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.
WE 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.
12
AT THE 1990 FRENCH OPEN 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 t
he 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.
I’m in the final—at last. My first final at a slam. I’m facing Gómez, from Ecuador, whom I just beat weeks ago. He’s thirty, on the verge of retiring—in fact, I thought he was retired. At last, the newspapers say, Agassi is going to realize his potential.
THEN, CATASTROPHE STRIKES. The night before the final, I’m taking a shower and I feel the hairpiece Philly bought me suddenly disintegrate in my hands. I must have used the wrong kind of conditioner. The weave is coming undone—the damned thing is falling apart.
In a state of abject panic I summon Philly to my hotel room.
Fucking disaster, I tell him. My hairpiece—look!
He examines it.
We’ll let it dry, then clip it in place, he says.
With what?
Bobby pins.
He runs all over Paris looking for bobby pins. He can’t find any. He phones me and says, What the hell kind of city is this? No bobby pins?
In the hotel lobby he bumps into Chris Evert and asks her for bobby pins. She doesn’t have any. She asks why he needs them. He doesn’t answer. At last he finds a friend of our sister Rita, who has a bag full of bobby pins. He helps me reconfigure the hairpiece and set it in place, and keeps it there with no fewer than twenty bobby pins.
Will it hold? I ask.
Yeah, yeah. Just don’t move around a lot.
We both laugh darkly.
Of course I could play without my hairpiece. But after months and months of derision, criticism, mockery, I’m too self-conscious. Image Is Everything? What would they say if they knew I’ve been wearing a hairpiece all this time? Win or lose, they wouldn’t talk about my game. They would talk only about my hair. Instead of a few kids at the Bollettieri Academy laughing at me, or twelve thousand Germans at Davis Cup, the whole world would be laughing. I can close my eyes and almost hear it. And I know I can’t take it.
WARMING UP BEFORE THE MATCH, I pray. Not for a win, but for my hairpiece to stay on. Under normal circumstances, playing in my first final of a slam, I’d be tense. But my tenuous hairpiece has me catatonic. Whether or not it’s slipping, I imagine that it’s slipping. With every lunge, every leap, I picture it landing on the clay, like a hawk my father shot from the sky. I can hear a gasp going up from the crowd. I can picture millions of people suddenly leaning closer to their TVs, turning to each other and in dozens of languages and dialects saying some version of: Did Andre Agassi’s hair just fall off?
My game plan for Gómez reflects my jangled nerves, my timidity. Knowing he doesn’t have young legs, knowing he’ll fold in a fifth set, I plan to stretch out the match, orchestrate long rallies, grind him down. As the match begins, however, it’s clear that Gómez also knows his age, and thus he’s trying to speed everything up. He’s playing quick, risky tennis. He wins the first set in a hurry. He loses the second set, but also in a hurry. Now I know that the longest we’ll be out here is three hours, rather than four, which means conditioning won’t play a role. This is now a shot-making match, the kind Gómez can win. With two sets completed, and not much time off the clock, I’m facing a guy who’s going to be fresh throughout, even if we go five.
Of course my game plan was fatally flawed from the start. Pathetic, really. It couldn’t work, no matter how long the match, because you can’t win the final of a slam by playing not to lose, or waiting for your opponent to lose. My attempt to orchestrate long rallies merely emboldens Gómez. He’s a veteran who knows this might be his last shot at a slam. The only way to beat him is to take away his belief and his desire, by being aggressive. When he sees me playing conservative, orchestrating instead of dominating, it gives him heart.
He wins the third set. As the fourth set begins I realize I’ve made yet another miscalculation. Most players, when they tire late in a match, lose some zip on their serve. They have trouble getting up high on tired legs. But Gómez has a slingshot serve. He never gets up high on his legs. He leans into the ball. When he tires, therefore, he leans that much more, and his natural slingshot action becomes more pronounced. I’ve been waiting for his serve to weaken, and instead it’s getting sharper.
