I’m in the round of sixteen at the French Open for the first time since 1995. My reward is Carlos Moyá, the defending champion.
Not to worry, Brad says. Even though Moyá’s the champ, and real good on the dirt, you can take away his time. You can bull-rush him, stand inside the baseline, hit the ball early and apply pressure. Go after his backhand, but if you have to bring it to his forehand, do it with purpose, with heat. Don’t just go there—drive it hard up Main Street. Make him feel you.
In the first set, it’s me feeling Moyá. I lose the set fast. In the second set I fall down two breaks. I’m not playing my game. I’m not doing anything Brad said to do. I look up at my box and Brad screams: Come on! Let’s go!
Back to basics. I make Moyá run. And run. I establish a sadistic rhythm, chanting to myself: Run, Moyá, run. I make him run laps. I make him run the Boston Marathon. I win the second set, and the crowd is cheering. In the third set I run Moyá more than I’ve run the last three opponents combined, and suddenly, all at once, he’s cooked. He wants no part of this. He didn’t sign on for anything like this.
As the fourth set opens, I’m oozing confidence. I hop up and down. I want Moyá to see how much energy I’ve got left. He sees, and he sighs. I put him away and sprint to the locker room. Brad gives me a fist bump that almost breaks my fist.
In the hotel elevator, I feel Gil staring again.
Gil, what is it?
I have a feeling.
What feeling?
I feel like you’re on a collision course.
With what?
Destiny.
I’m not sure I believe in destiny.
We’ll see. We can’t build a fire in the rain …
WE HAVE TWO DAYS OFF. Two days to relax and think about something besides tennis. Brad discovers that Springsteen is in our hotel. He’s playing a concert in Paris. Brad suggests we attend. He scores us three seats, down front.
At first I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to go out and paint Paris red. But the TV has mostly news about the tournament, which isn’t good for my mood either. I remember the tennis official who mocked my playing a challenger, comparing it to Springsteen playing a corner bar. Yes, I say. Let’s take the night off. Let’s go see the Boss.
Brad, Gil, and I enter the arena a few seconds before Springsteen comes onstage. As we run down the aisle, several people spot me and point. A man yells my name. Andre! Allez, Andre! A few more men take up the cry. We slip into our seats. A spotlight scans the crowd—and suddenly lands on us. Our faces appear on the giant video screen above the stage. The crowd roars. They begin to chant: Allez, Agassi! Allez, Agassi! Some sixteen thousand people—about the same number as the crowd at Roland Garros—are chanting, cheering, stomping their feet. Allez, Agassi! It has a lilt the way they chant it, a bouncing rhythm like a children’s nursery rhyme. Deet-deet, da da da. It’s contagious. Brad chants too. I stand, wave. I’m honored. Inspired. I wish I could play the next match right now. Here. Allez, Agassi!
I stand once more, my heart in my throat. Then, at last, the Boss comes on.
IN THE QUARTERS I face Marcelo Filippini, from Uruguay. The first set is easy. The second set is easy. I run him, he crumbles. Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run. I enjoy this as much as winning—cutting the legs out from under my opponents, seeing the many years with Gil pay dividends in one concentrated two-week span. I win the third set without any resistance from Filippini, 6–0.
You’re maiming guys! Brad shouts. Oh my God, Andre, you’re freaking maiming them.
I’m in the semis. My opponent is Hrbaty, who just whooped me in Key Biscayne, when I was in a stupor over Steffi. I win the first set, 6–4. I win the next set, 7–6. Clouds roll in. A light drizzle starts to fall. The ball is getting heavier, which keeps me from playing offense. Hrbaty takes advantage and wins the third set, 6–3. In the fourth he goes up 2–1, and a match that I had won is slipping, slipping away. He’s down a set, but clearly he’s seized the momentum. I feel as if I’m just hanging on.
I look to Brad. He points to the skies. Stop the match.
I signal the supervisor and umpire. I point to the clay, which is mud. I tell them I’m not playing under these conditions. It’s dangerous. They examine the mud like miners panning for gold. They confer. They halt play.
