by Andre Agassi
I don’t like anything that’s rigged, so I don’t give much effort. I don’t study. I don’t do homework. I don’t pay attention. And I don’t give a damn. In every class I sit quietly at my desk, staring at my feet, wishing I were somewhere else, while the teacher drones on about Shakespeare or Bunker Hill or the Pythagorean theorem.
The teachers don’t care that I’ve tuned them out, because I’m one of Nick’s Boys, and they don’t want to cross Nick. Bradenton Academy exists because the Bollettieri Academy keeps sending it a bus full of paying customers every semester. The teachers know that their jobs depend on Nick, so they can’t flunk us, and we cherish our special status. We feel a lordly sense of entitlement, never realizing that the thing to which we’re most entitled is the thing we’re not getting—an education.
Inside the metal front doors of Bradenton Academy stands the office, the nerve center of the school and the source of much pain. Report cards and threatening letters emanate from the office. Bad boys are sent there. The office is also the lair of Mrs. G and Doc G, married coprincipals of Bradenton Academy, and, I suspect, frustrated sideshow performers. Mrs. G is a gangly woman with no midsection. She looks as if her shoulders have been set directly on her hips. She tries to disguise this odd shape by wearing skirts, but this only accentuates the problem. On her face she wears two gobs of blush and one smear of lipstick, a symmetrical triad of three circles that she color-coordinates the way other people do their shoes and belt. Her cheeks and mouth always match, and always almost distract you from the hump in her back. Nothing Mrs. G wears, however, can distract you from her gargantuan hands. She has mitts the size of rackets, and the first time she shakes my hand I think I might faint.
Old Doc G is half her size but has just as many body issues. It’s not hard to see what they first found in common. Frail, gamy, Doc G has a right arm that’s been shriveled since birth. He ought to hide this arm, keep it behind his back or shoved in a pocket. Instead he waves it around, brandishes it like a weapon. He likes to take students aside for one-on-one chats, and whenever he does so, he swings his bad arm up onto the student’s shoulder, setting it there until he’s said his piece. If this doesn’t give you the heebie-jeebies, nothing will. Doc G’s arm feels like a pork tenderloin lying on your shoulder, and hours later you can still feel it there and you can’t help but shiver.
Mrs. G and Doc G have instituted dozens of rules at Bradenton Academy, and one of the most strictly enforced is their ban on jewelry. Thus, I go out of my way to pierce my ears. It’s an easy show of rebellion, which, as I see it, is my last resort. Rebellion is the one thing I get to choose every day, and this rebellion comes with the added bonus that it represents a neat little fuck-you to my father, who’s always hated earrings on men. Many times I’ve heard my father say that earrings equal homosexuality. I can’t wait for him to see mine. (I buy both studs and dangly hoops.) He’ll finally regret sending me thousands of miles from home and leaving me here to be corrupted.
I make a feeble and insincere effort to hide my new accessory, wrapping a Band-Aid around it. Mrs. G notices, of course, just as I hoped she would. She pulls me out of class and confronts me.
Mr. Agassi, what is the meaning of that bandage?
I hurt my ear.
Hurt your—? Don’t be ridiculous. Remove that Band-Aid.
I pull off the Band-Aid. She sees the stud and gasps.
We do not allow earrings at Bradenton Academy, Mr. Agassi. The next time I see you, I will expect the Band-Aid gone and the earring out.
By the end of the first semester I’m close to failing all my classes. Except English. I show a strange aptitude for literature, especially poetry. Memorizing famous poems, writing original poems, it comes easily to me. We’re assigned to write a short verse about our daily lives and I set mine proudly on the teacher’s desk. She likes it. She reads it aloud in class. Some of the other kids later ask me to ghostwrite their homework. I dash off their assignments on the bus, no problem. The English teacher detains me after class and says I have real talent. I smile. It’s different from being told by Nick that I have talent. This feels like something I’d like to pursue. For a moment I imagine what it would be like to do something besides playing tennis—something I choose. Then I go to my next class, math, and the dream dies in a cloud of algebra formulae. I’m not cut out to be a scholar. The math teacher’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from miles away. The next class, French, is worse. I’m très stupide. I transfer to Spanish, where I’m muy estúpido. Spanish, I think, might actually shorten my life. The boredom, the confusion, might cause me to expire in my chair. They will find me one day in my seat, muerto.
