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.
· · ·
WE 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.
J.P. says he’ll fix me a drink.
THE TOURNAMENT PROVIDES a small measure of distraction. Sadly, the distraction lasts only a few hours. In the first round, against Dominik Hrbaty, from Slovakia, I can think only of Steffi and her boyfriend enjoying or awkwardly ignoring my roses. Hrbaty whoops me in three sets.
I’m out of the tournament. I should leave Fisher Island. But I stick around, sitting on the beach, plotting with J.P. and Brad.
Steffi’s boyfriend probably showed up unexpectedly, Brad says. Plus, she still doesn’t know you’re divorced. She still thinks you’re married t
o Brooke. Give it time. Let the news come out. Then make your move.
You’re right, you’re right.
Brad mentions Hong Kong. In light of my performance against Hrbaty, clearly I need another tournament before we head into clay season. Let’s go to Hong Kong, he says. Let’s not sit around anymore thinking and talking about Steffi.
Next thing I know I’m settling into a seat on an airplane bound for China. I look at the screen at the head of the cabin. Estimated flight time: 15 hrs, 37 mins.
I look at Brad. Fifteen hours and thirty-seven minutes? To obsess about Steffi? I don’t think so.
I unbuckle my seat belt and stand.
Where are you going?
I’m getting off this plane.
Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down. Relax. We’re here. We’re all packed. Let’s go play.
I ease back into my seat, order two Belvederes, swallow a sleeping pill, and after what feels like a month I’m on the other side of the earth. I’m in a car being whisked along a Hong Kong highway, looking up at the soaring International Finance Centre.
I phone Perry. When is the news of my divorce going to break?
The lawyers are hashing out the details, he says. Meantime, you and Brooke need to work on the statement.
We fax drafts back and forth. Her team, my team. Lawyers and publicists have a go at it. Brooke adds a word, I delete a word. Faxes and more faxes. What began with faxes ends with faxes.
The statement is about to be released, Perry says. It should be in the papers any day now.
Brad and I run down to the lobby every morning, buy up all the newspapers, then sit over breakfast and scan every page, looking for the headline. For the first time in my memory I can’t wait for newspapers to report about my private life. Each day I say a prayer: Let this be the day that Steffi learns I’m free.
Day after day, it’s not there. It’s like waiting for Steffi’s call. If only I had hair, so I could pull it out. Finally, the cover of People carries a photo of Brooke and me. The headline reads: Suddenly Split. It’s April 26, 1999, three days before my twenty-ninth birthday, almost exactly two years after our wedding.
Reborn, renewed, I win Hong Kong—but on the flight home I can’t lift my arm. I rush from the airport to Gil’s house. He examines the shoulder, grimaces. He doesn’t like the look of it.
We might need to shut everything down and skip the entire clay season.
No, no, no, Brad says. We have to be in Rome for the Italian Open.
Please. I never win that thing. Let’s forget it.
No, Brad says. Let’s go to Rome, see how the shoulder does. You didn’t want to go to Hong Kong, right? But you won, right? I see a trend developing.
I let him drag me onto a plane, and in Rome I lose in the third round to Rafter, whom I just beat at Indian Wells. Now I really want to shut it down. But Brad talks me into going to play the World Team Cup in Germany. I don’t have the strength to argue with him.
The weather in Germany is cold, dreary, meaning the ball plays heavy. I look at Brad with murder in my eye. I can’t believe he’s dragged me to Düsseldorf with a sore shoulder. In the middle of the first set, down 3–4, I can’t take another swing. I quit. That’s it. We’re going home, I tell Brad. I have to get my shoulder right. And I have to figure out this thing with Steffi.
As we board the flight from Frankfurt to San Francisco, I’m not speaking to Brad. I’m mad as hell. We have twelve hours ahead of us, side by side, and I tell him: Here’s how it’s going to be, Brad. I haven’t slept all night, because of this shoulder. I’m going to swallow two sleeping pills right now and I’m not going to listen to you for the next twelve hours and it’s going to be heaven. You hear me? And when we land, the first thing I want you to do is pull me out of the French Open.
He leans into me and badgers me for two hours. You’re not going back to Vegas. You’re not pulling out. You’re coming with me to my house in San Francisco. I’ve got the guest cottage set up with plenty of firewood, the way you like it, and then you and I are flying back to Paris and you’re going to play. It’s the only slam you don’t have, and you’ve always wanted it, and you can’t win it if you don’t play.
French Open? Please. You must be kidding. That ship has sailed.
How do you know? Who’s to say this isn’t your year?
Trust me. In no sense is 1999 my year.
Look, you were just starting to show glimpses of the player you used to be. I saw something in you I hadn’t seen in years. We have to stay after that.
I see right through him. It’s not that he thinks the French Open is remotely winnable. But if I pull out of the French Open, it will be easier to pull out of Wimbledon, and there goes the whole year. Goodbye comeback. Hello retirement.
Landing in San Francisco, I’m once again too tired to argue. I slide into Brad’s car, and he drives me to his place and puts me in the cottage. I sleep for twelve hours. When I wake a chiropractor is there, ready to treat me.
