: I only think about it fourteen times a year, because thats how many tournaments I
play each year.
In other words: Thats how many times Im forced to sit through these news conferences.
In the first round of the 2005 French Open, I play Jarkko Nieminen, from Finland. Simply
by stepping on the court, I set a record. My fifty-eighth slam. One more than Chang, Connors,
Lendl, Ferreira. More than anyone in the open era. My back, however, is in no mood to commemorate
the occasion. The cortisone has worn off. Serving is painful, standing is painful.
Breathing is work. I think about walking to the net and forfeiting. But this is Roland Garros. I
cant walk off this court, not this one. Theyll have to carry me off this court atop my racket.
I swallow eight Advils. Eight. During the changeover I cover my face with a towel while biting
on another towel to quell the pain. In the third set Gil knows something is terribly wrong.
After hitting the ball, I dont sprint back to the center of the court. In all these years hes never
seen me fail to sprint back to the center of the court. Its unthinkable, tantamount to him taking
a mens-room break during one of my matches. Afterward, walking with Gil to a restaurant,
Im bent over like a giant shrimp. He says: We cant keep taking and taking from your body.
We pull out of Wimbledon, try to get ready for the summer hard courts. Its necessary, but
feels like a gamble. Now Ill devote all my time and do all my work for fewer tournaments,
which means the margin of error will be narrower, the pressure greater. The losses will hurt
more.
Gil buries himself in his da Vinci notebooks. Hes proud that Ive never injured myself in
his gym, and now I can see that, as my body ages, hes tense. His streak is on the line.
Some lifts you just cant do anymore, he says. Others youll need to do twice as much.
We spend hours and hours in the weight room, discussing my core. From here until the
finish line, Gil says, its all about your core.
BECAUSE IVE PULLED OUT OF WIMBLEDON, newspapers and magazines print a
fresh batch of eulogies. At an age when most tennis players
I swear off newspapers and magazines.
In late summer I play the Mercedes-Benz Cup and I win. Jaden is now old enough to
watch me play, and during the trophy ceremony he comes running onto the court, thinking the
trophy is his. Which it is.
I go to Montreal and scratch and claw my way to the final against a Spanish kid everyone
is talking about. Rafael Nadal. I cant beat him. I cant fathom him. Ive never seen anyone
move like that on a tennis court.
At the 2005 U.S. Open Im a novelty, a sideshow, a thirty-five-year-old playing in a slam.
Its my twentieth year in a row at this tournamentmany of this years players havent been
alive twenty years. I remember playing Connors and knocking him out of his twentieth U.S.
Open. Im not the type to ask, Where did the years go? I know exactly where they went. I can
feel every set in my spine.
I play Razvan Sabau, from Romania, in the first round. Ive had my fourth and final
cortisone shot of the year, so my back feels numb. Im able to hit my meat-and-potatoes shot,
which gives Sabau problems. When your basic shot hurts someone, when theyre falling behind
on the shot you can make a hundred out of a hundred times, you know the day is going
to be fine. Its as though your jab is leaving marks on a guys jaw, and you still havent thrown
your haymaker. I beat him in sixty-nine minutes.
Reporters say it was a massacre. They ask if I feel bad about beating him.
I say: I would never want to deprive anybody of the learning experience of losing.
They laugh.
Im serious.
In the second round I play Ivo Karlovic, from Croatia. They list him as six foot ten, but he
must have been standing in a ditch when they measured. Hes a totem pole, a telephone
pole, which gives his serve a sick trajectory. When Karlovic serves, the box technically becomes
twice as large. The net becomes a foot lower. Ive never played anyone so big. I dont
know how to prepare for an opponent his size.
In the locker room I introduce myself to Karlovic. Hes sweet, fresh-faced, starry-eyed
about being in the U.S. Open. I ask him to raise his serving arm as high as he can, then I call
Darren over. We crane our necks, looking up, trying to see the tips of Karlovics fingers. We
cant.
Now, I say to Darren, try to imagine a racket in that arm. And now imagine him jumping.
And nowimagine where the face of the racket would be and imagine the ball zinging off that
racket. Its like hes serving from the freaking blimp.
Darren laughs. Karlovic laughs. He says, I would trade you my reach for your return game.
Fortunately, I know Karlovics height will also be a liability for him at times in the match.
Low balls will be problematic. Lunging wont be easy. Also, Darren says Karlovics movement
is dodgy. I remind myself not to spend energy worrying about how many times he aces me.
Just wait for the one or two times he misses a first serve, then pounce on that second. Those
will decide the match. And though Karlovic knows this also, I need to make him know it more.
I need to make him feel it, by applying pressure on the second serve, which means never
missing.
I beat him in straight sets.
In the third round I play Tomas Berdych, a tennis players player. I faced him before,
nearly two years ago, in the second round of the Australian Open. Darren warned me: Youre
about to play an eighteen-year-old kid who has real game, and youd better be on it. He can
rip the ball up both sides, he has a bomb of a serve, and in a few years hes going to be top
ten.
Darren wasnt overselling it. Berdych was one of the best tennis players Id faced all year.
I beat him in Australia, 60, 62, 64, and felt fortunate. I thought: Good thing this is only best
of five.
Now, surprisingly, Berdych hasnt improved much since then. His decision-making still
needs work. Hes like me before I met Brad: thinks he needs to win every point. He doesnt
know the value of letting the other guy lose. When I beat him, when I shake his hand, I want
to tell him to relax, it takes some people longer than others to learn. But I cant. Its not my
place.
Next I play Xavier Malisse, from Belgium. He moves admirably well and has a slingshot of
an arm. He features a meaty forehand and an acing serve, but hes not consistent. Also, his
backhand is mediocre: it looks as if it should be great, because hes so comfortable hitting it,
but hes more interested in the way it looks than actually executing it. He simply cannot hit a
backhand up the line, and if you cant do that, you cant beat me. I control the court too well. If
you cant hit a backhand up the line, Ill dictate every point. An opponent has to move me,
stretch me off the mark, put me in a position where Im dealing with him, or else hell have to
play on my terms. And my terms are harsh. Especially as I get older.
The night before the match, I have a drink with Courier at the hotel. He warns me that Malisse
is playing well.