Gradually school goes from being hard to being physically harmful. The anxiety of boarding the bus, the twenty-six-minute ride, the inevitable confrontation with Mrs. G or Doc G, actually make me ill. What I dread most is the moment, the daily moment, when I’m exposed as a loser. An academic loser. So great is this dread that over time Bradenton Academy modifies my view of the Bollettieri Academy. I look forward to all those drills, and even the high-pressure tournaments, because at least I’m not at school.
Thanks to one particularly big tournament, I miss a major history test at Bradenton Academy, a test I was sure to fail. I celebrate this dodging of a bullet by eviscerating my opponents. But when I return to school my teacher says I have to take a makeup.
The injustice. I skulk down to the office for the makeup test. Along the way I duck into a dark corner and prepare a cheat sheet, which I stash in my pocket.
There is only one other student in the office, a red-haired girl with a fat, sweaty face. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t register my presence in any way. She seems to be in a coma. I fill out the test, fast, copying from my cheat sheet. Suddenly I feel a pair of eyes on me. I look up, and the red-haired girl is out of her coma, staring. She closes her book and strolls out. Quickly I shove the cheat sheet into the crotch of my underwear. I tear another sheet of paper from my notebook and, imitating a girlish handwriting, I write: I think you’re cute! Give me a call! I shove the paper in my front pocket just as Mrs. G storms in.
Pencil down, she says.
Soon after arriving at the Bollettieri Academy, I start to rebel.
What’s up, Mrs. G?
Are you cheating?
On what? This? If I were going to cheat on something it wouldn’t be this. I’ve got this history stuff down cold. Valley Forge. Paul Revere. Piece of cake.
Empty your pockets.
I lay out a few coins, a pack of gum, the note from my imaginary admirer. Mrs. G picks up the note and reads under her breath.
I say, I’m thinking about what I should write back. Any ideas?
She scowls, walks out. I pass the test and chalk it up as a moral victory.
MY ENGLISH TEACHER is my only advocate. She’s also the daughter of Mrs. G and Doc G, so she pleads with her parents that I’m smarter than my grades and my behavior indicate. She even arranges an IQ test and the results confirm her opinion.
Andre, she says, you need to apply yourself. Prove to Mrs. G that you’re not who she thinks you are.
I tell her that I am applying myself, that I’m doing as well as I can under the circumstances. But I’m tired all the time from playing tennis, and distracted by the pressure of tournaments and so-called challenges. Especially the challenges: once a month we play someone above us in the pecking order. I’d like any teacher to explain how you’re supposed to concentrate on conjugating verbs or solving for x when you’re steeling yourself for a five-set brawl with some punk from Orlando that afternoon.
I don’t tell her everything, because I can’t. I’d feel like a sissy talking about my fear of school, the countless times I sit in class drenched in sweat. I can’t tell her about my trouble concentrating, my horror of being called on, how this horror sometimes morphs into an air bubble in my lower intestine, which grows and grows until I need to run to the bathroom. Between classes I’m often locked in a toilet stall.
> Then there’s the social anxiety, the doomed effort to fit in. At Braden-ton Academy, fitting in takes money. Most of the kids are fashion plates, whereas I have three pairs of jeans, five T-shirts, two pairs of tennis shoes—and one cotton crewneck with gray and black squares. In class, rather than thinking about The Scarlet Letter, I’m thinking about how many days per week I can get away with wearing my sweater, worrying about what I’ll do when the weather gets warm.
The worse I do in school, the more I rebel. I drink, I smoke pot, I act like an ass. I’m dimly aware of the inverse ratio between my grades and my rebellion, but I don’t dwell on it. I prefer Nick’s theory. He says I don’t do well in school because I have a hard-on for the world. It might be the only thing he’s ever said about me that’s halfway accurate. (He typically describes me as a cocky showboater who seeks the limelight. Even my father knows me better than that.) My general demeanor does feel like a hard-on—violent, involuntary, unstoppable—and so I accept it as I accept the many changes in my body.
