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.
ALL 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.
He can’t think of anything.
Finally he says: I like the way he travels.
AT LAST, AUGUST COMES. Gil and Brad and I drive to New York for the 1995 U.S. Open. On our first morning at Louis Armstrong Stadium I see Brad in the locker room, holding the draw in his hands.
It’s good, he says, smiling. Oh it’s so good. AG. All Good.
I’m on Becker’s side of the draw. If everything goes according to Brad’s plan, I’ll face Becker in the semis. Then, Pete. I think: If only, when we’re born, we could look over our draw in life, project our path to the final.
In the early rounds I’m on autopilot. I know what I want, I see what I want, just ahead, and opponents are mere road cones. Edberg. Alex Corretja. Petr Korda. I need to get past them to reach my target, so I do. After each win Brad isn’t his typical ebullient self. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t celebrate. He’s preoccupied by Becker. He’s monitoring Becker’s progress, charting his matches. He wants Becker to win every match, every point.
As I walk off the court with another victory, Brad says drily, Another good day.
Thanks. Yeah, felt good.
No. I mean B. B. Socrates. He won.
Pete handles his business. He reaches the final on his side of the draw and now awaits the winner of Agassi-Becker. It’s Wimbledon all over again, Part II. But this time I’m not thinking of Pete. I’m not looking ahead. I’ve been gunning for Becker, and now the moment is here, and my concentration is so intense, it frightens me.
A friend asks if I don’t feel even the slightest impulse, when it’s personal with an opponent, to drop the racket and go for his throat. When it’s a grudge match, when there’s bad blood, wouldn’t I rather settle it with a few rounds of old-fashioned boxing? I tell my friend that tennis is boxing. Every tennis player, sooner or later, compares himself to a boxer, because tennis is noncontact pugilism. It’s violent, mano a mano, and the choice is as brutally simple as it is in any ring. Kill or be killed. Beat or take your beat-down. Tennis beatings are just deeper below the skin. They remind me of the old Vegas loan shark method of beating someone with a bag of oranges, because it leaves no outer bruises.
And yet, having said that, I’m only human. So before we take the court, as Becker and I stand in the tunnel, I tell the security guard, James: Keep us apart. I don’t want this fucking German in my sight. Trust me, James, you don’t want me to see him.
Becker feels the same way. He knows what he said, and he knows I’ve read it fifty times and memorized it. He knows I’ve been stewing in his remarks all summer, and he knows I want blood. He does too. He’s never liked me, and for him this also has been the Summer of Revenge. We walk onto the court, avoiding eye contact, refusing to acknowledge the crowd, focused on our gear, our tennis bags, and the nasty job at hand.
From the opening bell, it’s what I thought it would be. We’re sneering, snorting, cursing in two different languages. I win the first set, 7–6. Becker looks infuriatingly unfazed. Why shouldn’t he? This is how our match at Wimbledon started. He doesn’t worry about falling behind—he’s proved that he can take my best punch and come back.
I win the second set, 7–6. Now he starts to squirm, to look for an edge. He tries to play with my mind. He’s seen me lose my cool before, so he does what he thinks will make me lose my cool again, the most emasculating thing one tennis player can do to another: He blows kisses at my box. At Brooke.
It works. I’m so angry that I momentarily lose focus. In the third set, with me ahead, 4–2, Becker dives for a ball that he has no business reaching. He gets there, wins the point, then breaks me, then wins the set. The crowd is now wild. They seem to have figured it out, that this is personal, that these two guys don’t like each other, that we’re settling old scores. They appreciate the drama, and they want it to go the distance, and now it really feels like Wimbledon all over again. Becker feeds on their energy. He blows more kisses at Brooke, smiling wolfishly. It worked once, why not do it again? I look at Brad, next to Brooke, and he gives me a steely glare, the vintage Brad look that says: Come on! Let’s go!
The fourth set is nip and tuck. We’re each holding serve, looking for an opening to break. I glance at the clock. Nine thirty. No one here is going home. Lock the doors, send out for sandwiches, we’re not leaving until this fucking thing is settled. The intensity is palpable. I’ve never wanted a match so much. I never wanted anything so much. I hold serve to go up 6–5 and now Becker’s serving to stay in the match.
He sticks his tongue to my right, serves right. I guess right and cold-cock
it. Winner. I crush his next two serves. Now he’s serving at love–40, triple match point.
