by Andre Agassi
I have no trouble reaching the final in my bracket, but the other kids don’t fare as well. They all get knocked out early. Thus they’re all forced to gather and watch my match. They have no choice, nowhere else to go. When I’m done, we’ll get back on the bus, en masse, and drive the twelve hours home to the Bollettieri Academy.
Take your time, the kids joke.
No one is eager to spend twelve more hours on that slow stinky bus.
For laughs, I decide to play the match in jeans. Not tennis shorts, not warm-up pants, but torn, faded, dirty dungarees. I know it won’t affect the outcome. The kid I’m playing is a chump. I can beat him with one hand tied behind my back, wearing a gorilla costume. For good measure I pencil on some eyeliner and put in my gaudiest earrings.
I win the match in straight sets. The other kids cheer wildly. They award me bonus points for style. On the ride back to the Bollettieri Academy I get extra attention, slaps on the back and attaboys. I feel at last as though I’m fitting in, becoming one of the cool kids, one of the alphas. Plus I got the W.
The next day, right after lunch, Nick calls a surprise meeting.
Everyone gather around, he bellows.
He directs us to a back court with bleachers. When all two hundred full-time kids are settled in and quiet he starts pacing before us, talking about what the Bollettieri Academy means, how we should feel privileged to be here. He built this place from nothing, he says, and he’s proud to have it bear his name. The Bollettieri Academy stands for excellence. The Bollettieri Academy stands for class. The Bollettieri Academy is known and respected the world over.
He pauses.
Andre, would you stand up for a minute?
I stand.
All that I’ve just said about this place, Andre, you have vi-o-lated. You have defiled this place, shamed it with your little stunt yesterday. Wearing jeans and makeup and earrings during your final? Boy, I’m going to tell you something very important: If you’re going to act like that, if you’re going to dress like a girl, then here’s what I’m going to do. In your next tournament I’m going to have you wear a skirt. I’ve contacted Ellesse, and I’ve asked them to send a bunch of skirts for you, and you will wear one, yes sirree, because if that’s who you are, then that is how we’re going to treat you.
All two hundred kids are looking at me. Four hundred eyes, fixed tight on me. Many of the kids are laughing.
Nick keeps going. Your free time, he says, is hereby revoked. Your free time is now my time. You’re on detail, Mr. Agassi. Between nine and ten you’ll clean every bathroom on the property. When the toilets are scrubbed, you’ll police the grounds. If you don’t like it, well, it’s simple. Leave. If you’re going to act like you did yesterday, we don’t want you here. If you’re incapable of showing that you care about this place as much as we do, buh-bye.
This last word, buh-bye, rings out, echoes across the empty courts.
That’s it, he says. Everyone get back to work.
All the kids scurry away. I stand stock still, trying to decide what to do. I could curse out Nick. I could threaten to fight him. I could start bawling. I think of Philly, then Perry. What would they have me do? I think of my father, sent to school in girl clothes when his mother wanted to humiliate him. The day he became a fighter.
There is no more time to decide. Gabriel says my punishment begins right now. For the rest of the afternoon, he says—on your knees. Weed.
AT DUSK, relieved of my weed sack, I walk to my room. No more indecision. I know exactly what I’m going to do. I throw my clothes in a suitcase and start for the highway. The thought crosses my mind that this is Florida, any maniac halfwit could pick me up and I’d never be heard from again. But I’d be better off with a maniac halfwit than with Nick.
In my wallet I have one credit card, which my father gave me for emergencies, and I’m thinking this is a bona fide Code Red. I’m headed for the airport. By this time tomorrow I’ll be sitting in Perry’s bedroom, telling him the story.
I keep my eyes peeled for searchlights. I listen for the yelps of distant bloodhounds. I stick out my thumb.
A car pulls up. I open the door, wind up to toss my suitcase in the backseat. It’s Julio, the disciplinarian on Nick’s staff. He says my father is on the phone back at the Bollettieri Academy and wants to speak to me—now.