Upon winning the match, Gómez is exceedingly gracious and charming. He weeps. He waves to the cameras. He knows he’ll be a national hero in his native Ecuador. I wonder what it’s like in Ecuador. Maybe I’ll move there. Maybe that’s the only place I’ll be able to hide from the shame I feel at this moment. I sit in the locker room, head bowed, imagining what the hundreds of columnists and headline writers will say, not to mention my peers. I can hear them now. Image Is Everything, Agassi Is Nothing. Mr. Hot Lava Is a Hot Mess.
Philly walks in. I see in his eyes that he doesn’t just sympathize—he lives it. This was his defeat too. He aches. Then he says the right thing, striking the right tone, and I know I’ll always love him for it.
Let’s get the fuck outta this town.
GIL PUSHES THE BIG TROLLEY with our bags through Charles de Gaulle Airport. I’m walking a step ahead. I stop to look at the Arrivals and Departures. Gil keeps going. The trolley has a sharp metal edge, and it pushes into my soft, exposed Achilles—I’m wearing loafers with no socks. A jet of my blood spurts onto the glassy floor. Then another. The Achilles is gushing. Gil hurries to get a bandage out of his bag, but I tell him to relax, take his time. It’s good, I say. It’s fitting. There should be a pint of my blood from my Achilles’ heel on the floor before we leave Paris.
I SKIP WIMBLEDON AGAIN, train hard with Gil all summer. His home garage is finished, filled with a dozen handmade machines and many other unique touches. In the window he’s mounted a massive air-conditioner. On the floor he’s nailed a spongy Astroturf. And in the corner he’s put an old pool table. We shoot nine-ball between reps and sets. Many nights we’re in the gym until four in the morning, Gil searching for new ways to build up my mind, my confidence, along with my body. He’s shaken by the French Open, as am I. One morning, before the sun comes up, he passes along some words his mother always tells him.
Qué lindo es soñar despierto, he says. How lovely it is to dream while you are awake. Dream while you’re awake, Andre. Anybody can dream while they’re asleep, but you need to dream all the time, and say your dreams out loud, and believe in them.
In other words, when in the final of a slam, I must dream. I must play to win.
I thank him. I give him a gift. It’s a necklace with a gold pyramid, and inside the pyrami
d are three hoops. It represents the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I designed it, had a jeweler in Florida make it for me, and I have an earring that matches.
He puts it around his neck, and I can tell it will be a cold day in hell before he takes it off.
With Gil in the desert outside Las Vegas, not long after we started working together full-time in 1990
Gil likes to yell at me when I’m working out, but it’s nothing like my father’s yelling. Gil yells love. If I’m trying to set a new personal best, if I’m preparing to lift more than I’ve ever lifted, he stands in the background and yells, Come on, Andre! Let’s go! Big Thunder! His yelling makes my heart club against my ribs. Then, for an added dash of inspiration, he’ll sometimes tell me to step aside, and he’ll lift his personal best—550 pounds. It’s an awesome sight to see a man put that much iron above his chest, and it always makes me think that anything is possible. How beautiful to dream. But dreams, I tell Gil, in one of our quiet moments, are so damned tiring.
He laughs.
I can’t promise you that you won’t be tired, he says. But please know this. There’s a lot of good waiting for you on the other side of tired. Get yourself tired, Andre. That’s where you’re going to know yourself. On the other side of tired.
Under Gil’s care and close supervision I pack on ten pounds of muscle by August 1990. We go to New York for the U.S. Open and I feel lean and rangy and dangerous. I take out Andrei Cherkasov, from the Soviet Union, in an easy three-setter. I punch and scratch my way to the semis, beat Becker in four furious sets, and still have plenty of rocket fuel in my tank. Gil and I drive back to the hotel and watch the other men’s semi to see who I’ll get tomorrow. McEnroe or Sampras.
It doesn’t seem possible, but the kid I thought I’d never see again has reconstituted his game. And he’s giving McEnroe the fight of his life. Then I realize he’s not giving McEnroe a fight—McEnroe is giving him a fight, and losing. My opponent tomorrow, incredibly, will be Pete.