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We drive into the mountains, up and down the Strip, listening to Gil’s special CD. He calls it
Belly Cramps
. Gil’s philosophy in all things is to seek the pain, woo the pain, recognize that pain is life. If you’re heartbroken, Gil says, don’t hide from it. Wallow in it. We hurt, he says, so let’s 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 anyone’s singing. He puts all recording artists to shame. I’d rather hear Gil talk a song than Sinatra croon it.

With each passing year Gil’s voice grows deeper, richer, and softer, and when he speaks the chorus of a torch song he sounds as if he’s channeling Moses and Elvis. He deserves a Grammy for his rendition of Barry Manilow’s Please Don’t Be Scared:

But his take on Roy Clark’s version of We Can’t Build a Fire in the Rain knocks me out every time. One line in particular resonates with us both:

When I’m not with Gil, I’m 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, it’s more my style than the French Country place where she and I lived in Pacific Palisades, but it doesn’t have a fireplace. I can’t think without a fireplace. I must have fire. So I hire a guy to build one.

While it’s 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 I’ve made to myself and others. I reach for the phone and dial Brad.

Come to Vegas. I’m ready to play.

He says he’s on his way.

Unbelievable. He could dump me—no one would blame him—but instead he drops everything the moment I call. I love the guy. Now, while he’s on his way, I worry that he won’t 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 Brad’s 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 he’s nestled in his mother’s arms. I join him in a beer. Six o’clock rolls around. We switch to frozen margaritas. At eight o’clock we’re still in the club chairs, Brad flipping channels, looking for sports highlights.

I say, Listen, Brad, I need to tell you something. It’s something I should have told you a while ago.

He’s staring at the TV. I’m 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 I—we’re done. We’re 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 he’d 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, It’s going to be a great year.

What?

We’re going to have a
great
year.

But—

This is the best thing that’s ever happened to your tennis.

I’m miserable. What are you talking about?

Miserable? Then you’re looking at this all wrong. You don’t have kids. You’re free as a bird. If you had kids, OK, there would be real problems. But this way, you get off scot free.

I guess.

You’ve got the world by the balls. You’re
solo
, rid of all that drama!

He looks deranged. He looks delirious. He tells me we have Key Biscayne coming up, then clay season, then—good things. About to happen.

This burden is off you now, he says. Instead of lying around Vegas, feeling
your
pain, let’s go put some pain on your opponents.

You know what? You’re right. That calls for another batch of margaritas!

At nine o’clock I say, We should think about food.

But Brad is peacefully, contentedly licking salt from the rim of his glass, and he’s 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.

That’s your play right there!

He points to the TV.

He says, Steffi Graf!
That’s
who you should be with.

Yeah. Right. She wants no part of me.

I’ve told Brad the stories. The 1991 French Open. The 1992 Wimbledon Ball. I’ve tried and tried. No dice. Steffi Graf is like the French Open. I just can’t get across that particular finish line.

That’s 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, he’ll get me close. He knows Steffi’s coach, Heinz Gunthardt. He’ll talk to Heinz about setting up a practice session.

·  ·  ·

T
HE MOMENT WE ARRIVE IN
K
EY
B
ISCAYNE
, Brad phones Heinz, who’s 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. She’s too regimented. Also, she’s shy. She’d 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 Steffi’s practice session, then arrive early. Heinz will then casually suggest that Steffi hit a few balls with me.

It’s all set, Brad says. High noon. You. Me. Steffi. Heinz. Let’s get this party started.

F
IRST 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. I’ve never been so breathless. I’ve 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 doesn’t.

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 court—then impulsively whip off my shirt. It’s shameless, I realize, but I’m desperate. Steffi looks and does a barely detectable double take. Thank you, Gil.

We start to hit. She’s flawless, of course, and I’m struggling to get the ball over the net.
The net is your biggest enemy
. Relax, I tell myself. Stop thinking. Come on, Andre, it’s only a practice session.

But I can’t help myself. I’ve never seen a woman so beautiful. Standing still, she’s a goddess; in motion, she’s poetry. I’m a suitor, but also a fan. I’ve wondered for so long what Steffi Graf’s forehand feels like. I’ve watched her on TV and at tournaments and I’ve wondered how that ball
feels when it comes flying off her racket. A ball feels different off every player’s racket—there are minute but concrete subtleties of force and spin. Now, hitting with her, I feel her subtleties. It’s like touching her, though we’re 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 it’s harder than I thought. I miss one. I yell to her: You’re 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. He’s 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 I’m catatonic and missing every third ball? From a distance, it looks as if Steffi is giving 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. I’ve 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 we’ve enjoyed.

I ask, What’s your favorite city? When tennis is over, where do you imagine living?

Oh. It’s 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 she’s 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. We’re plotting, using military jargon, like
recon
and
intel
. I feel as if we’re 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 hasn’t been in the papers yet. Nobody knows. You need to let her know your status, and tell her how you feel about her.

I’ll send her flowers.

Yes, J.P. says. Flowers are good. But you can’t send them under your name. It might get leaked to the press. We’ll 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 Steffi’s 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, she’s not interested, I get it, but how about a thank you? If she doesn’t call by tonight, I swear, I’m 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. Steffi’s room, obviously, because there on the patio table are my giant bouquets of long-stemmed red roses.

Not sure that’s a good sign, J.P. says.

No, Brad says. NG. Not good.

·  ·  ·

W
E DECIDE THAT
I’
LL
wait for Steffi to win her first match—a foregone conclusion—and when she does, I’ll 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. I’ve 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: She’s 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. It’s Andre.

Oh.

I just wanted to call and make sure you got my flowers.

I did.

Oh.

Silence.

She says, I don’t 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 Brad’s positive-thinking playbook: maybe she’s sending me a message.
Obviously
her boyfriend was sitting right there.

So?

So she couldn’t talk, and rather than say, I have a boyfriend, case closed, leave me alone, she said, My boyfriend is
here
.

So?

I think she’s saying there’s a chance.