Maybe, I say, but Im actually looking forward to it. You wont hear me saying this often,
but this is going to be fun.
The match is fun, like a puppet show. I feel as if Im holding a string and each time I pull it,
Malisse jumps. Im astonished, yet again, by the connection between two players on a tennis
court. The net, which supposedly separates you, actually links you like a web. After two bruising
hours youre convinced that youre locked in a cage with your opponent. You could swear
that his sweat is spraying you, his breath is fogging your eyes.
Im up two sets to none, dominating. Malisse has no faith in himself. He doesnt believe he
belongs out here. But as the third set starts Malisse finally gets tired of being pulled from side
to side. Such is life. He gets mad, plays with passion, and soon hes doing things that surprise
even himself. Hes hitting that backhand up the line, crisply, consistently. I glare at him with an
expression that says, Ill believe that if you keep doing it.
He keeps doing it.
I see relief in his face and body language. He still doesnt think hes going to win, but he
does think hes going to make a good show, and thats enough. He takes the third set in a
tiebreak. Now Im livid. I have better things to do than stand out here with you for another
hour. Just for that, Im going to make you cramp.
But Malisse isnt taking orders from me anymore. One set, one little set, has completely
changed his demeanor, restored his confidence. Hes no longer afraid. He only wanted to
make a good show, and he has, so now hes playing with house money. In the fourth set our
roles reverse, and he dictates the pace. He wins the set and ties the match.
In the fifth set, however, hes spent, whereas Im just beginning to draw on funds long deposited
in the Bank of Gil. It isnt close. Coming to the net, he smiles, accords me tremendous
respect. Im old, and hes made me older, but he knows that Ive made him work, that Ive
forced him to dig deep and learn about himself.
In the locker room, Courier finds me, punches my shoulder.
He says, You called your shot. You told me you were going to have funyou looked like
you were having fun.
Fun. If I had fun, why do I feel as if I got hit by a truck?
IM READY FOR A MONTH IN A HOT TUB, but my next match looms, and my opponent
is playing like a man possessed. Blake. He smoked me the last time we met, in D.C., by getting
and staying aggressive. Everyone says hes grown steadily better since that day.
My only hope is that he doesnt play aggressive this time out. Especially since its cooler.
In cool weather the court in New York plays slower, which favors a guy like Blake, whos so
damned fast. On a slow court Blake can get to everything, and you cant, and thus he can
make you press. You feel a need to do more than you normally do, and from there everything
goes haywire.
The moment we step onto the court, my worst nightmare comes true. Blake is Mr. Aggressive,
standing inside the baseline on my second serves, taking full cuts off both wings,
making me feel urgency right from the opening minute. He smothers me in the first set, 63.
In the second set he gives me a second helping of the same: 63.
Early in the third set the match takes on shades of Malisse. Except Im Malisse. I cant
beat this guy, I know I cant, so I may as well just try to give a good show. Freed from
thoughts of winning, I instantly play better. I stop thinking, start feeling. My shots become a
half-second quicker, my decisions become the product of instinct rather than logic. I see
Blake take a step back and register the change. What just happened? Hes been beating my
brains in for seven straight rounds, and at the end of the eighth I land one sneaky punch,
wobbling him just as the bell rings. Now hes walking to his corner, unable to believe that his
hobbled, demoralized opponent still has life.
Blake has a huge following in New York, and theyre all here tonight. Nike, which no
longer endorses me, gives his supporters T-shirts and urges them to cheer. When I outplay
Blake in the third, they stop cheering. When I win the set, they fall silent.
Throughout the fourth set, Blakes panicking, no longer being aggressive. I can see him
thinking, can almost hear him thinking: Damn, I cant do anything right.
I win the fourth set.
Now that Blake has seen the benefits of my not thinking, he decides hes going to try it. As
the fifth set unfolds, he turns off his brain. At last, after nearly three hours, we meet on equal
terms. Were both on fire, and his on-fire is slightly better than my on-fire. In the tenth game
he has a chance to serve out the match.
Then he starts thinking again. The contrarian brain. He presses, I hit three first-class returns,
break him, and the crowd changes its mind. They chant, An-dre, An-dre.
I serve. I hold.
During the changeover the stadium sounds like a rock concert. My ears are ringing. My
temples are pounding. Its so loud that I wrap my head in a towel.
He serves. He holds. Were going to a tiebreak.
Ive heard old-timers say that the fifth set has nothing to do with tennis. Its true. The fifth
set is about emotion and conditioning. Slowly I leave my body. Nice knowing you, body. Ive
had several out-of-body experiences over my career, but this one is healthy. I trust my skill,
and I step out of its way. I remove myself from the equation. At match point, 65, I hit a solid
serve. He returns to my forehand. I hit a quality ball to his backhand. Hes moving around it,
and I knowmistake. If hes running around my quality ball, that means hes pressing. Hes
not thinking clearly. Hes putting himself out of position, letting the ball play him. Hes not giving
himself an opportunity to hit the best possible shot. Thus I know that one of two things is
about to happen. Hes going to be handcuffed by my ball and hit it weakly. Or hes going to be
forced into an error.
Either way, I have a pretty good idea the ball is coming right here. I look at the spot where
its sure to land. Blake wheels, throws his lower torso out of the way and coldcocks the ball. It
lands ten feet from where I expected. Winner.
I was completely wrong.
I do the only thing I can do. Walk back. Prepare for the next point.
At sixall we have a murderous rally, backhand to backhand, and Im a big loose bag of
rattling nerves. In a ten-stroke backhand rally, you know somebodys going to raise the stakes
at any moment, and youre always sure its going to be your opponent. I wait. And wait. But
with each stroke, Blake doesnt raise the stakes. So it falls to me. I step in as if Im going to
cane the ball and instead I hit a backhand drop shot. Im all in.
There are times in a match when you want to put just a solid, serviceable swing on the
ball, but your blood is so full of adrenaline that you hit it big. This happens often to Blake, not
with his swing but his speed. He runs faster than he means to run. He feels so much urgency
that he sprints to a ball and gets there sooner than he anticipated. This is what happens now.