Finally, when my grades hit bottom, my rebellion reaches the breaking point. I walk into a hair salon in the Bradenton Mall and tell the stylist to give me a mohawk. Razor the sides, shave them to the scalp, and leave just one thick strip of spiked hair down the middle.
Are you sure, kid?
I want it high, and I want it spiky. Then dye it pink.
He works his shearer back and forth for eight minutes. Then he says, All done, and spins me around in the chair. I look in the mirror. The earring was good, this is better. I can’t wait to see the look on Mrs. G’s face.
Outside the mall, while I wait for the bus back to the Bollettieri Academy, no one recognizes me. Kids I play with, kids I bunk with, they look right past me. To the casual observer I’ve done something that seems like a desperate effort to stand out. But in fact I’ve rendered myself, my inner self, my true self, invisible. At least, that was the idea.
I FLY HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, and as the plane approaches the Strip, as the casinos below the canting right wing twinkle like a row of Christmas trees, the flight attendant says we’re stuck in a holding pattern.
Groans.
Since we know you’re all itching to hit the casinos, she says, we thought it might be fun to do a little gambling till we’re clear to land.
Cheers.
Let’s everybody take out a dollar and put it in this airsick bag. Then write your seat number on your ticket stub and throw it in this other airsick bag. We’ll pull out one ticket stub, and that person will win the jackpot!
She collects everyone’s dollar while another flight attendant collects the ticket stubs. Now she stands at the head of the plane and reaches in the bag.
And the grand prize goes to, drumroll please, 9F!
I’m 9F. I won! I won! I stand and wave. The passengers turn and see me. More groans. Great, the kid with the pink mohawk won.
The flight attendant reluctantly hands me the airsick bag full of ninety-six ones. I spend the rest of the flight counting and recounting them, thanking my lucky stars for this horseshoe up my ass.
My father, as expected, is horrified by my hair and earring. But he refuses to blame himself or the Bollettieri Academy. He won’t admit that sending me away was a mistake, and he won’t stand for any talk of my coming home. He simply asks if I’m a faggot.
No, I say, then go to my room.
Philly follows. He compliments my new look. Even a mohawk beats bald. I tell him about my windfall on the airplane.
Whoa! What are you going to do with all that cash?
I’m thinking about spending it on an ankle bracelet for Jamie. She’s a girl who goes to school with Perry. She let me kiss her the last time I was home. But I don’t know—I desperately need new clothes for school. I can’t make it much farther with one gray-black sweater. I want to fit in.
Philly nods. Tough call, bro.
He doesn’t ask why, if I want to fit in, I got a mohawk and an earring. He treats my dilemma as serious, my contradictions as coherent, and helps me work through the options. We decide that I should spend the money on the girlfriend, forget about the new clothes.
The moment I have the anklet in my hands, however, I’m filled with regret. I picture myself back in Florida, rotating my few articles of clothing. I tell Philly, and he gives a half nod.
In the morning I open one eye and find Philly hovering over me, grinning. He’s staring at my chest. I look down and find a stack of bills.
What’s this?
Went out and played cards last night, bro. Hit a lucky streak. Won $600.
So—what’s this?
Three hundred bucks. Go buy yourself some sweaters.
DURING SPRING BREAK my father wants me to play semipro tournaments, called satellites, which are open qualification, meaning anyone can show up and play at least one match. They’re held in out-of-the-way towns, way out of the way, burgs like Monroe, Louisiana, and St. Joe, Missouri. I can’t travel by myself; I’m just fourteen. So my father sends Philly along to chaperone me. Also, to play. Philly and my father still cling to the belief that he can do something with his tennis.