At dinner with Gil and Brad, I’m in a foul mood because I know the match was turning against me. Only the rain saved me. Otherwise we’d be at the airport right now. And now I can’t believe I have all night to stew over the match, to worry about tomorrow.
I stare at my food, silent.
Brad and Gil discuss me as if I’m not at the table.
He’s OK physically, Gil says. He’s in fine condition. So give him a good speech, Brad. Coach him up.
What do you want me to say?
Think of something.
Brad takes a swig of beer and turns to me. OK, Andre. Look. Here’s the deal. I need twenty-eight minutes from you tomorrow.
What?
Twenty-eight minutes. It’s a sprint through the tape. You can do it. You’ve got five games to win, that’s all, and that shouldn’t take any more than twenty-eight minutes.
The weather. The ball.
The weather is going to be fine.
They’re saying rain.
No, it’s going to be fine. Just give us twenty-eight great minutes.
Brad knows my mind, the way it works. He knows that order, specificity, a clear and precise goal, are like candy to me. But does he also know the weather? For the first time it crosses my mind that Brad isn’t a coach but a prophet.
Back at the hotel, Gil and I squeeze into the elevator.
It’s going to be OK, Gil says.
Yeah.
Before bed, he forces me to drink my Gil Water.
I don’t want to.
Drink it.
When I’m so hydrated that I’m pissing pure cottony white, he lets me go to sleep.
The next day I come out tight. Down 1–2 in the fourth, serving, I fall behind two break points. No, no, no. I fight back to deuce. I hold. The set is now tied. Having averted disaster, I’m suddenly loose, happy. It’s so typical in sports. You hang by a thread above a bottomless pit. You stare death in the face. Then your opponent, or life, spares you, and you feel so blessed that you play with abandon. I win the fourth set and the match. I’m in the final.
My first look is to Brad, who’s excitedly pointing to his watch and the digital play clock on the court.
Twenty-eight minutes. On the dot.
· · ·
MY OPPONENT IN THE FINAL is Andrei Medvedev, from Ukraine, which is not possible. It’s simply not possible. Just months ago, in Monte Carlo, Brad and I bumped into Medvedev in a nightclub. He’d suffered a heartbreaking loss that day and was drinking to numb the pain. We invited him to join us. He threw himself into a chair at our table and announced that he was quitting tennis.
I can’t play this fucking game anymore, he said. I’m old. The game has passed me by.
I talked him out of it.
How dare you, I said. Here I am, twenty-nine, injured, divorced, and you’re bitching about being washed up at twenty-four? Your future is bright.
My game is shit.
So? Fix it.
He asked me for tips, pointers. He asked me to analyze his game, just as I’d once asked Brad to analyze mine. And I was Brad-esque. I was brutally honest. I told Medvedev he had a huge serve, a big return, and a world-class backhand. His forehand was not his best shot, of course, that was no secret, but he could hide it, because he was big enough to push opponents around.
You’re a good mover! I shouted. Get back to the basics. Keep moving, slam your first serve, and rip the backhand up the line.
Ever since that night he’s followed my advice to the letter and he’s been on fire. He’s been winning consistently on the tour and dominating guys in this tournament. Each time we’ve bumped into each other in the locker room, or around
Roland Garros, we’ve exchanged sly winks and waves.
I never once dreamed we were on a collision course.
So Gil was wrong. I haven’t been on a collision course with destiny, but with a fire-breathing dragon that I helped to build.
EVERYWHERE I GO, Parisians rush up and wish me luck. The tournament is the talk of the city. In restaurants and cafés, on the street, they yell my name, kiss my cheek, urge me onward. The story of my reception at the Springsteen concert has made the newspapers. The people, the press, are fascinated by my improbable run. Everyone can identify with it. They see something of themselves in my comeback, in my return from the dead.
It’s the night before the final and I’m sitting in my hotel room, watching TV. I shut it off. I go to the window. I feel sick. I think about this last year, these last eighteen months, these last eighteen years. Millions of balls, millions of decisions. I know this is my final chance to win the French Open, my final chance to win all four slams and complete the set, which means my final shot at redemption. The idea of losing scares me, and the thought of winning scares me nearly as much. Would I be grateful? Would I be worthy? Would I build on it—or squander it?