Sprinting all-out for my backhand drop, he has the racket gripped in such a way that hes going
to have to dig, but instead he gets there so fast he doesnt need to dig. Meaning, the ball
is on him and he has the wrong grip. Instead of crushing the ball, as he should, hes forced by
his grip to punch the ball. Then he holds ground at the net, and I lace a backhand up the line.
It passes him by a fair margin.
Now hes serving at 67. I have match point again. He misses the first serve. I have a
nanosecond to decide where hes coming with his second serve. Aggressive? Safe? I decide
hes going to err on the side of safety. Hes going to roll it to my backhand. So how aggressive
do I want to be? Where do I want to station myself? Should I make an irrevocable decision,
stand where I can kill the ball if Im correct, but where I wont be able to reach it if Im wrong?
Or should I split the difference, stand in the middle ground, where Ill be able to hit a moderately
good shot on most serves, and a perfect shot on none?
If there is to be a final decision in this match, one final decision on this night of 100,000
decisions, I want that final decision to be mine. I irrevocably commit. He serves, as expected,
to my backhand. It hangs just where I thought it would hang, like a soap bubble. I feel all the
hairs on my body rise. I feel the crowd rise. I tell myself: Quality cut, rip it, rip it, rip it, you fuck.
As the ball leaves my racket I track every inch of its flight. I see the shadow of the ball converging
with the ball itself. As they slowly become one, Im saying aloud: Ball, please please find
a hole.
It does.
When Blake hugs me at the net, we know weve done something special. But I know it
better, because Ive played eight hundred more matches than he has. And this match stands
apart from the others. Ive never been more intellectually aware, never felt the need to be
more intellectually aware, and I take a certain intellectual pride in the finished product. I want
to sign it.
After they cut the tape off my feet, after the news conference, Gil and Perry and Darren
and Philly and I go to P. J. Clarkes for food and drinks. By the time I get back to the hotel its
four in the morning. Stefanie is asleep. As I come in she sits up in bed and smiles.
Youre crazy, she says.
I laugh.
That was unbelievable, she says. You went places out there.
I did, baby. I went places.
I lie on the floor next to the bed, try to fall asleep, but I cant stop replaying the match.
I hear her voice in the darkness somewhere above me, like an angel.
How do you feel?
It was a pretty cool way to spend an evening.
IN THE SEMIS Im due to play Robby Ginepri, a touted kid from Georgia. CBS wants mine
to be the late match. I go to the tournament director on my knees. I tell him, If Im lucky
enough to get through this match, Ill have to come back tomorrow. Please dont make a
thirty-five-year-old man get home later than his twenty-two-year-old opponent in the final.
He reschedules my match, makes it the early semi.
After two five-setters in a row, no one gives me a chance against Ginepri. Hes fast, solid
off both sides, playing the best tennis of his lifeand young. And even before dealing with
Ginepri, I know the first thing Ill have to do is chisel through a wall of my own fatigue. The last
three sets against Blake are the best tennis Ive ever played, and the most draining. I tell myself
to come out against Ginepri and manufacture adrenaline, pretend Im down two sets, try
to relocate that mindless state I found against Blake.
It works. Feigning urgency, I win the first set. Now my goal is to conserve energy for tomorrows
final. I begin to play safe tennis, thinking about my next opponent, and of course
that lets Ginepri swing freely, take chances. He wins the second set.
I banish from my mind all thought of the final. I give Ginepri my full attention. Hes gassed
after expending so much energy to tie the match, and I win the third.
But he wins the fourth.
I need to start the fifth with fury. I also need to acknowledge that I cant win every point. I
cant run after everything, cant lunge for each dink and drop. I cant go full-speed against a
kid whos still teething. He wants to be out here all night, but I have forty-five minutes of energy
left, forty-five minutes of a functioning body. Or maybe just thirty-five.
I win the set. Its not possible, but Im in the final of the U.S. Open at thirty-five years old.
Darren, Gil, and Stefanie scoop me off the locker-room floor and go into triage mode. Darren
grabs my rackets and runs them to Roman, the stringer. Gil hands me my Gil Water. Stefanie
helps me to the car. We race back to the Four Seasons to watch Federer and Hewitt fight for
the privilege of playing the old cripple from Vegas.
Its the most relaxed you can be before a final, watching the other semi. You tell yourself:
Whatever Im feeling at this moment, its better than what those guys are feeling. Then Federer
wins, of course. I lean back on the couch and hes all Im thinking about, and I know somewhere
out there Im all hes thinking about. Between now and tomorrow afternoon I need to do
everything a little better than he does it, including sleep.
But I have children. I used to sleep until eleven thirty in the morning on the day of a match.
Now I cant sleep later than seven thirty. Stefanie keeps the children quiet, but something in
my body knows theyre up, they want to see their father. More, their father wants to see them.
After breakfast I kiss them goodbye. Driving to the stadium with Gil, Im quiet. I know I
have no chance. Im ancient, Ive played three five-setters in a row. Lets be real. My only
hope is if it goes three or four sets. If its a fast match, where conditioning doesnt come into
play, I might get lucky.
Federer comes onto the court looking like Cary Grant. I almost wonder if hes going to play
in an ascot and a smoking jacket. Hes permanently smooth, Im constantly rattled, even when
serving at 4015. Hes also dangerous from so many different parts of the court, theres
nowhere to hide. I dont do well when theres nowhere to hide. Federer wins the first set. I go
into frantic mode, do anything I can to knock him off balance. I get up a break in the second. I
break again and win the set.
I think to myself: Mr. Grant might just have a problem today.
In the third set, I break him and go up 42. Im serving with a breeze at my back, and Federer
is shanking balls. Im about to go up 52, and for a fleeting moment, he and I both think
something remarkable is about to happen here. We lock eyes. We share a moment. Then, at
30love, I hit a kick serve to his backhand, he takes a swing, shanks it. The ball sounds sick
as it leaves his racket, like one of my deliberate misfires as a kid. But this sick, ugly misfire
somehow wobbles over the net and lands in. Winner. He breaks me, and were back on
serve.
In the tiebreak, he goes to a place that I dont recognize. He finds a gear that other players
simply dont have. He wins 71.
