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Our talks carry beyond the weight room. We go out for dinner. We go out for breakfast. We’re 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?

I’d love to, but I’m in Tokyo.

We’ve been talking for three hours and you’re in Tokyo? I thought you were across town. I feel guilty, man. I’ve been keeping you all this—.

He stops himself. He says, You know what? I don’t feel guilty. Nah. I feel honored. You needed to talk to me, and it doesn’t matter if you’re 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 exercise—every 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. He’s making a study of me, so he can rebuild me from the ground up. He’s like Michelangelo appraising a block of marble, but he’s not put off by my flaws. He’s like da Vinci getting it all down in his notebooks. I see in Gil’s 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 I’m 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 doesn’t 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 we’ll need to be there a couple of nights before the tournament starts, for the hit-and-giggle.

Hit-and-what?

It’s an exhibition with some celebrities to raise money for charity, to make corporate sponsors feel good, to entertain the fans.

Sounds fun.

What’s more, I tell him, we’re going to drive over in my new Corvette. I can’t wait to show him how fast it goes.

But when I pull up to Gil’s 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, I’m motivated to go very fast. Of course I don’t 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 mirror—a 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 Carl’s 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 we’re 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 with—what about the car?

Your friend can drive it.

But, but, can’t I just follow you?

Sir, you are going to listen to everything I say and do everything I say and that’s why you’re 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.

I’m in the back of a police car, Gil following in a Corvette that fits him like a whalebone corset. We’re in the middle of nowhere and I’m 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 he’s a real judge. All I see are heads of dead animals.

The judge begins by rattling off a series of random questions.

You’re playing in Scottsdale?

Yes, sir.

You’ve played that tournament before?

Uh—yes, 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, he’s followed my career closely. He thinks I should’ve 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 don’t 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 you’d 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 I’m lying. I beg him to please just drive us away from this courthouse. He pulls away—slowly. 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 I’m 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 I’m expected, I’m one of the players. He doesn’t believe me. I show him my driver’s license, which I feel fortunate to still have in my possession. He waves our car through.

Gil says, Don’t worry about the car, I’ll 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 I’d 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 didn’t realize the life was so—
insane
. He really didn’t know what he was signing on for. I tell him that makes two of us.

W
E 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. He’s 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. It’s late, we’re 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. He’s done.

Aren’t you going to eat, Gilly?

No, man. Last thing I want during a fight is a full stomach.

When I’m finished, Gil says he has some business to take care of at the next table. If anything happens, he says, I shouldn’t worry—he 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 people’s meals? That’s how you like to spend your time, huh? Gee, I’m going to have to try that myself. What are you having there? Hamburger?

He picks up the man’s burger and eats half in one bite.

Needs ketchup, Gil says, his mouth full. You know what? Now I’m thirsty. I think I’ll take a sip of your soda. Yeah. And then I think I’ll spill it all over the table as I set it down. I want
—I want—
one 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
DON’T WIN THE TOURNAMENT
, but it doesn’t matter. I’m content, happy as we start back on the road to Vegas. Before leaving town we stop for a bite at Joe’s Main Event. We talk about all that’s 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 he’s 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 Joe’s, and one of the great regrets of my life is that I don’t have a tape recorder with me. Still, I remember it nearly word for word.

Andre, I won’t ever try to change you, because I’ve never tried to change anybody. If I could change somebody, I’d change myself. But I know I can give you structure and a blueprint to achieve what you want. There’s a difference between a plow horse and a racehorse. You don’t treat them the same. You hear all this talk about treating people equally, and I’m not sure equal means the same. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a racehorse, and I’ll always treat you accordingly. I’ll be firm, but fair. I’ll lead, never push. I’m not one of those people who expresses or articulates feelings very well, but from now on, just know this: It’s on, man. It is
on
. You know what I’m saying? We’re 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 I’ve got pretty strong shoulders, and you can stand on my shoulders while you’re looking for that star. You hear? For as long as you want. Stand on my shoulders and reach, man. Reach.

A
T THE
1990 F
RENCH
O
PEN
I make headlines by wearing pink. It’s 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: It’s not pink, it’s technically Hot Lava. I’m astonished by how much they care. I’m 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 don’t want to deal with the press, the crowds, Paris. We don’t 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 McDonald’s and Burger King.

Nick, however, gets a nasty case of cabin fever. He wants to go out, see the sights. Guys, he says, we’re in Paris! Eiffel Tower? The frickin’ Louvre?

Been there, done that, Philly says.

I don’t want to go near the Louvre. And I don’t 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 don’t 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, 6–0. His face turns red. His face turns Hot Lava. I want to tell him: I hope that was enough cardio for you. But I don’t. Maybe I’m maturing. Without question I’m getting stronger.

Next up is Chang. The defending champ. I play with a chip on my
shoulder, because I still can’t believe he’s won a slam before me. I envy his work ethic, admire his court discipline—but I just don’t 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 he’s 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 I’m going to bum-rush his backhand. Again and again I go to that vulnerable backhand, seizing a quick lead, 5–1. Svensson doesn’t recover. Set, Agassi. In the second set I grab a 4–0 lead. He breaks back to 3–4. That’s as close as I let him get. To his credit, he finds a ray of confidence and wins the third set. Normally I’d be rattled. But this year I look to my box and see Gil. I replay his parking lot speech, and win the fourth set, 6–3.