I need you to say it again, she insists, because I can’t believe it really happened.
Me neither.
She’s planning the wedding before we’re off the island. And when we get back to Los Angeles, I resume the unplanned, unceremonious end of my tennis career. I moonwalk through one tournament after another. I’m losing in early rounds, and therefore I’m home a lot, which tickles Brooke. I’m placid, numb, and I have plenty of time to talk about wedding cakes and invitations.
We fly to England for the 1996 Wimbledon. Just before the start of the tournament Brooke insists we go for high tea at the Dorchester hotel. I beg off, but she insists. We’re surrounded by older couples, all wearing tweed and bowties and ribbons. Half of them look asleep. We eat finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off, heaping plates of egg salad and scones with jam and butter—all things expressly engineered to clog the human artery, without the benefit of tasting good. The food is making me cranky, and the setting feels ridiculous, like a children’s tea party in a nursing home. But just as I’m about to suggest that we ask for the check I notice that Brooke’s ecstatic. She’s having a grand time. She wants more jam.
In the first round I face Doug Flach, ranked number 281, a qualifier who’s in over his head, though you’d never know it to watch him against me. He plays as if he’s channeling Rod Laver, and I play like Ralph Nader. We’re on Graveyard Court. By now you’d think I’d have my own plaque here. I lose as fast as I can, and Brooke and I hurry back to Los Angeles, to engage in more deep conversations about Battenburg lace and chiffon-lined tents.
As summer approaches, there is only one elaborate pageant that interests and inspires me. And it’s not my wedding. It’s the Atlanta Olympics. I don’t know why. Maybe it feels like something new. Maybe it feels like something that has nothing to do with me. I’ll be playing for my country, playing for a team with 300 million members. I’ll be closing a circle. My father was an Olympian, now me.
I plan a regimen with Gil, an Olympian’s regimen, and give all-out effort in our training sessions. I spend two hours with Gil each morning, then hit with Brad for two hours, then run up and down Gil Hill in the hottest part of the day. I want the heat. I want the pain.
As the Games begin, sportswriters kill me for skipping the opening ceremonies. Perry kills me for it too. But I’m not in Atlanta for opening ceremonies, I’m here for gold, and I need to hoard what little concentration and energy I can muster these days. The tennis is being played in Stone Mountain, an hour’s drive from the opening ceremonies downtown. Stand around in the Georgia heat and humidity, wearing a coat and tie, waiting for hours to walk around the track, then drive to Stone Mountain and give my best? No. I can’t. I’d love to experience the pageantry, to savor the spectacle of the Olympics, but not before my first match. This, I tell myself, is focus. This is what it means to put substance above image.
With a good night’s sleep under my belt I win my first-rounder against Jonas Björkman, from Sweden. In the second round I cruise past Karol Kucera, from Slovakia. In the third round I face a stiffer test from Andrea Gaudenzi, from Italy. He has a muscle-bound game. He likes to trade body blows, and if you respect him too much he gets more macho. I don’t show him any respect. But the ball doesn’t respect me. I’m making all sorts of unforced errors. Before I know what’s happening, I’m down a set and a break. I look to Brad. What should I do? He yells: Stop missing!
Oh. Right. Sage advice. I stop missing, stop trying to hit winners, put the pressure back on Gaudenzi. It’s really that simple, and I scrape out an ugly, satisfying win.
In the quarters I’m on the verge of elimination against Ferreira. He’s up 5–4 in the third, serving for the match. But he’s never beaten me before, and I know exactly what’s going on inside his body. Something my father used to say comes back to me: If you stick a piece of charcoal up his ass, you’ll pull out a diamond. (Round, Tiffany cut.) I know Ferreira’s sphincter is squeezing shut, and this makes me confident. I rally, break him, win the match.
In the semis I meet Leander Paes, from India. He’s a flying jumping bean, a bundle of hyperkinetic energy, with the tour’s quickest hands. Still, he’s never learned to hit a tennis ball. He hits off-speed, hacks, chips, lobs—he’s the Brad of Bombay. Then, behind all his junk, he flies to the net and covers so well that it all seems to work. After an hour you feel as if he hasn’t hit one ball cleanly—and yet he’s beating you soundly. Because I’m prepared, I stay patient, stay calm, and beat Paes 7–6, 6–3.