Now the shit is rolling downhill and doesnt stop. My quads are screaming. My back is
closing the store for the night. My decisions become poor. Im reminded how slight the margin
can be on a tennis court, how narrow the space between greatness and mediocrity, fame and
anonymity, happiness and despair. We were playing a tight match. We were dead even. Now,
due to a tiebreak that made my jaw drop with admiration, the rout is on.
Walking to the net, Im certain that Ive lost to the better man, the Everest of the next generation.
I pity the young players who will have to contend with him. I feel for the man who is
fated to play Agassi to his Sampras. Though I dont mention Pete by name, I have him uppermost
in my mind when I tell reporters: Its real simple. Most people have weaknesses. Federer
has none.
I PULL OUT OF THE 2006 AUSTRALIAN OPEN, then pull out of the entire clay season. I
hate to do it, but I need to save myself for the 2006 Wimbledon, which I quietly, privately decide
will be my last. Im saving myself for Wimbledon. I never thought Id say such a thing. I
never dreamed a proper, respectful goodbye to Wimbledon would feel so important.
But Wimbledon has become hallowed ground for me. Its where my wife shined. Its where
I first suspected that I could win, and where I proved it to myself and the world. Wimbledon is
where I learned to bow, to bend my knee, to do something I didnt want to do, wear what I
didnt want to wear, and survive. Also, no matter how I feel about tennis, the game is my
home. I hated home as a boy, and then I left, and I soon found myself homesick. In the final
hours of my career Im continually chastened by that memory.
I tell Darren this will be my last Wimbledon, and the coming U.S. Open will be my last tournament
ever. We make the announcement just as Wimbledon gets under way. Immediately
after, Im startled by how differently my peers look at me. They no longer treat me as a rival, a
threat. Im retired. Im irrelevant. A wall is let down.
Reporters ask, Why now? Why did you choose to retire now? I tell them I didnt. I simply
cant play anymore. Thats the finish line Ive been seeking, the finish line with the inexorable
pull. Cant play, as opposed to wont play. Unwittingly, Ive been seeking that moment when
Id have no choice.
Bud Collins, the venerable tennis commentator and historian, the coauthor of Lavers
autobiography, sums up my career by saying Ive gone from punk to paragon. I cringe. To my
thinking, Bud sacrificed the truth on the altar of alliteration. I was never a punk, any more than
Im now a paragon.
Also, several sportswriters muse about my transformation, and that word rankles. I think it
misses the mark. Transformation is change from one thing to another, but I started as nothing.
I didnt transform, I formed. When I broke into tennis, I was like most kids: I didnt know
who I was, and I rebelled at being told by older people. I think older people make this mistake
all the time with younger people, treating them as finished products when in fact theyre in
process. Its like judging a match before its over, and Ive come from behind too often, and
had too many opponents come roaring back against me, to think thats a good idea.
What people see now, for better or worse, is my first formation, my first incarnation. I didnt
alter my image, I discovered it. I didnt change my mind. I opened it. J.P. helps me work
through this idea, to explain it to myself. He says people have been fooled by my changing
looks, my clothes and hair, into thinking that I know who I am. People see my self-exploration
as self-expression. He says that, for a man with so many fleeting identities, its shocking, and
symbolic, that my initials are A.K.A.
Sadly, in the early summer of 2006, despite the best efforts of J.P. and others, I cant yet
explain this to reporters. Even if I could, the press room at the All England Club isnt the
place.
I cant explain it to Stefanie either, but I dont need to. She knows all. In the days and
hours leading up to Wimbledon, she stares into my eyes and pats my cheek. She talks to me
about my career. She talks about hers. She tells me about her last Wimbledon. She didnt
know it would be her last. She says its better this way, to know, to go out on my own terms.
Wearing a necklace made for me by Jadena chain of block letters that spells out Daddy
RocksI face Boris Pashanski, from Serbia, in the first round. As I step on the court, the applause
is loud and long. On the first serve, I cant see the court, because my eyes are filled
with tears. Despite feeling as if Im playing in a suit of armor, with a back that will not loosen, I
persist, endure. I win.
In the second round I beat Andreas Seppi, from Italy, in straight sets. Im playing well,
which gives me hope going into my third-round match, against Nadal. Hes a brute, a freak, a
force of nature, as strong and balletic a player as Ive ever seen. But I feelthe delusional effects
of winningthat I might be able to make inroads. I like my chances. I lose the first set,
76, but take hope from how close it was.
Then he annihilates me. The match takes seventy minutes. My window of opportunity is
fifty-five. Thats when I start to feel my back. Late in the match, with Nadal serving, I can no
longer stand still. I need to move around, stomp my foot, get the blood flowing. The stiffness
is so severe, the pain so great, returning is the last thing on my mind. Im thinking only of remaining
vertical.
After, in a moment dripping with irony, Wimbledon officials break with tradition to hold an
on-court interview with Nadal and me. They never hold on-court interviews. I tell Gil: Sooner
or later, I knew Id get Wimbledon to break with tradition.
Gil isnt laughing. He never laughs while a fight is still going on.
Its almost over, I tell him.
I go to Washington, D.C., and play an Italian qualifier named Andrea Stoppini. He beats
me as if Im the qualifier, and I feel ashamed. I thought I needed a tune-up for the U.S. Open,
but this tune-up has left me shaken. I tell reporters that Im struggling with the end more than I
expected. I tell them that the best way I can explain it is this: Many of you, Im sure, dont like
your jobs. But imagine if someone told you right now that your story about me would be your
last. After this, youll never be able to write another word for as long as you live. How would
you feel?
EVERYONE TRAVELS TO NEW YORK. The whole team. Stefanie, the children, my parents,
Perry, Gil, Darren, Philly. We invade the Four Seasons and colonize Campagnola. The
children smile to hear the applause as we walk in. To my ear, the applause sounds different
this time. It has a different timbre. It has a subtext. They know this isnt about me, its about all
of us finishing something special together.