Philly rents a beige Omni, which quickly becomes a mobile version of our bedroom back home. One side his, one side mine. We log thousands of miles, stopping only for fast-food joints, tournament sites, and sleep. Our lodging is free, because in every town we stay with strangers, local families who volunteer to host players. Most of the hosts are pleasant enough, but they’re overly enthusiastic about the game. It’s awkward enough to stay with strangers, but it’s a chore to make tennis talk over pancakes and coffee. For me, that is. Philly will talk to anyone, and I often have to nudge and pull him when it’s time to go.
Philly and I both feel like outlaws, living on the road, doing whatever we please. We throw fast-food wrappers over our shoulders into the backseat. We listen to loud music, curse all we want, say whatever is on our minds, without fear of being corrected or ridiculed. Still, we never mention our very different goals for this trip. Philly wants only to earn one ATP point, just one, so he can know what it feels like to be ranked. I want only to avoid playing Philly, in which case I’ll have to beat my beloved brother again.
At the first satellite I rout my opponent and Philly gets routed by his. Afterward, in the rental car, in the parking garage beside the stadium, Philly stares at the steering wheel, looking stunned. For some reason this loss hurt more than the others. He balls his fist and punches the steering wheel. Hard. Then punches it again. He begins talking to himself, so low that I can’t hear. Now he’s talking louder. Now he’s shouting, calling himself a born loser, hitting the steering wheel again and again. He’s hammering the wheel so hard that I’m sure he’s going to break a bone in his hand. I think of our father, shadowboxing the steering wheel after knocking out the trucker.
Philly says, It would be better if I broke my fucking fist! At least then it would all be over! Dad was right. I am a born loser.
All at once he stops. He looks at me and becomes resigned. Calm. Like our mother. He smiles; the storm has passed, the poison is gone.
I feel better, he says with a laugh and a snuffle.
Driving out of the parking garage, he gives me pointers on my next opponent.
DAYS AFTER I RETURN to the Bollettieri Academy, I’m at the Bradenton Mall. I take a chance and place a collect call home. Pfew: Philly answers. He sounds the way he did in the parking garage.
So, he says. We got a letter from the ATP.
Yeah?
You want to know your ranking?
I don’t know—do I?
You’re number 610.
Really?
Six-ten in the world, bro.
Which means there are only 609 people better than me in the entire world. On planet earth, in the solar system, I’m number 610. I slap the wall of the phone booth and shout for joy.
The line is silent. Then, in a kind of whisper, Philly asks, How does it feel?
I can’t believe how thoughtless I’
ve been, shouting in Philly’s ear when he must feel bitterly disappointed. I wish I could throw half of my ATP points on his chest. In a tone of supreme boredom, stifling a pretend yawn, I tell him: You know what? It’s no big deal. It’s overrated.
6
WHAT MORE CAN I DO? Nick, Gabriel, Mrs. G, Doc G—no one seems to notice my antics anymore. I’ve mutilated my hair, grown my nails, including one pinky nail that’s two inches long and painted fire-engine red. I’ve pierced my body, broken rules, busted curfew, picked fistfights, thrown tantrums, cut classes, even slipped into the girls’ barracks after hours. I’ve consumed gallons of whiskey, often while sitting brazenly atop my bunk, and as an extra dash of audacity I’ve built a pyramid from my dead soldiers. A three-foot tower of empty Jack Daniel’s bottles. I chew tobacco, hardcore weed like Skoal and Kodiak, soaked in whiskey. After losses I stick a plum-sized wad of chew inside my cheek. The bigger the loss, the bigger the wad. What rebellion is left? What new sin can I commit to show the world I’m unhappy and want to go home?
Each week, the only time I’m not plotting rebellion is free hour, when I can goof off in the rec center, or Saturday night, when I can go to the Bradenton Mall and flirt with girls. That adds up to ten hours per week that I’m happy, or at least not wracking my brain to think up some new form of civil disobedience.
When I’m still fourteen the Bollettieri Academy hires a bus and ships us upstate to a major tournament in Pensacola. The Bollettieri Academy travels several times each year to tournaments like this one, throughout Florida, because Nick thinks they’re good tests. Measuring sticks, he calls them. Florida is tennis heaven, Nick says, and if we’re better than Florida’s best, then we must be tops in the world.