It’s not going to work, I say.
It’s going to work, Brad says.
I get treatments twice a day. The rest of the time I watch the fog and stoke the fire. By Friday I do feel better. Brad smiles. We hit balls on his backyard court, twenty minutes, then I hit a few serves.
Call Gilly, I say. Let’s go to Paris.
IN OUR PARIS HOTEL Brad is looking over the draw.
I ask, How is it?
He says nothing.
Brad?
Couldn’t be worse.
Seriously?
Nightmare. Your first-rounder is Franco Squillari, lefty, from Argentina, probably the roughest guy in the draw who’s not seeded. An absolute beast on clay.
I can’t believe you talked me into this.
We practice Saturday and Sunday. Monday we start. I’m in the locker room, getting my feet taped, and I realize I forgot to pack underwear in my tennis bag. The match is in five minutes. Can I play without underwear? I don’t even know if it’s physically possible.
Brad jokes that I can borrow his.
I will never want to win that badly.
Then I think: This is perfect. I didn’t want to be here anyway, I shouldn’t be here, I’m playing the quintessential dirt rat in the first round on center court. Why shouldn’t I go commando?
There are sixteen thousand people in the stands, screaming like peasants overrunning Versailles. Before I’ve broken a sweat I’m down a set and a break. I look to my box, stare at Gil and Brad. Help me. Brad stares back, stone-faced: Help yourself.
I hitch up my shorts, take the deepest breath possible and let it out slowly. I tell myself that it can’t get any worse. I tell myself: Just win one set. Winning one set off this guy would be an accomplishment. One set—try for that. Scaling down the task makes it seem manageable and makes me looser. I start ripping my backhand, hitting my spots. The crowd stirs. They haven’t seen me play well here in a long time. Something inside me stirs too.
The second set turns into a street fight and a wrestling match and pistols at fifty paces. Squillari doesn’t give an inch and I have to bludgeon the set from him, 7–5. Then a shocking thing happens. I win the third set. Now I start to feel hope, actual hope, rising from my toes. My body is tingling. I glance at Squillari—he’s hopeless. His face is expressionless. One of the fittest guys on the tour, he’s unable to take a step. He’s done. In the fourth set I roll him, and all at once I’m walking off the court with one of the most improbable wins of my career.
Back at the hotel, covered with clay, I tell Gil: Did you see him? Did you see that dirt rat cramp? We made him cramp, Gil!
I saw.
The elevator is tiny. There’s room for five normal-sized humans, or else me and Gil. Brad tells us to go ahead, he’ll catch the next one. I hit the button, and on the way up Gil leans against one corner of the elevator, I lean against the other. I feel him staring.
What?
Nothing.
He keeps staring.
What is it, G
il?
Nothing. He smiles and says again: Nothing.
In the second round, I stick with no underwear. (I will never don underwear again. Something works, you don’t change.) I play Arnaud Clément, from France. I win the first set 6–2. I’m up in the second, playing the best I’ve ever played on clay. I’m rocking him to sleep. Then Clément wakes up. He wins the second set—and the third. How did that just happen? I’m serving at 4–5, love–30, in the fourth set. I’m two points from being bounced out of this tournament.
I think: Two points. Two points.
He hits a forehand inside-out winner. I walk over and check the mark. It’s out. I circle the mark with the racket. The linesman runs out to confirm. He examines it, like Hercule Poirot. He puts up his hand. Out!
If that thing had caught the line I’d be down triple match point. Instead I’m at 15–30. What a difference. What if—?
But I plead with myself to stop thinking about what if. Don’t think, Andre. Turn off your mind. I play two minutes of the best tennis I’m capable of playing. I hold. We’re at 5–all.
Clément is serving. If I were a different player, he would have the edge. But I’m my father’s son. I’m a returner. I let nothing past me. Then I run him from side to side. Back and forth. His tongue starts to hang from his mouth. Just when he and the crowd think I can’t run him any more, I run him a little more. He’s a metronome. Then he’s a goner. He pitches forward as if shot in the head. His cramps have cramps. He calls for medical treatment.
I break him. Then I hold easily to win the fourth set.
I win the fifth set 6–0.
In the locker room, Brad is talking to himself, to me, to anyone who will listen.
His back tire blew out! Did you see? Holy shit! His back tire—boom.
Reporters ask if I feel lucky that Clément cramped.
Lucky? I worked hard for those cramps.
At the hotel, riding the tiny elevator with Gil, my face is covered with clay. My eyes and ears and mouth are filled with clay. My clothes are spotted with clay. I look down. I never noticed before how Roland Garros clay, when it dries, looks like blood. I’m trying to brush it off when I feel Gil staring again.
What is it?
Nothing, he says, smiling.
IN THE THIRD ROUND I’m playing Chris Woodruff. I’ve played him once before, here, in 1996 and lost. A disastrous loss. I secretly liked my chances that year. This time I know from the start that I’m going to win. I have no doubt that I’ll have my revenge, served ice cold. I beat him 6–3, 6–4, 6–4, on the same court where he beat me. Brad requested it, because he wanted me to remember, to make it personal.