Frankie seats us at the corner table. He makes a big fuss over Stefanie and the children. I
watch him serve Jaden all my favorite foods, and I watch Jaden enjoy them. I watch Jaz enjoy
the food too, though she insists that each entre remain separate. They mustnt touch. A variation
of the blueberry muffin imperative. I watch Stefanie watching the kids, smiling, and I
think of the four of us, four distinct personalities. Four different surfaces. And yet a matching
set. Complete. On the eve of my final tournament, I enjoy that sense we all seek, that knowledge
we get only a few times in life, that the themes of our life are connected, the seeds of
our ending were there in the beginning, and vice versa.
In the first round I play Andrei Pavel, from Romania. My back seizes up midway through
the match, but despite standing stick straight I manage to tough out a win. I ask Darren to arrange
a cortisone shot for the next day. Even with the shot, I dont know if Ill be able to play
my next match.
I certainly wont be able to win. Not against Marcos Baghdatis. Hes ranked number eight
in the world. Hes a big strong kid from Cyprus, in the midst of a great year. Hes reached the
final of the Australian Open and the semis of Wimbledon.
And then somehow I beat him. Afterward Im barely able to stagger up the tunnel and into
the locker room before my back gives out. Darren and Gil lift me like a bag of laundry onto the
training table, while Baghdatiss people hoist him onto the table beside me. Hes cramping
badly. Stefanie appears, kisses me. Gil forces me to drink something. A trainer says the doctors
are on the way. He turns on the TV above the table and everyone clears out, leaving just
me and Baghdatis, both of us writhing and groaning in pain.
The TV shows highlights from our match. SportsCenter.
In my peripheral vision I detect slight movement. I turn to see Baghdatis extending his
hand. His face says, We did that. I reach out, take his hand, and we remain this way, holding
hands, as the TV flickers with scenes of our savage battle.
We relive the match, and then I relive my life.
Finally the doctors arrive. It takes them and the trainers half an hour to get Baghdatis and
me on our feet. Baghdatis leaves the locker room first, gingerly, leaning against his coach.
Then Gil and Darren lead me out to the parking lot, enticing me forward a few more steps with
the thought of a cheeseburger and a martini at P. J. Clarkes. Its two in the morning.
Christ, Darren says, as we emerge into the parking lot. The car is all the way over there,
mate.
We squint at the lone car in the middle of the empty parking lot. Its several hundred yards
away. I tell him I cant make it.
No, of course not, he says. Wait here and Ill bring it around.
He runs off.
I tell Gil that I cant stay upright. I need to lie down while we wait. He sets my tennis bag
on the cement and I sit, then lie back, using the bag as a pillow.
I look up at Gil. I see nothing but his smile and his shoulders. I look just beyond his
shoulders at the stars. So many stars. I look at the light stanchions that rim the stadium. They
seem like bigger, closer stars.
Suddenly, an explosion. A sound like a giant can of tennis balls being opened. One stanchion
goes out. Then another, and another.
I close my eyes. Its over.
No. Hell no. It will never really be over.
IM HOBBLING THROUGH THE LOBBY of the Four Seasons the next morning when a
man steps out of the shadows. He grabs my arm.
Quit, he says.
What?
Its my fatheror a ghost of my father. He looks ashen. He looks as if he hasnt slept in
weeks.
Pops? What are you talking about?
Just quit. Go home. You did it. Its over.
He says he prays for me to retire. He says he cant wait for me to be done, so he wont
have to watch me suffer anymore. He wont have to sit through my matches with his heart in
his mouth. He wont have to stay up until two in the morning to catch a match from the other
side of the world, so he can scout some new wonderboy I might soon have to face. Hes sick
of the whole miserable thing. He sounds as ifis it possible?
Yes, I see it in his eyes.
I know that look.
He hates tennis.
He says, Dont put yourself through this anymore! After last night, you have nothing left to
prove. I cant see you like this. Its too painful.
I reach out and touch his shoulder. Im sorry, Pops. I cant quit. This cant end with me
quitting.
THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE THE MATCH, I get an anti-inflammatory injection, but its different
from the cortisone. Less effective. Against my third-round opponent, Benjamin Becker,
Im barely able to remain standing.
I look at the scoreboard. I shake my head. I ask myself over and over, How is it possible
that my final opponent is a guy named B. Becker? I told Darren earlier this year that I wanted
to go out against somebody I like and respect, or else against somebody I dont know.
And so I get the latter.
Becker takes me out in four sets. I can feel the tape of the finish line snap cleanly across
my chest.
U.S. Open officials let me say a few words to the fans in the stands and at home before
heading into the locker room. I know exactly what I want to say.
With Stefanie, Jaden, and Jaz in the fall of 2006
Marcos Baghdatis congratulates me after the second round of the 2006 U.S. Open
Centre Court, Wimbledon, 2000
Ive known for years. But is still takes me a few moments to find my voice.
The scoreboard said I lost today, but what the scoreboard doesnt say is what it is I have
found. Over the last twenty-one years I have found loyalty: You have pulled for me on the
court, and also in life. I have found inspiration: You have willed me to succeed, sometimes
even in my lowest moments. And I have found generosity: You have given me your shoulders
to stand on, to reach for my dreamsdreams I could have never reached without you. Over
the last twenty-one years I have found you, and I will take you and the memory of you with me
for the rest of my life.
Its the highest compliment I know how to pay them. Ive compared them to Gil.
In the locker room its deathly quiet. Ive noticed through the years that every locker room
is the same when you lose. You walk in the doorwhich slams open, because youve pushed
it harder than you needed toand the guys always scatter from the TV, where theyve been
watching you get your ass kicked. They always pretend they havent been watching, havent
been discussing you. This time, however, they remain gathered around the TV. No one
moves. No one pretends. Then, slowly, everyone comes toward me. They clap and whistle,
along with trainers and office workers and James the security guard.
Only one man remains apart, refusing to applaud. I see him in the corner of my eye. Hes
leaning against a far wall with a blank look on his face and his arms tightly folded.
Connors.
Hes now coaching Roddick. Poor Andy.
It makes me laugh. I can only admire that Connors is who he is, still, that he never
changes. We should all be so true to ourselves, so consistent.
I tell the players: Youll hear a lot of applause in your life, fellas, but none will mean more
to you than that applausefrom your peers. I hope each of you hears that at the end.
Thank you all. Goodbye. And take care of each other.
