Open (16 page)

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, I’m 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 I’m 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, there’s no turning back. I’m pro.

So?

If I cash this check, Pops, that’s it.

He acts as if we have a bad connection.

You’ve 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 I’ll take the money. As the words leave my mouth I feel a shelf of possibilities fall away. I don’t know what those possibilities might be, but that’s the point—I never will know. The man hands me a check, and as I walk out of his office I feel as if I’m starting down a long, long road, one that seems to lead into a dark, ominous forest.

It’s April 29, 1986. My sixteenth birthday.

In disbelief, all day long, I tell myself: You’re a professional tennis player now. That’s what you are. That’s
who
you are. No matter how many times I say it, it just doesn’t 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.

I’d like Nike to be a part of that future, to be a
partner
in that future.

Thank you.

I’d 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 can’t believe this is happening, and we can’t 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 he’s 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 we’re going to say. I play me, he plays Ian. Men passing us on their way in and out of the men’s room think we’re 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 can’t 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 We’re in the Money.

Can you believe this is happening?

No, Philly says. Honestly? No, I can’t.

Can I drive back to L.A.?

No. Your hands are shaking. You’ll plow us straight into a median, and we can’t have that. You’re worth twenty grand, bro!

And twenty-five next year.

All the way back to Philly’s place, item one on our agenda is what model of cool but cheap car we’re going to buy. The main thing is to buy a car with a tailpipe that doesn’t blow black clouds. Pulling up to Sizzler in a car that doesn’t smoke—now
that
would be the height of luxury.

M
Y FIRST TOURNAMENT
as a pro is in Schenectady, New York. I reach the final of the $100,000 tournament, then lose to Ramesh Krishnan, 6–2, 6–3. I don’t feel bad, however. Krishnan is great, better than his ranking of forty-something, and I’m an unknown teenager, playing in the final of a fairly important tournament. It’s that ultimate rarity—a 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, who’s ranked number twelve. In the quarterfinal I play John McEnroe,
which feels like playing John Lennon. The man is a legend. I’ve grown up watching him, admiring him, though I’ve often rooted against him, because his archrival, Borg, was my idol. I’d love to beat Mac, but this is his first tournament after a brief hiatus. He’s 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, 6–3, 6–3. During the loss, however, I manage to hit one atomic winner, a forehand return of Mac’s serve that explodes past him. At the post-match news conference, Mac announces to reporters: I’ve 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 Mac’s 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. O
PEN
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. It’s 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 sounds—and 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 I’ve greased the palm of the cabbie, the doorman, the bellhop, and the concierge, I’m tapped out.

Also, I’m 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, I’m due to practice at two o’clock. 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 I’m horribly late. A woman tells me they’ve 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 o’clock, Court 8.

I peer at the name of the player I’ll be practicing with.

I’m sorry. I can’t practice with that guy. I’m 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 I’m 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 o’clock. But you’ll have to share with three other guys.

I tell Nick: It feels as if I’m in over my head in this town.

Nah, he says. You’ll be fine.

The whole place looks a lot better from a distance.

What doesn’t?

In the first round I face Jeremy Bates, from Great Britain. We’re on a back court, far from the crowds and the main action. I’m excited. I’m proud. Then I’m terrified. I feel as if it’s the final Sunday of the tournament. My butterflies are flying in tight formation.

Because it’s a Grand Slam, the energy of the match is different from anything I’ve experienced. More frenetic. The play is moving at warp speed, a rhythm with which I’m unfamiliar. Plus, the day is windy, so points seem to be flying past like the gum wrappers and dust. I don’t understand what’s happening. This doesn’t even feel like tennis. Bates isn’t a better player than I, but he’s 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 wasn’t 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.

You’re going to get better, Philly says, putting an arm around me. It’s 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, what’s going on? I have no clue out there. I feel like a hacker, a weekend player. I’m lost.

The low point is at the Spectrum in Philadelphia. It’s not a tennis facility but a converted basketball arena, and barely that. Cavernous, poorly lit, it’s got two tennis courts, side by side, and two matches taking place simultaneously. At the same moment I’m 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 don’t know yet how to tune out distractions. After one set I can’t think and can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat.

Also, my opponent is bad, which puts me at a disadvantage. I’m at my worst against lesser opponents. I play down to their level. I don’t know how to maintain my game while adjusting for an opponent’s, 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. We’re discouraged, but a more immediate problem is that we’re broke. I’ve made no money in months, and with all the traveling and hotels, all the rental cars and restaurant meals, I’ve burned through nearly all my Nike money. From the airport I drive straight to Perry’s 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 I’d be a great athlete, whether I wanted to be one or not. I took it for granted. It was my life, and though I hadn’t chosen it, my sole consolation was its certainty. At least fate has a structure. Now I don’t know what the future holds. I’m good at one thing, but it looks as though I’m not as good at that one thing as I thought. Maybe I’m finished before I’ve 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. It’s abnormal to be humiliated at the U.S. Open. It’s abnormal to run around the Spectrum worrying about a head-on collision with some giant Russian. It’s abnormal to be shunned in locker rooms.

Why are you shunned?

Because I’m sixteen and in the top hundred. Also, Nick isn’t well liked, and I’m 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 Perry’s, doesn’t return my calls. She wants a boyfriend who isn’t on the road all the time. I can’t blame her.

Perry says, I had no idea you were dealing with all this.

But here’s the topper, I tell him. I’m broke.

What happened to the twenty grand from Nike?

Travel. Expenses. It’s not just me on the road, it’s Philly, Nick—it adds up. When you’re 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. I’m trying to break free of him.

Andre, everything will be fine.

Yeah, sure.

Really, it’s about to get so much better. Before you know it, you’re 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. She’s small time. You’ll always have girl problems. That’s the nature of the beast. But soon the girl giving you problems will be—Brooke Shields.