In the final I play Sergi Bruguera, from Spain. The match is delayed by thunderstorms, and the forecasters say it will be five hours before we can get on the court. So I wolf down a spicy chicken sandwich from Wendy’s. Comfort food. On the day of a match, I don’t worry about calories and nutrition. I worry about having energy and feeling full. Also, because of my nerves, it’s rare that I’m hungry on match day, so any time I have an appetite I try to capitalize. I give my stomach whatever it asks for. Swallowing the last bite of spicy chicken, however, the clouds part, the storm blows away, and the heat comes. Now I have a spicy chicken sandwich sitting on my gut, it’s ninety degrees, and the air is as thick as gravy. I can’t move—and I have to play for a gold medal? So much for comfort food; I’m in extreme gastric discomfort.
But I don’t care. Gil asks how I feel, and I tell him: A-OK. I’m going to hustle for every ball, I’m going to make this guy run, and if he thinks he’s taking this medal back to Spain, he’s got another think coming.
Gil grins from ear to ear. That’s my boy.
It’s one of the rare times, Gil says, that he sees no fear in my eyes as I walk onto the court.
From the opening serve, I’m pounding Bruguera, moving him from corner to corner, making him cover a parcel of real estate the size of Barcelona. Every point is a blow to his midsection. In the middle of the second set we have a titanic rally. He wins the point to get back to deuce. He takes so much time getting ready for the next point that I could argue with the umpire. By rights I should argue, and Bruguera should get a warning. Instead I use the moment to wander over to the ballboy, grab a towel, whisper to Gil, How’s our friend looking over there?
Gil smiles. He nearly laughs, except that Gil never laughs during a fight.
Even though Bruguera has won the point, Gil sees, and I see, that winning the point will cost him the next six games.
Gil shouts: That’s my boy!
AS I MOUNT THE REVIEW STAND, I think: What will this feel like? I’ve watched this on TV so many times, can it possibly live up to my expectations? Or, like so many things, will it fall short?
I look left and right. Paes, the bronze winner, is on one side. Bruguera, the silver winner, is on the other. My platform is a foot higher—one of the few times I’m taller than my opponents. But I’d feel ten feet tall on any surface. A man drapes the gold medal around my neck. The national anthem starts. I feel my heart swell, and it has nothing to do with tennis, or me, and thus it exceeds all my expectations.
I scan the crowd and spot Gil, Brooke, Brad. I look for my father, but he’s hiding. He told me the night before that I’ve managed to reclaim something taken from him years ago, and yet he doesn’t want to be visible, doesn’t want to detract from the specialness of my moment. He doesn’t understand that this moment is special precisely because it’s not mine.
· · ·
DAYS LATER, for reasons I can’t begin to comprehend, the Olympic afterglow is gone. I’m on the court in Cincinnati, losing my mind. Playing for myself again, I’m smashing my racket in a fit of rage. I go on to win the tournament, however, which seems laughable, and only aggravates my sense that it’s all a joke.
Then, in August, at the RCA Championships in Indianapolis, playing a first-round match against Daniel Nestor, a Serb from Canada, I’m well ahead. But I feel unduly piqued that he’s just broken my serve. I can’t let go of my sudden anger. I look up at the sky and fantasize about flying away. Since I can’t fly away, at least this tennis
ball can fly away. Be free, little ball. I whack it high above the stands and out of the stadium.
Automatic warning.
The umpire, Dana Laconto, says into the microphone, Code violation. Warning. Abuse of ball.
Fuck you, Dana.
He calls over the ref. He tells the ref that Agassi said, Fuck you, Dana.
The referee approaches and asks, Did you say that?
Yes.
This match is over.
Fine. Fuck you too. And fuck the umpire you rode in on.
The fans start a riot. They don’t understand what’s happening, because they can’t hear me. They only know that they paid to see a match and now it’s being canceled. They’re booing, firing seat cushions and water bottles onto the court. The mascot of the RCA Championships is a Spuds MacKenzie dog, which now trots onto the court, dodging seat cushions and water bottles. He reaches the middle of the net, lifts his hind leg, and pees.