THE BEGINNING
RAIN HAS BEEN FALLING OFF AND ON ALL DAY.
Stefanie peers at the sky and says, What do you think?
Come on, I saylets try. Im willing if you are.
Willing. She frowns. Shes always willing, but she cant speak for her calf, which has been
giving her problems since she retired. Especially lately. She looks down. Darned calf. She has
a charity match in Tokyo next week. Shes playing to raise money for a kindergarten shes
opened in Eritrea, and even though its only an exhibition she wants to do well. She feels the
old pressure to do well. Also, she cant help but wonder how much game she has left.
I wonder the same thing about myself. Its been a year since I walked off the court for the
last time at the U.S. Open. Its autumn, 2007.
So weve been planning all week to get out there, hit with each other, but now the day has
come and its the one rainy day all year in Vegas.
We cant build a fire in the rain.
Stefanie looks again at the overcast sky. Then at the clock. Busy day, she says. She has
to pick up Jaden at school. We only have this small window.
IF THE RAIN DOESNT LET UP, if we dont hit, I might go down to my school, because
thats where I go whenever I have time. I cant believe how its grown: a 26,000-square-foot
education complex with 500 students and a waiting list of eight hundred.
The $40 million campus features everything the kids could want. A high-tech TV production
studio. A computer room with dozens of PCs along the walls and a big, white, fluffy
couch. A topflight exercise room with machines as fancy as those at the most exclusive clubs
in Vegas. Theres a weight room, a lecture hall, and bathrooms as modern and clean as the
ones in the citys finest hotels. Best of all, the place is still freshly painted and pristine, just as
sparkling as it was on opening day. Students, parents, the neighborhood, everyone respects
the school because everyone owns it. The area hasnt completely rebounded since we arrived.
While I was giving a tour recently, someone was shot across the street. And yet in eight
years not one window has been broken, not one wall has been sprayed with graffiti.
Everywhere you look are little touches, subtle details that signify this school is different,
this place is about excellence, through and through. On the front window is etched one large
word, our unofficial school motto: BELIEVE. Every classroom is flooded with soft natural daylight.
Indirect, southern, bounced from skylights to high-tech reflectors, its a diffuse glow
thats ideal for reading and concentrating. Teachers never need to flick a light switch, which
saves energy and money, but also spares students the headaches and general gloom caused
by standard flu-orescents, which I remember all too well.
Our grounds are designed like a college campus, with intimate quads and welcoming
common areas. The walls are stonemuted purple and pale salmon quartzite from local
quarriesand the walkways are lined with delicate plum trees, leading to one beautiful holly
oak, a symbolic Tree of Hope, which we planted even before the groundbreaking. First things
first, our architects figured, so they planted the Tree of Hope, then asked construction workers
to keep the tree watered and lighted while they built the school around it.
The land on which the school sits is narrow, only eight acres, but the lack of space actually
suited the architects overall scheme. They wanted the flow of the campus to symbolize a
short, serpentine journey. Like life. Wherever students stand, they can turn one way and see
a glimpse of where theyve been, or turn the other and see a hint of where theyre headed.
Kindergarteners and elementary schoolers can gaze at the tall high school buildings, waiting
for themthough they cant hear the voices of the older kids. We dont want to scare them.
High schoolers can glance back at the primary classrooms from which they set outthough
they cant hear the high-pitched screaming on the playground. We dont want to disturb them.
The architects, local guys named Mike Del Gatto and Rob Gurdison, threw themselves into
this project. They spent months researching the history of the neighborhood, examining
charter schools throughout the nation, experimenting with ideas. Then they stayed up night
after night, brainstorming around a ping-pong table in Mikes basement. They built the first
cardboard-plywood model of the school on that ping-pong table, unaware of any coincidence
or irony.
It was their idea to have the buildings teach, to tell stories. We told them the stories we
wanted told. In the middle school we wanted enormous photos of Martin Luther King Jr., Mahatma
Gandhi, and, of course, Mandela, with their inspirational words painted on raised glass
beneath their portraits. Since most of our students are African American, we asked Mike and
Rob to embed bricks of marbled glass in one wall, depicting the Big Dipper, and to the right
one single brick of glass, representing the North Star. The Big Dipper and the North Star were
beacons for runaway slaves, pointing them to freedom.
My small contribution to the aesthetics of the school: in the common area of the high
school building I wanted a gleaming black Steinway. When I delivered the piano, all the students
gathered around and I shocked them by playing Lean on Me. What delighted me most
was that the students didnt know who I was. And when their teachers told them, they werent
all that impressed.
I dreamed of a school with the fewest possible dry routines, a place that fostered
serendipity. A place where serendipity was the norm. And its happened. On any given day
something cool is likely to happen at Agassi Prep. President Bill Clinton might drop by and
take a turn teaching history. Shaquille ONeal might be the substitute in physical education.
You might bump into Lance Armstrong walking the halls, or Muhammad Ali wearing a visitor
badge, shadow-boxing a freshman. You might look up at any moment and see Janet Jackson
or Elton John standing in the door of a classroom, or members of Earth, Wind & Fire auditing.
More serendipity: When we dedicate the gymnasium, the NBA All-Star Game will be taking
place in Vegas. Well invite the rookie and sophomore All-Stars to play their traditional pickup
game on our floorthe first game ever played at Agassi Prep. The kids will love that.
Our educators are the best, plain and simple. The goal in hiring them was to find sharp,
passionate, inspired men and women who were willing to lay it on the line, to get personally
involved. We ask one thing of every teacher: to believe that every student can learn. It sounds
like a painfully obvious concept, self-evident, but nowadays its not.
Of course, because Agassi Prep has a longer day and a longer year than other schools,
our staff might earn less per hour than staffs elsewhere. But they have more resources at
their fingertips, and so they enjoy greater freedom to excel and make a difference in childrens
lives.
We thought it important that students wear uniforms. Tennis shirt with khaki pants, shorts,
or skirt, in official school colorsburgundy and navy. We think it creates less peer pressure,
and we know it saves our parents money in the long run. Every time I walk into the school Im
struck by the irony: Im now the enforcer of a uniform policy. I look forward to the day when
some Wimbledon official happens to be in Vegas and asks for a tour. I can hardly wait to see
the look on his or her face when I mention my schools strict dress code.