I’d prefer the bloodhounds.
I TELL MY FATHER that I want to come home. I tell him what Nick has done.
You dress like a fag, my father says. Sounds like you deserved it.
I move to Plan B.
Pops, I say, Nick’s ruining my game. It’s all about hitting from the baseline—we never work on my net game. We never work on serve and volley.
My father says he’ll talk to Nick about my game. He also says Nick has given his assurance that I’ll only be punished for a few weeks, to prove that Nick is in charge of the place. They can’t have one kid flouting the rules. They need to maintain some show of discipline.
In conclusion my father says again that I’m staying. I have no choice. Click. Dial tone.
Julio shuts the door. Nick takes the receiver from my hand and says my father told him to take away my credit card.
No way I’m giving up my credit card. My only means of ever getting out of here? Over my dead body.
Nick tries to negotiate with me and I suddenly realize: He needs me. He sent Julio after me, he phoned my father, now he’s trying to get my credit card? He told me to leave, and when I left, he fetched me back. I called his bluff. Despite the trouble I cause, I’m apparently worth something to this guy.
BY DAY, I’M THE MODEL PRISONER. I pick weeds, clean toilets, wear the proper tennis clothes. By night I’m the masked avenger. I steal a master key to the Bollettieri Academy, and after everyone’s asleep I go marauding with a group of other disgruntled inmates. While I confine my vandalism to minor stuff, like throwing shaving cream bombs, my cohorts spray walls with graffiti, and on the door to Nick’s office they paint Nick the Dick. When Nick has the door repainted, they do it again.
My primary cohort on these late-night sprees is Roddy Parks, the boy who beat me that long-ago day when Perry introduced himself. Then Roddy gets caught. His bunkmate drops a dime. I hear that Roddy’s been expelled. So now we know what it takes to get expelled. Nick the Dick. To his credit, Roddy takes the fall. He doesn’t rat out anyone.
Aside from petty vandalism, my main act of insurrection is silence. I vow that, as long as I live, I’ll never speak to Nick. This is my code, my religion, my new identity. This is who I am, the boy who won’t speak. Nick, of course, doesn’t notice. He strolls by the courts and says something to me and I don’t answer. He shrugs. But other kids see me not answer. My status rises.
One reason for Nick’s oblivion is that he’s busy organizing a tournament, which he hopes will attract top juniors from throughout the nation. This gives me a great idea, another way to stick it to Nick. I pull aside one of his staff and mention a kid back in Vegas who’d be perfect for the tournament. He’s unbelievably talented, I say. He gives me problems whenever we play.
What’s his name?
Perry Rogers.
It’s like laying fresh bait in a Nick trap. Nick lives to discover new stars and showcase them in his tournaments. New stars generate buzz. New stars add to the aura of the Bollettieri Academy, and bolster Nick’s image as the great tennis mentor. Sure enough, days later, Perry receives a plane ticket and a personal invite to the tournament. He flies down to Florida and takes a cab to the Bollettieri Academy. I meet him in the compound and we throw our arms around each other, cackling at the fast one we’re pulling on Nick.
Who do I have to play?
Murphy Jensen.
Oh no. He’s great!
Don’t worry about it. That’s not for a few days. For now, let’s party.
One of the many perks for kids playing in the tournament is a field trip to Busch Gardens in Tampa. On the bus to the amusement park I bring Perry up to sp
eed, tell him about my public humiliation, describe how miserable I am at the Bollettieri Academy. And at Bradenton Academy. I tell him I’m close to failing. That’s where I lose him. For once he’s not able to make my problem sound coherent. He loves school. He dreams of attending a fine Eastern college, then law school.
I change the subject. I grill him about Jamie. Did she ask about me? How does she look? Does she wear my ankle bracelet? I tell Perry I want to send him back to Vegas with a special present for Jamie. Maybe something nice from Busch Gardens.
