Open (33 page)

The real test wasn’t supposed to be Kafelnikov. It was supposed to be Muster, the hair-musser who’s been dominating on clay. So even if I’d gotten by Kafelnikov I don’t know how hobbled I would have been against Muster. But I promised Muster I’d 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 don’t 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 it’s just Gil and me on the flight, Gil talking softly about how we’re going to treat the flexor, how we’re going to adjust after what we’ve just put ourselves through, and get ready for what’s coming—grass. We spend a week in Vegas, doing nothing but watching movies and waiting for my hip to mend. An MRI tells us the damage isn’t permanent. Cold comfort.

We fly to England. I’m the number one seed at the 1995 Wimbledon, because I’m 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 Kits—adhesive sideburns, Fu Manchu mustaches, and bandanas. This is my new look. I’ve morphed from pirate to bandit. It’s surreal, as always, to see guys trying to look like me, and as always it’s even a bit more surreal to see girls trying. Girls with Fu Manchus and sideburns—it 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 Tarango’s wife slapped the umpire. One of the great scandals in Wimbledon history. Instead of facing Tarango, therefore, I’ll 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 don’t, however. I don’t 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 doesn’t 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. I’ve beaten him the last eight times we’ve played. Pete has already moved on to the final and he’s awaiting the winner of Agassi-Becker, which is to say he’s 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 4–1 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 I’m still up 4–2, I feel something snap. Not my hip—my mind. I’m suddenly unable to control my thoughts. I’m thinking of Pete, waiting. I’m thinking of my sister Rita, whose husband, Pancho, just lost a long bout with stomach cancer. I’m thinking of Becker, still working with Nick, who, tanner than ever, the color of prime rib, sits above us in Becker’s box. I wonder if Nick has told Becker my secrets—for instance, the way I’ve figured out Becker’s serve.
(Just before he tosses the ball, Becker sticks out his tongue and it points like a tiny red arrow to where he’s aiming.) I’m thinking of Brooke, who’s been shopping at Harrods this week with Pete’s 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 don’t say a word to anyone. Gil, Brad, Brooke—I don’t speak to them because I can’t. I am broken, gut-shot.

B
ROOKE AND
I
ARE DUE TO FLY AWAY
on a vacation. We’ve 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 we’ve secured the entire island, our deposit is nonrefundable.

Besides, it’s 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 it’s not big enough for the three of us—Brooke, me, and my black mood.

Brooke lies in the sun and waits for me to speak. She’s not frightened by my silence, but she doesn’t understand it, either. In her world, everyone pretends, whereas in mine some things can’t be pretended away.

After two days of silence I thank her for being so patient, and tell her I’m back.

I’m going to go for a jog on the beach, I say.

I start at a leisurely pace, then find myself running hundred-meter sprints. I’m already thinking about getting in shape, reloading for the hard courts of summer.

I
GO TO
W
ASHINGTON
, 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 we’re 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 we’ve signed the last autograph and answered the last question, Brad says he needs a beer. He looks sly. Something’s 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 that’s a good thing at some places, it’s not a plus at the Tombs. We find a booth and order drinks. Brad is put out because they don’t have Bud Ice. He settles for Bud. I feel tremendous after the workout, relaxed, fit. I haven’t 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?

He’s 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 don’t associate with other players. He said that I’m not well liked on the tour. He said I’m not open, and if I were open, maybe other players wouldn’t 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 he’s just an overgrown farmboy. But Brad is now so incensed that he can’t sit still in our booth at the Tombs.

Andre, he says, it is so fucking
on
. Mark my words. We’re going to run into this motherfucker again. We’re going to run into him at the U.S. Open. And until then, we’re going to prepare, train, plot revenge.

I read Becker’s quotes again. I can’t believe it. I knew the guy didn’t like me, but
this
. I look down and find that I’m clenching and unclenching my fist.

Brad says, Do you hear? I want you to
take—this—fucker—OUT
.

Consider it done.

We clink our beer bottles, swear an oath.

What’s more, I tell myself, after Becker I’m going to keep on winning. I’m simply not going to lose anymore. At least not until the frost is on the
pumpkin. I’m sick of losing, sick of being disappointed, sick and tired of guys disrespecting my game as much as I do.

A
ND 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. I’m the better player, but it’s 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 can’t think, can’t find a groove. Luckily, Edberg can’t either. I win the first set, he wins the second, and in the third set I go up 5–2. The fans cheer—those fans who aren’t suffering heatstroke. The match is stopped several times so that someone in the stands can receive medical attention.

I’m serving for the match. At least that’s what they tell me. I’m also hallucinating. I don’t know what game I’m playing. Is this Nerf ping-pong? I’m 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 he’ll black out before I do and I’ll 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 he’s 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.

I’m 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 me—again.

Five–all. I drop my racket and stumble off the court.

There’s an unwritten rule, or maybe it’s actually written, that if you leave the court with your racket, you forfeit. So I drop the racket, to let people know I’m coming back. In my delirious 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 I’m going into shock. At last the locker room’s air-conditioning, plus the total purge of my stomach, starts to revive me.

The referee knocks at the door.

Andre! You’re going to lose points if you don’t 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 didn’t just quit.

Because it’s 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. He’s annoyed. I’m 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 it’s 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. He’s big, six foot five at least, and burly, and yet surprisingly light on his feet. Two strides and he’s there at the net, snarling, ready to snack on your heart. Also, his serve is monstrous. I don’t want to spend three hours coping with that serve. After winning three tournaments in quick succession, I have very little left. Brad, however, won’t tolerate such talk.

You’re 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, 6–3. In the second set he has match point twice. But I don’t yield. I tie the set, win the tiebreak, and win the third set going away. It’s my twentieth straight match victory, my fourth straight tournament victory. I’ve 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 I’m being modest, but I’m telling the truth. It’s how I feel. It’s the only way I can allow myself to feel in the Summer of Revenge. Pride is bad,
stress is good. I don’t want to feel confident. I want to feel rage. Endless, all-consuming rage.

A
LL 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 Pete’s absorption in tennis, his love of the game. I wonder what the writer would have made of the chasm if he’d known my true feelings about tennis. If only I’d told him.

I set the story aside. I pick it up again. I don’t want to read it. I must. It feels odd, unnerving, because Pete isn’t 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.