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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 reason—all while I’m 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 don’t 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, don’t you, that God isn’t anything like your father? You know that—don’t you?

I almost drive the Corvette onto the shoulder.

God, he says, is the opposite of your father. God isn’t mad at you all the time. God isn’t yelling in your ear, harping on your imperfections. That voice you hear all the time, that angry voice? That’s not God. That’s 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 can’t abide being a pastor. He no longer wants to be responsible for people’s souls. It’s a round-the-clock job, he says, and it leaves him no time for reading and reflection. (I wonder if this is a slight jab at me.) He’s also hounded by death threats. Prostitutes and drug pushers come to his church and reform, and then their pimps and junkies and families, who’ve depended on that stream of income, blame J.P.

What do you think you’d like to do instead?

Actually, I’m a songwriter. A composer. I’d like to make music for a living.

He says he’s written a song, When God Ran, that’s 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, he’ll succeed.

When I start talking like a motivational speaker, I know I’m tired. I look at my watch. Three in the morning. Wow, I say, stifling a yawn, if you don’t mind, can you just drop me off at my parents’ house? I live right up
here at the corner and I’m exhausted. I can’t drive another minute. Take my car, take yourself home, bring it back to me when you can.

I don’t 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 you’re okay, I would laugh. I don’t give a shit about the car.

How long do you want me to—I 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
M
UNICH
for Davis Cup. I look forward to Davis Cup, because it’s not about me, it’s about country. I imagine it’s as close as I’ll 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, who’s attained godlike status in West Germany. The fans are bringing down the house, twelve thousand Germans cheering his every swing, booing me. And yet I’m unfazed, because I’m in a zone. Maybe not
the
zone, but
my
zone. I can’t miss. Also, I promised myself months ago that I’d never again lose to Becker, and I’m 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. They’re calling me back onto the court.

The game isn’t 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 I’m 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 can’t 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 don’t do it consciously. An impulse comes over me and I reach for the matches.

Just as I’ve 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. They’re 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 I’m no good? What if today wasn’t a bad day, but my best day? I’m always making excuses when I lose. I could have beaten him if such-and-such.
If
I’
d
wanted it.
If
I’d had my A game.
If
I’d gotten the calls. But what if I’m playing my best, and I care, and I want it, and I’m still not the best in the world?

Well—what if?

I think I’d 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
C
ARL
-U
WE
S
TEEB
, another German, the following afternoon. Spent, physically and emotionally, I play Steeb exactly the wrong way. Yes, I’m attacking his backhand, which is his weakest shot, but I’m doing it with pace. If I were to give him no pace, he’d 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. I’m making him better than he is, all because I’m 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 Agassi-augmented backhand, having a marvelous time. Later, the captain of the Davis Cup team accuses me of tanking, as does a prominent sportswriter.

P
ART OF THE PROBLEM
with my game in 1989 is my racket. I’ve always used a Prince, but Nick has convinced me to sign with a new company, Donnay. Why? Because Nick’s got money troubles, and for delivering me to Donnay he gets a lucrative contract for himself.

Nick, I tell him—I love my Prince.

You could play with a broomstick, he says. It wouldn’t matter.

Now, with the Donnay, I feel as if I
am
playing with a broomstick. I feel as if I’m playing left-handed, as if I’ve suffered a brain injury. Everything is slightly off. The ball doesn’t listen to me. The ball doesn’t do what I say.

I’m in New York, hanging out with J.P. It’s well after midnight. We’re sitting in a seedy deli with garish fluorescent lights and loud countermen arguing in several Eastern European languages. We’re each having a cup of coffee and I’m holding my head in my hands, telling J.P. over and over: When I hit the ball with this new racket, I don’t know where it’s going.

You’ll find a solution, J.P. says.

How? What?

I don’t know. But you will. This is a momentary crisis, Andre. One of many. As sure as we’re 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, I’m in Florida, hitting at the Bollettieri Academy and someone hands me a new Prince. I hit three balls, just three, and it’s 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 don’t care about any deals, I tell Nick. I can’t sacrifice my life to a deal.

I’ll 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 don’t 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. It’s clear to everyone that you’re playing with a doctored Prince. You’re going to ruin us. You’re going to be liable for the destruction of our company.

Your racket is going to be liable for the destruction of me.

Seeing that I’m unrepentant, and not budging, the Donnay execs say they’ll 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 can’t 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, who’d 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.

He’ll 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. He’s 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 Philly’s 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 Pete’s plight, in Pete’s 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 it’s not by much—he’s 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. He’s inconsistent. He can’t keep three balls in a row between the lines. I beat him, 6–2, 6–1, and as I walk off the court I think to myself that he’s got a long and painful slog ahead. I feel bad for the guy. He seems like a good soul. But I don’t 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 point—then 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, don’t 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 isn’t on the trophy, your name isn’t in the record books. You lost only once, but you’re a loser.

I go to the 1989 French Open and in the third round I face Courier, my schoolmate from the Bollettieri Academy. I’m 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 didn’t 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 doesn’t win the slams he enters, and then he skips the slams that matter most. But it feels like a drop in the ocean. I’m becoming desensitized.

E
VEN THOUGH
I’
M 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 can’t help thinking of my father building his tennis court in his desert. I’ve 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. I’m weary, sunburned, ready for a break, but the director isn’t done with me. He tells me to take off my shirt. I’m 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.