That would be cool, he agrees.
We’re not at Busch Gardens ten minutes before Perry sees a booth filled with stuffed animals. On a high shelf sits an enormous black-and-white panda, its legs sticking left and right, its tiny red tongue hanging out.
Andre—you need to get Jamie that!
Well, sure, but it’s not for sale. You have to win the grand prize to get that panda, and no one wins this game. It’s rigged. I don’t like things that are rigged.
Nah. You just have to toss two rubber rings around the neck of a Coke bottle. We’re athletes. We’ve got this.
We try for half an hour, scattering rubber rings all over the booth. Not one ring comes close to lassoing a Coke bottle.
OK, Perry says. Here’s what we do. You distract the lady running the booth, I’ll sneak back there and put two of these rings on the bottles.
I don’t know. What if we get caught?
But then I remember: It’s for Jamie. Anything for Jamie.
I call out to the booth lady: Excuse me, ma’am, I have a question.
She turns. Yes?
I ask something inane about the rules of ringtoss. In my peripheral vision I see Perry tiptoe into the booth. Four seconds later he leaps back.
I won! I won!
The booth lady spins around. She sees two Coke bottles with rubber rings around their necks. She looks shocked. Then skeptical.
Now wait just a minute, kid—
I won! Give me my panda!
I didn’t see—
That’s your problem if you didn’t see. That’s not the rule, you have to see. Where does it say you have to see? I want to talk to your supervisor! Get Mr. Busch Gardens himself down here! I’m taking this whole amusement park to court. What kind of a gyp is this? I paid a dollar to play this game, and that’s an implied contract. You owe me a panda. I’m suing. My father is suing. You have exactly three seconds to get me my panda, which I won fair and fucking square!
Perry is doing what he loves, talking. He’s doing what his father does, selling air. And the booth lady is doing what she hates, manning a booth at an amusement park. It’s no contest. She doesn’t want any trouble and she doesn’t need this headache. With a long stick she snatches down the big panda and forks it over. It’s nearly as tall as Perry. He grabs it like a giant Chipwich and we run off before she changes her mind.
For the rest of the night we’re a threesome: Perry, me, and the panda. We bring the panda to the snack bar, into the boys’ room, on the roller coaster. It’s like we’re babysitting a comatose fourteen-year-old. A real panda couldn’t be more trouble. When the time comes to board the bus, we’re both weary and glad to dump the panda in its own seat, which it fills. Its girth is as shocking as its height.
I say, I hope Jamie appreciates this.
Perry says, She’s going to love it.
A little girl sits behind us. She’s eight or nine. She can’t take her eyes off the panda. She coos and pets its fur.
What a pretty panda! Where did you get it?
We won it.
What are you going to do with it?
I’m giving it to a friend.
She asks to sit with the panda. She asks if she can cuddle it. I tell her to help herself.
I hope Jamie likes the panda half as much as this girl does.
PERRY AND I are hanging out in the barracks the next morning when Gabriel pokes his head in.
The Man wants to see you.
What about?
Gabriel shrugs.
I walk slowly, taking my time. I stop at the door to Nick’s office and with a thin smile I remember. Nick the Dick. You’ll be missed, Roddy.
Nick is sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his tall black leather chair.
Andre, come in, come in.
I sit in a wooden chair across from him.
He clears his throat. I understand, he says, that you were at Busch Gardens yesterday. Did you have fun?
I say nothing. He waits. Then clears his throat again.
Well, I understand you came home with a very large panda.
I continue to stare straight ahead.
Anyway, he says, my daughter apparently has fallen in love with that panda. Ha ha.
I think of the little girl on the bus. Nick’s daughter—of course. How could I have missed that?
She can’t stop talking about it, Nick says. So here’s the thing. I’d like to buy that panda from you.
Silence.
You hear me, Andre?
Silence.
Can you understand?