Also, Medvedev is never far from my thoughts. He has my game. I gave it to him. He even has my first name. Andrei. It’s going to be Andre versus Andrei. Me versus my doppelgänger.
Brad and Gil knock at the door.
Ready for dinner?
I hold the door open and tell them to come in for one second.
They stand just inside the door and watch me open the minibar. I pour myself a huge vodka. Brad’s mouth falls open as I down the drink in one gulp.
What the hell do you think—?
I’m sick nervous, Brad. I haven’t been able to eat a bite all day. I need to eat, and the only way I can eat is if I take the edge off.
Don’t worry, Gil says to Brad. He’s fine.
At least drink a big glass of water too, Brad says.
After dinner, when I get back to my room, I take a sleeping pill and slide into bed. I phone J.P. He says it’s early afternoon where he is.
What time is it there?
It’s late. It’s so very late.
How are you feeling?
Please, please, talk to me for a few minutes about anything but tennis.
Are you OK?
Anything but tennis.
OK. Well. Let’s see. How about I read you a poem? I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately.
Yeah. Good. Whatever.
He goes to his bookshelf, takes down a book. He reads softly.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
I fall asleep without hanging up the phone.
GIL KNOCKS AT MY DOOR, dressed as if he’s meeting de Gaulle. He’s got the nice black sport coat, the creased black slacks—the black hat. And he’s wearing the necklace I gave him. I’m wearing the matching earring. Father, Son, Holy Ghost.
In the elevator he says: It’s going to be OK.
Yeah.
But it’s not OK. I know it during warm-ups. I’m soaked in sweat. I’m sweating as if I’m about to get married. I’m so overcome with nerves that my teeth are clicking. The sun is bright, which should make me happy, because the ball will be drier and lighter. But the warmth of the day is also making me sweat that much more.
As the match begins, I’m a sweat-soaked wreck. I’m making stupid mistakes, rookie mistakes, every kind of error and fuck-up you can make on a tennis court. It takes just nineteen minutes to lose the first set, 6–1. Medvedev, meanwhile, couldn’t look calmer. And why not? He’s doing everything he’s supposed to do, everything I told him to do in Monte Carlo. He’s directing the pace, moving nimbly, ripping the backhand up the line whenever he chooses. His game is cool, precise, pitiless. If I move in, if I try to take over a point by creeping forward, he hits a crushing backhand past me.
He’s wearing plaid shorts, as if we’re at the beach, and in fact he looks as if he’s frolicking on the Riviera. He’s fresh, vigorous, having a holiday. He could be out here for days and days and not get tired of this.
As the second set starts, dark clouds appear. Suddenly a light rain falls. Hundreds of umbrellas appear in the stands. Play is halted. Medvedev runs into the locker room, and I follow.
No one is in there. I walk up and down. Water drips from a faucet. The sound pings off the metal lockers. I sit on a bench, sweating, staring into an open locker.
In come Brad and Gil. Brad, wearing a white jacket and white hat, a stark contrast against Gil’s all-black ensemble, slams the door as hard as he can and yells, What’s going on?
He’s too good, Brad. He’s just too good. I can’t beat him. This fucker is six-five, serving bombs, never missing. He’s hurting me with his serve, he’s hurting me with his backhand, I can’t get back in the point on his serve. I don’t have this.
Brad says nothing. I think of Nick, standing in about the same spot, saying nothing to me during the rain delay when I lost to Courier eight years ago. Some things never change. Same elusive tournament, same queasy feeling, same callous reaction from my coach.
I yell at Brad: Are you kidding me? You’re going to pick this moment, of all moments, to decide not to talk? Of all times, this is the moment you’re finally going to shut the hell up?
He stares. Then starts screaming. Brad, who never raises his voice to anybody, comes apart.
What do you want me to say, Andre? What is it that you want me to say? You tell me he’s too good. How the fuck would you know? You can’t judge how he’s playing! You’re so confused out there, so blind with panic, I’m surprised you can even see him. Too good? You’re making him look good.