Perry is barking at him. Brooke is raining bloodcurdling screams down on him. Becker is smiling, waving at them both, as if he’s Miss America. He misfires his first serve. I know he’s going to get aggressive with his second. He’s a champion, he’s going to bring it like a champion. Also, his tongue is in the middle of his mouth. Sure enough he brings a faster-paced second serve straight up the gut. Normally you have to worry about the high bounce and kick, so you move in, try to catch it early before it bounces above your shoulder, but I gamble, hold my ground, and the gamble pays off. Here is the ball, in my wheelhouse. I slide my hips out of the way, put myself in place to hit the coldie of a lifetime. The serve is a click faster than I anticipated but I adjust. I’m on my toes, feeling like Wyatt Earp and Spider-Man and Spartacus. I swing. Every hair on my body is standing up. As the ball leaves my racket a sound leaves my mouth that’s pure animal. I know that I won’t ever make this sound again, and I won’t ever hit a tennis ball any harder, or any more perfect. Hitting a ball dead perfect—the only peace. As it lands on Becker’s side of the court the sound is still coming from me.
AAAAGHHHHHHHHH.
The ball blazes past Becker. Match, Agassi.
Becker walks to the net. Let him stand there. The fans are on their feet, swaying, ecstatic. I’m gazing at Brooke and Gil and Perry and Brad, especially Brad. Come on! I keep gazing. Becker is still at the net. I don’t care. I leave him standing there like a Jehovah’s Witness on my doorstep. Finally, finally, I strip off my wristbands and go to the net and stick my hand in his general vicinity, without looking. He gives my hand a shake, and I snatch it away.
A TV reporter rushes onto the court and asks me a few questions. I answer without thinking. Then I look into the camera with a smile and say, Pete! I’m coming!
I run into the tunnel, into the training room. Gil is there, worried. He knows what that victory must have cost me physically.
I’m in bad shape, Gil.
Lie down, man.
My head is ringing. I’m sopping wet. It’s ten at night, and I’ve got to play in the final in less than eighteen hours. Between now and tomorrow I’ve got to come down from this near-psychotic state, get home, eat a good hot meal, drink a gallon of Gil Water until I piss a kidney, and then get some sleep.
Gil drives me back to Brooke’s brownstone. We eat dinner, and then I sit in the shower for an hour. It’s one of those showers that makes you think you should write a check to several environmental groups and maybe plant a tree. At two in the morning I lie down beside Brooke and black out.
I OPEN MY EYES FIVE HOURS LATER, no idea where I am. I sit up and let out a scream, a compacted version of my final scream against Becker. I can’t move.
At first I think it’s a stomach cramp. Then I realize it’s much more serious. I roll off the bed, onto my hands and knees. I know what this is. I’ve had this before. Torn cartilage between the ribs. I have a pretty good idea which shot tore it. But this tear must be particularly severe, because I can’t expand my rib cage. I can barely breathe.
I remember vaguely that it takes three weeks for this injury to heal. But I’ve got nine hours before I face Pete. It’s seven in the morning, the match is at four. I call for Brooke. She must be out. I’m lying on my side, saying aloud, This can’t be happening. Please don’t let this be happening.
I close my eyes and pray that I’ll be able to walk onto the court. Even asking for this much seems ridiculous, because I can’t stand. Hard as I try, I can’t get to my feet.
God, please. I can’t not show up for the final of the U.S. Open.
I crawl to the phone and dial Gil.
Gilly, I can’t stand up. I literally can’t stand up.
I’ll be right over.
By the time he arrives, I’m standing, but still having trouble breathing. I tell him what I think it must be, and he concurs. He watches me drink a cup of coffee, then says: It’s time. We need to go.
We look at the clock and both do the only thing we can do in such a moment—we laugh.
Gil drives me to the stadium. On the practice court I hit one ball and the ribs grab me. I hit another. I yell in pain. I hit a third. It still hurts, but I can put some mustard on it. I can breathe.
How do you feel?
Better. I’m about thirty-eight percent.
We stare at each other. Maybe that will be enough.
But Pete is pushing 100 percent. He comes out prepared, braced for a dose of what he saw me give Becker. I lose the first set, 6–4. I lose the second set, 6–3.
I win the third set, however. I’m learning what I can get away with. I’m finding shortcuts, compromises, back doors. I see a few chances to turn this thing into a miracle. I just can’t exploit them. I lose the fourth set, 7–5.
Reporters ask how it feels to win twenty-six matches in a row, to win all summer long, only to run into the giant net that is Pete. I think: How do you think it feels? I say: Next summer I’m going to lose a little bit. I’m 26–1, and I’d give up all those wins for this one.