We have another code that might be my favorite feature of the school. The Code of Respect
that begins each day. Whenever Im down there I poke my head into a random
classroom and ask the children to stand with me and recite.
The essence of good discipline is respect.
Respect for authority and respect for others.
Respect for self and respect for rules.
It is an attitude that begins at home,
Is reinforced at school,
And is applied throughout life.
I promise them that if they memorize that simple code, keep it close to their hearts, they
will go very far.
Walking the halls, peering into the classrooms, I can see how the children value this place.
I can hear it in their voices, discern it in their postures. From the teachers and staff Ive heard
their stories, and I know the many ways this school enriches their lives. Also, we ask them to
write personal essays, which we excerpt in the program for the yearly fundraiser. Not all the
essays are about trials and hardships. Far from it. But those are the ones I remember. Like
the girl living alone with her frail mother, whos been unable to work for years due to an incurable
lung disease. They share a cockroach-infested apartment in a neighborhood ruled by
gangs, so school is the girls refuge. Her grades, she says with touching pride, are outstanding,
because I rationalized that if I did well in school no one would question what was going
on at home, and I wouldnt have to tell my story. Now, at seventeen, despite being forced to
watch my mother deteriorate, to have lived with The Bloods and cockroaches, to work to support
my family, I am college bound.
Another senior writes about her painful relationship with her father, whos spent much of
her childhood in jail. Recently, when he got out, she went to meet him and found him painfully
thin, living with a haggard woman in a broken motor home that reeked of sewage and crystal
meth. Desperate not to repeat the mistakes of her parents, the girl pushes herself to succeed
at Agassi Prep. I wont let myself down the way others have. Its up to me to change the
course of my future and I will never give up.
Not long ago, while walking through the high school, I was flagged down by a boy. He was
fifteen, shy, with soulful eyes and chubby cheeks. He asked if he could speak to me privately.
Of course, I said.
We stepped into an alcove off the main hallway.
He didnt know where to start. I told him to start at the beginning.
My life changed a year ago, he said. My father died. He was killed. Murdered, you know.
Im so sorry.
After that, I really lost my way. I didnt know what I was going to do.
His eyes grew cloudy with tears.
Then I came to this school, he said. And it gave me direction. It gave me hope. It gave me
a life. So Ive been keeping an eye out for you, Mr. Agassi, and when you came by, I had to
introduce myself and tell youyou know. Thanks.
I hugged him. I told him that it was I who needed to thank him.
IN THE UPPER GRADES, the focus is squarely on college. The kids are told again and
again that Agassi Prep is only a stepping-stone. Dont get comfortable, we tell them. College
is the main goal. Should they happen to forget, reminders are everywhere. College banners
line the walls. A main hallway is named College Street. A metal sky bridge between the two
main buildings has never been used, and never will be used, until the first seniors receive
their diplomas and embark for college in 2009. Walking across that bridge, the seniors will
enter a secret room, sign their names in a ledger, and leave notes to the next class, and the
next, and all senior classes to come. I can see myself addressing that first senior class. Im
already working with J.P. and Gil, obsessing over my speech.
My theme, I think, will be contradictions. A friend suggests I brush up on Walt Whitman.
Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself.
I never knew this was an acceptable point of view. Now I steer by it. Now its my North
Star. And thats what Ill tell the students. Life is a tennis match between polar opposites. Winning
and losing, love and hate, open and closed. It helps to recognize that painful fact early.
Then recognize the polar opposites within yourself, and if you cant embrace them, or reconcile
them, at least accept them and move on. The only thing you cannot do is ignore them.
Visiting with a group of students at the Andre Agassi College
Preparatory Academy
What other message could I hope to deliver? What other message could they expect from a
ninth-grade dropout whose proudest accomplishment is his school?
ITS STOPPED RAINING, Stefanie says.
Come on, I say. Lets go!
She pulls on a tennis skirt. I throw on some shorts. We drive to the public court down the
street. In the little pro shop, the teenage girl behind the counter is reading a gossip magazine.
She looks up, and her chewing gum almost falls out.
Hello, I say.
Hi.
Are you open?
Yeah.
Could we rent a court for an hour?
Um. Yeah.
How much does it cost?
Fourteen dollars.
OK.
I hand her the money.
She says, You can have center court.
We walk downstairs to a mini amphitheater, where a blue tennis court is surrounded by
metal bleachers. We set down our bags, side by side, then stretch and groan, teasing each
other about how long its been.
I rummage in my bag for wristbands, tape, gum.
Stefanie says, Which side do you want?
This one.
I knew it.
She hits a forehand softly. I creak like the Tin Man as I lumber toward it, then punch it
back. We have a gentle, tentative rally, and suddenly Stefanie laces a backhand up the line
that sounds like a freight train going by. I shoot her a look. Its going to be like that, is it?
She hits a Stefanie Slice to my backhand. I sit down on my legs and cane it, hard as I can.
I yell to her, That shot has paid a lot of bills for us, baby!
She smiles and blows a lock of hair from her eyes.
Our shoulders loosen, our muscles warm. The pace quickens. I strike the ball clean, hard,
and my wife does the same. We shift from hitting without purpose to playing crisp points. She
hits a wicked forehand. I hit a screaming backhandinto the net.
First backhand crosscourt Ive missed in twenty years. I stare at the ball, lying against the
net. For a moment it bothers me. I tell her it bothers me. I feel myself getting irritated.
Then I laugh, and Stefanie laughs, and we begin again.
With every swing shes visibly happier. Her calf is feeling good. She thinks shell be fine in
Tokyo. Now that shes not worried about the injury, we can play, really play. Soon were having
so much fun that when the rain comes, we dont notice. When the first spectator arrives,
we dont notice him either.
One by one, more arrive. Faces appear throughout the bleachers, as one person presumably
phones another person, who phones two more people, to tell them were out here, on a
public court, playing for nothing but pride. Like Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed after the lights
are off and the gym is locked.