I couldn’t agree more.
He makes a jaunty exit. I’m right behind him, ducking my head, dragging my tennis bag. The crowd is going berserk, like the crowd in a gladiator movie. They’re showering the court with garbage.
In the locker room Brad says, What the—?
They defaulted me.
Why?
I tell him.
He shakes his head.
His seven-year-old son, Zach, is crying because the people are being mean to Uncle Andre. And because Spuds MacKenzie peed on the net. I send them both away, then sit in the locker room for an hour, head bowed. So here we are. A new low. Fine. I can handle this. I can actually get comfortable here. I can settle in. Rock bottom can be very cozy, because at least you’re at rest. You know you’re not going anywhere for a while.
But rock bottom is still a ways down. I go to the 1996 U.S. Open, and right away there’s controversy. Something about seeding. A few of my fellow players complain that I’ve gotten special treatment, that I was bumped up in the draw because tournament officials and CBS want to see me and Pete in the final. Muster says I’m a prima donna. I take particular glee, therefore, in knocking his hair-mussing ass out of the quarters, continuing to keep my promise that I would never lose to him again.
I reach the semis against Chang. I can’t wait to put a beating on him after losing to him months ago at Indian Wells. It should be no problem. He’s on the back nine of his career, Brad says. So am I, people say. But I have a gold medal. I almost wish I could wear it during the match. Chang, however, doesn’t give a damn about my gold medal. He fires sixteen aces, wriggles out of three break points, forces me into forty-five unforced errors. Seven years after winning his last slam, Chang is almighty, omnipotent. He is risen, and I am fallen.
The next morning, sportswriters trash me. I quit. I tanked. I didn’t care. It almost seems as if they’re angry with me. And I know why. As a result of my loss, they now have to deal with Chang for one more day.
I don’t watch the final on TV when Pete beats Chang in straight sets. But I do read about it. Every article says matter-of-factly that Pete is the best player of his generation.
AS THE YEAR WINDS DOWN I go to Munich, where the boos are deafening. I lose to Mark Woodforde, whom I beat 6–0, 6–0, two short years ago. Brad is apoplectic. He begs me to tell him what’s wrong.
I don’t know.
Tell me, man. Tell me.
I would if I could.
We agree that I should rest, pull out of the Australian Open.
Go home, he says. Get some rest. Spend some time with your fiancée. That’ll cure whatever ails you.
20
BROOKE AND I BUY A HOUSE in Pacific Palisades. It’s not the house I wanted. I had my heart set on a big rambling farmhouse with a family room off the kitchen. But she loved this one, so here we are, living in a multilevel, French Country knockoff set against the side of a cliff. It has no flow, and it feels sterile, the ideal house for a childless couple who plan to spend lots of time in different rooms.
The real estate agent gushed about the breathtaking views of the skyline. In the foreground is Sunset Boulevard. At night I can see the Holiday Inn where I stayed after our first date. Many nights I stare at the hotel and wonder what would have happened if I’d kept driving, if I’d never phoned Brooke again. I decide that the view from our new house is better when fog or smog prevents me from seeing that Holiday Inn.
At the close of 1996 we throw a combination housewarming–New Year’s Eve party, invite the gang from Vegas and Brooke’s Hollywood friends. We confer with Gil about security. After a new batch of scary letters, we have to guard against intruders, so Gil spends most of the night standing at the foot of the driveway, screening people as they arrive. McEnroe shows up, and I kid him about getting past Gil. He sits on the deck, talking tennis, my least favorite topic these days, so I drift in and out. I spend the night mixing margaritas, watching J.P. slap his drums with a steel Buddy Rich–type brush, and sitting before the fireplace. I stoke it, feed it, stare deep into the flames. I tell myself that 1997 is going to be better than 1996. I vow that 1997 is going to be my year.
BROOKE AND I ARE AT THE GOLDEN GLOBE AWARDS when I get a call from Gil. His twelve-year-old daughter, Kacey, has been in an accident. She was snow sledding on a church trip at Mt. Charleston, an hour north of Vegas, and went straight into a frozen snowbank. She broke her neck. I leave Brooke and fly to Vegas, arriving at the hospital in my tuxedo. I find Gil and Gaye in the hallway, looking as if they’re barely hanging on. We hug, and they tell me it’s bad, very bad. Kacey’s going to need surgery. Doctors say there’s a chance she’ll be paralyzed.