But—
Just start letting go. If you’re going to lose, at least lose on your own terms. Hit the fucking ball.
But—
And if you’re not sure where to hit it, here’s an idea. Just hit it to the same place he hits it. If he hits a backhand crosscourt, you hit a backhand crosscourt. Just hit yours a little better. You don’t have to be better than the whole fucking world, remember? You just have to be better than one guy. There isn’t one shot he has that you don’t have. Fuck his serve. His serve will break down when you start making your shots. Just hit. Just fucking hit. If we’re going to lose today, fine, I can live with it, but let’s lose on our terms. The last thirteen days, I’ve seen you lay it on the line. I’ve seen you rip it, under pressure, maim guys. So please stop feeling sorry for yourself, and stop telling me he’s too good, and for the love of God stop trying to be perfect! Just see the ball, hit the ball. Do you hear me, Andre? See the ball. Hit the ball. Make this guy deal with you. Make him feel you out there. You’re not moving. You’re not hitting. You may think you are, but trust me, you’re just standing there. If you’re going down, OK, go down, but go down with guns blazing. Always, always, always, go down with both guns blaaazing.
He opens a locker and slams it shut. The door flaps and clangs.
The referee appears.
We’re back on court, gentlemen.
Brad and Gil walk out of the locker room. I notice that as they slip through the door Gil gives Brad’s back a furtive pat.
I walk slowly onto the court. We have a brief warm-up, then resume play. I’ve forgotten the score. I have to look at the scoreboard to remind myself. Oh yes. I lead, 1–0, in the second set. But Medvedev is serving. I think again of the final against Courier in 1991, the rain delay that disrupted my rhythm. Maybe this will be payback. Tennis karma. Maybe, as that rain delay befuddled me, this rain delay will help me right myself.
But Medvedev is counting on his own Ukrainian karma. He picks up right where he left off, keeps the pressure on, forces me conti
nually to retreat and play defense, which is not my game. The day is now heavily overcast, and damp, which seems to further strengthen Medvedev. He likes the pace slow. He’s an angry elephant, taking his sweet time, crushing me underfoot. In the first game after the delay, he serves the ball 120 miles an hour. Within seconds the score is even at 1–1.
Then he breaks me. Then he holds, then breaks me again, going on to win the second set with remarkable ease, 6–2.
In the third set, we hold serve through five games. Suddenly, inexplicably, for the first time in the match, I break him. I’m ahead, 4–2. I hear gasps and murmurs in the crowd.
But Medvedev breaks me right back. He holds and knots the set at 4–all.
The sun reappears. It’s shining brightly, and the clay begins to dry. The pace of play picks up considerably. I’m serving, and at 15–all we play a frantic point, which I win with a beautiful backhand volley. Now, at 30–15, I hear Brad telling me to see the ball, hit the ball. I let it fly. I cut loose my first serve with an extra loud grunt. Out. I hurry the second serve. Out again. Double fault. 30–30.
So. There you have it. I’m still going to lose—Medvedev is now just six points from the championship—but I’m going to lose on Brad’s terms instead of mine.
I serve again. Out. I stubbornly refuse to take anything off the second serve. Out again. Two double faults in a row.
Now it’s 30–40. Break point. I walk in circles, squeezing my eyes, on the verge of tears. I need to pull myself together. I toe the line, toss the ball into the air, and miss yet another serve. I’ve now missed five straight serves. I’m falling apart. I’m one missed serve away from Medvedev serving for the French Open.
He leans in, ready to obliterate this second serve. As a returner you’re always guessing about your opponent’s psyche, and Medvedev knows my psyche is in tatters after missing five serves in a row. He’s guessing, therefore, with a high degree of certainty, that I won’t have the stomach to be aggressive. He expects a nice soft kick serve. He thinks I have no other choice. He steps up, well inside the baseline, sending me a message that he anticipates a softie, and when he gets hold of it he’s going to ram it down my throat. He wears a look on his face that unmistakably says: Go ahead, bitch. Be aggressive. I dare you.