The rain falls harder. But we aint stopping. Were going all-out. The people who show up
now have cameras. Flashes go off. They seem unusually bright, reflected and magnified by
the raindrops. I dont care, and Stefanie doesnt notice. Were not fully conscious of anything
but the ball, the net, each other.
A long rally. Ten strokes. Fifteen. It ends with me missing. The court is strewn with balls. I
scoop up three, put one in my pocket.
I yell to Stefanie, Lets both come back! What do you say?
She doesnt answer.
You and me, I say. Well announce it this week!
Still no answer. Her concentration, as usual, puts mine to shame. In the same way that
she wastes no movement on the court, she never wastes words. J.P. points out that the three
most influential people in my lifemy father, Gil, Stefaniearent native English speakers.
And with all three, their most powerful mode of communication may be physical.
Shes engrossed in each shot. Each shot is important. She never tires, never misses. Its a
joy to watch her, but also a privilege. People ask what its like, and I can never think of the
perfect word, but that word comes close. A privilege.
I miss again. She squints, waits.
I serve. She returns, then gives the Stefanie wave, as if swatting a mosquito, meaning
shes done. Time to pick up Jaden.
She walks off the court.
Not yet, I tell her.
What? She stops, looks at me. Then she laughs.
OK, she says, backpedaling to the baseline. It makes no sense, but its who I am, and she
understands. We have things to do, wonderful things. She cant wait to go and get started,
and neither can I. But I also cant help it.
I want to play just a little while longer.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK would not exist without my friend J. R. Moehringer.
It was J.R., before we even met, who first made me think seriously about putting my story
on paper. During my final U.S. Open, in 2006, I spent all my free time reading J.R.s staggering
memoir, The Tender Bar. The book spoke to my heart. I loved it so much, in fact, that I
found myself rationing it, limiting myself to a set number of pages each night. At first The
Tender Bar was a crucial distraction from the difficult emotions at the end of my career, but
gradually it added to the overall anxiety, because I feared the book would run out before the
career did.
Just after my first-round match, I phoned J.R. and introduced myself. I told him how much
I admired his work, and I invited him to Vegas for dinner. We hit it off right away, as I knew we
would, and that first dinner led to many more. Eventually I asked J.R. if hed consider working
with me, helping me tackle my own memoir and give it shape. I asked him to show me my life
through a Pulitzer Prizewinners lens. To my surprise, he said yes.
J.R. moved to Las Vegas and we got right to it. We have the same work ethic, the same
obsessive all-or-nothing approach to big goals. We met each day and developed a strict
routineafter wolfing down a couple of burritos, wed talk for hours into J.R.s tape recorder.
No topics were out of bounds, so our sessions were sometimes fun, sometimes painful. We
didnt go chronologically or topically; we simply let the talk flow, prodded now and then by
stacks of clippings collected by our superb, young, soon-to-be-famous researcher, Ben Cohen.
After many months J.R. and I had a crate of tape cassettesfor better or worse, the story
of my life. The intrepid Kim Wells then turned those tapes into a transcript, which J.R. somehow
transformed into a story. Jonathan Segal, our wise, wonderful editor at Knopf, and Sonny
Mehta, the Rod Laver of publishing, helped J.R. and me polish that first draft into a second
and a third, which was then excruciatingly fact-checked by Eric Mercado, the second coming
of Sherlock Holmes. Ive never spent so much time reading and rereading, debating and discussing
words and passages, dates and numbers. Its as close as Ill ever come, or want to
come, to studying for final exams.
I asked J.R. many times to put his name on this book. He felt, however, that only one
name belonged on the cover. Though proud of the work we did together, he said he couldnt
see signing his name to another mans life. These are your stories, he said, your people, your
battles. It was the kind of generosity I first saw on display in his memoir. I knew not to argue.
Stubbornness is another quality we share. But I insisted on using this space to describe the
extent of J.R.s role and to publicly thank him.
I also want to mention the dedicated team of first readers to whom J.R. and I passed copies
and excerpts of the manuscript. Each contributed in significant ways. Deepest thanks to
Phillip and Marti Agassi, Sloan and Roger Barnett, Ivan Blumberg, Darren Cahill, Wendy
Netkin Cohen, Brad Gilbert, David Gilmore, Chris and Varanda Handy, Bill Husted, McGraw
Milhaven, Steve Miller, Dorothy Moehringer, John and Joni Parenti, Gil Reyes, Jaimee Rose,
Gun Ruder, John Russell, Brooke Shields, Wendi Stewart Goodson, and Barbra Streisand.
A special thanks to Ron Boreta for being rock solid, for reading me as closely as he read
this book, for giving me invaluable advice about everything from psychology to strategy, and
for helping me rethink and revise my longstanding definition of the words best friend.
Above all, I want to thank Stefanie, Jaden, and Jaz Agassi. Forced to do without me on
countless days, forced to share me for two years with this book, they never once complained,
they only encouraged, which enabled me to finish. The steadfast love and support of Stefanie
provided constant inspiration, and the daily smiles of Jaden and Jaz converted to energy as
quickly as food turns to blood sugar.
One day, while I was working on the second draft, Jaden had a playmate over to the
house. Manuscripts were piled high along the kitchen counter, and Jadens friend asked:
Whats all that?
Thats my Daddys book, Jaden said in a voice Id never heard him use for anything but
Santa Claus and Guitar Hero.
I hope he and his sister feel that same pride in this book ten years from now, and thirty,
and sixty. It was written for them, but also to them. I hope it helps them avoid some of the
traps I walked right into. More, I hope it will be one of many books that give them comfort,
guidance, pleasure. I was late in discovering the magic of books. Of all my many mistakes
that I want my children to avoid, I put that one near the top of the list.
ILLUSTRATION CREDITS
top John C. Russell / Team Russell
This Is a Borzoi Book Published by Alfred A. Knopf
Copyright 2009 by AKA Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Ran
dom House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Agassi, Andre, 1970
Open : an autobiography / Andre Agassi.1st ed.
p. cm.
Borzoi Book.
eISBN: 978-0-307-59280-4
1. Agassi, Andre, 1970 2. Tennis playersUnited StatesBiography.
I. Title.
GV994.A43A43 2009
796.342092dc22 2009024004
[B]
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