We spend days at the hospital, talking to doctors, trying to keep Kacey comfortable. Gil needs to go home, get some sleep. He’s out on his feet, but he won’t leave, he’s going to stand guard over his daughter. I get an idea. I have a big pimped-out minivan, which I bought from Perry’s father. It has a satellite dish and a foldout bed. I park it right outside the hospital, outside the front door, and I tell Gil: Now, when visiting hours are over, you don’t have to go home, you can just go downstairs and catch a few hours’ shut-eye in the back of your new van. And, since it’s all metered parking in front of the hospital, I’ve filled the van’s cup holders with quarters.
Gil gives me a strange look, and I realize it’s the first time that he and I have ever switched roles. For a few days, it’s me making him stronger.
WHEN THE HOSPITAL releases Kacey a week later the doctors say she’s out of the woods. Her surgery was a success and she’ll be up and around in no time. Still, I want to follow her home, stick around Vegas, see how she recovers.
Gil won’t hear of it. He knows I’m due in San Jose.
I tell Gil I’m going to pull out of the tournament.
Absolutely not, he says. There’s nothing to do now but wait and pray. I’ll phone you with updates. Go. Play.
I’ve never had an argument with Gil, and I won’t let this be the first. Reluctantly I go to San Jose and play my first match in three months. I face Mark Knowles, one of my old roommates at the Bollettieri Academy. After a solid doubles career he’s trying to break into the singles bracket. He’s a great athlete, but I shouldn’t have any trouble with him. I know his game better than he knows it himself. And yet he takes me to a third set. Even though I win, it’s not an easy win, so it sticks in my craw. I hack my way through the tournament, seemingly on a collision course with Pete, but I falter in the semis against Greg Rusedski, from Canada. My mind hurries back to Vegas, hours ahead of my body.
I’M AT THE BACHELOR PAD, watching TV with Slim, my assistant. I’m in a bad way. Kacey isn’t doing well, and the doctors don’t know why. Gil is on the brink. Meanwhile, my wedding looms. I think all the time about postponing it, or calling it off altogether, but I don’t know how.
Slim is stressed too. He was with his girlfriend recently, he says, and the condom broke. Now, she’s late. During a commercial he stands up and announces that there’s only one thing to do. Get high.
&nbs
p; He says, You want to get high with me?
High?
Yeah.
On what?
Gack.
What the hell’s gack?
Crystal meth.
Why do they call it gack?
Because that’s the sound you make when you’re high. Your mind is going so fast, all you can say is gack, gack, gack.
That’s how I feel all the time. What’s the point?
Make you feel like Superman, dude. I’m telling you.
As if they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth, someone standing directly behind me, I hear these words: You know what? Fuck it. Yeah. Let’s get high.
Slim dumps a small pile of powder on the coffee table. He cuts it, snorts it. He cuts it again. I snort some. I ease back on the couch and consider the Rubicon I’ve just crossed. There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria that sweeps away every negative thought in my head, every negative thought I’ve ever had. It’s a cortisone shot to the subcortex. I’ve never felt so alive, so hopeful—and above all, I’ve never felt such energy. I’m seized by an urge, a desperate desire to clean. I go tearing around my house, cleaning it from top to bottom. I dust the furniture. I scour the tub. I make the beds. I sweep the floors. When there’s nothing left to clean, I do laundry. All the laundry. I fold every sweater and T-shirt and still I haven’t made a dent in my energy. I don’t want to sit down. If I had table silver I’d polish it. If I had leather shoes I’d shine them. If I had a giant jug of coins I’d roll them into paper wrappers. I look high and low for Slim—he’s out in the garage, taking apart the engine of his car and putting it together again. I tell him I could do anything right now, anything, man, anything, anything, any-fuckingthing. I could get in the car and drive to Palm Springs and play eighteen holes, then drive home and make lunch and go for a swim.
I don’t sleep for two days. When I finally do, it’s the sleep of the dead and the innocent.