On the drive back to the brownstone, I’m holding my ribs, staring out the window, reliving every shot of the Summer of Revenge. All that work and anger and winning and training and hoping and sweating, and it leads to the same empty disappointed feeling. No matter how much you win, if you’re not the last one to win, you’re a loser. And in the end I always lose, because there is always Pete. As always, Pete.
Brooke steers clear. She gives me kind looks and sympathetic frowns, but it doesn’t feel real, because she doesn’t understand. She’s waiting for me to feel better, for this to pass, for things to get back to normal. Losing is abnormal.
Brooke has told me that she has a ritual when I lose, a way of killing time until normalcy is restored. While I’m mutely grieving, she goes through her closets and pulls out everything she hasn’t worn in months. She folds sweaters and T-shirts, reorganizes socks and stockings and shoes into drawers and boxes. The night I lose to Pete, I peer into Brooke’s closet.
Neat as a pin.
In our brief relationship, she’s had lots of time to kill.
18
WHILE FACING WILANDER IN DAVIS CUP, I alter my movements to protect my torn rib cartilage, but when you protect one thing you often damage another. I hit an odd forehand and feel a chest muscle pull. It stays warm during the match, but when I wake the next morning I can’t move.
The doctors shut me down for weeks. Brad is suicidal.
A layoff will cost you the number one rank, he says.
I couldn’t care less. Pete is number one, no matter what some computer says. Pete won two slams this year, and he won our showdown in New York. Besides, I still don’t give a rat’s ass about being number one. Would have been nice; wasn’t my goal. Then again, beating Pete wasn’t my goal either, but losing to him has caused me to plummet into a bottomless gloom.
I’ve always had trouble shaking off hard losses, but this loss to Pete is different. This is the ultimate loss, the über-loss, the alpha-omega loss that eclipses all others. Previous losses to Pete, the loss to Courier, the loss to Gómez—they were flesh wounds compared to this, which feels like a spear through the heart. Every day this loss feels new. Every day I tell myself to stop thinking about it, and every day I can’t. The only respite is fantasizing about retirement.
Brooke, meanwhile, is working nonstop. Her acting career is taking off. As per Perry’s advice, she’s bought a house in Los Angeles and she’s been pursuing roles on TV. Now she’s landed a plum, a small guest spot in an episode of the sitcom Friends.
It’s the number one show in the world, she says. Number one!
I wince. That phrase again. She doesn’t notice.
The producers of Friends have asked Brooke to play a stalker. I cringe, thinking of the nightmare she’s endured with stalkers and overly enthusiastic fans. But Brooke thinks her experience with so many stalkers will be good preparation
for this part. She says she understands the stalker mind-set.
Plus, Andre, it’s Friends. The number one show on TV. It might lead to a recurring role on the show. And besides the fact that Friends is number one, my episode is going to air right after the Super Bowl—fifty million people will see it. This is like my U.S. Open.
A tennis analogy. The surest way to make me disconnect from her desire. But I pretend to be pleased, and say the right things. If you’re happy, I say, I’m happy. She believes me. Or acts as if she does. Which often feels like the same thing.
We agree that Perry and I will go with her to Hollywood and watch her shoot the episode. We’ll be in her box, as she’s always been in mine.
Won’t that be fun? she says.
No, I think.
Yes, I say. Fun.
I don’t want to go. But I also don’t want to lie around the house anymore, talking to myself. Sore chest, wounded ego—even I don’t want to be alone with me.
In the days leading up to the taping of Friends we barricade ourselves in Brooke’s house in Los Angeles. She has a fellow actor come over every day to help run lines. I watch them. Brooke is keyed up, feeling pressure, training hard, a process that’s familiar to me. I’m proud of her. I tell her she’s going to be a star. Good things are about to happen.
WE ARRIVE AT THE STUDIO late in the afternoon. A half-dozen actors greet us warmly. They’re the cast, I assume, the eponymous Friends, but for all I know they could be six unemployed actors from West Covina. I’ve never seen the show. Brooke hugs them, flushes, stammers, even though she’s already spent days rehearsing with them. I’ve never seen her this starstruck. I introduced her to Barbra Streisand and she didn’t react this way.
I stay a few steps behind Brooke, in the shadows. I don’t want to take any of her limelight, and besides, I’m not feeling sociable. But the actors are tennis fans and they keep drawing me into the conversation. They ask about my injury, congratulate me on a successful year. The year feels anything but successful, but I thank them as politely as I can and step back again.