Silence.
Gabriel, why isn’t Andre saying anything?
He’s not speaking to you.
Since when?
Gabriel frowns.
Look, Nick says, just tell me how much you want for it, Andre.
I don’t move my eyes.
I know. Why don’t you write down how much you want for it?
He slides a piece of paper toward me. I don’t move.
How about if I give you $200.
Deep silence.
Gabriel tells Nick that he’ll talk to me later about the panda.
Yeah, Nick says. OK. Have a think about it, Andre.
YOU’LL NEVER BELIEVE THIS, I tell Perry at the barracks. He wanted the Panda. For his daughter. That little girl on the bus was Nick’s daughter.
You’re kidding. And what did you say?
I said nothing.
What do you mean, nothing?
Vow of silence, remember? Forever.
Andre, you misplayed that. No, no, that’s a miss. You’ve got to revisit this, quickly. Here’s the play. You take the panda, you give it to Nick and tell him you don’t want his money, you just want an opportunity to succeed and get out of this place. You want wild cards, bids to tournaments, different rules to live by. Better food, better everything. Above all—you don’t want to go to school. This is your chance to break free. You’ve got real leverage now.
I can’t give that fucking guy my panda. I just can’t. Besides, what about Jamie?
We’ll worry about Jamie later. This is your future we’re talking about. You have to give that panda to Nick!
We talk until long after lights out, arguing in heated whispers. Finally Perry convinces me.
So, he says, yawning, you’re going to give it to him tomorrow.
No. Bullshit. I’m going to his office right now. I’m going to let myself in with the master key, then put the panda on Nick’s tall leather chair, ass up.
THE NEXT MORNING, before breakfast, Gabriel comes for me again.
Office. On the double.
Nick is in his chair. The panda is now in the corner, leaning, staring into space. Nick looks at the panda, then me. He says, You don’t talk. You wear makeup. You wear jeans in a tournament. You get me to invite your friend Perry to the tourney, even though he can’t play, he can barely chew gum and walk at the same time. And that hair. Don’t get me started on that hair. And now you give me something I ask for, but you break into my office in the middle of the night and put it ass-up in my fucking chair? How the fuck did you get in my office? Jesus, boy, what is your problem?
You want to know what my problem is?
Even Nick is shocked by the sound of my voice.
I shout, You are my fucking problem. You. And if you haven’t figured that out, then you’re stupider than you look. Do you have any idea what it’s like here? What it’s like to be three thousand miles from home, living
in this prison, waking up at six thirty, having thirty minutes to eat that shitty breakfast, getting on that broken-down bus, going to that lousy school for four hours, hurrying back and having thirty minutes to eat more crap before going on the tennis court, day after day after day? Do you? The only thing you have to look forward to, the only real fun you have every week, is Saturday night at the Bradenton Mall—and then that gets taken away! You took that from me! This place is hell, and I want to burn it down!
Nick’s eyes are wider than the panda’s. But he’s not angry. Or sad. He’s mildly pleased, because this is the only language he understands. He reminds me of Pacino in Scarface, when a woman tells him, Who, why, when, and how I fuck is none of your business, and Pacino says, Now you’re talking to me, baby.
Nick, I realize, likes it rough.
OK, he says, you made your point. What do you want?
I hear Perry’s voice.
I want to quit school, I say. I want to start doing correspondence school, so I can work on my game full-time. I want your help, instead of the bullshit you’ve been giving me. I want wild cards, bids to tournaments. I want to take real steps toward turning pro.
Of course none of this is really what I want. It’s what Perry tells me I want, and it’s better than what I’ve got. Even as I demand it, I feel ambivalent. But Nick looks at Gabriel, and Gabriel looks at me, and the panda looks at all of us.
I’ll think about it, Nick says.
HOURS AFTER PERRY LEAVES FOR VEGAS, Nick sends word via Gabriel that my first wild card will be the big tournament at La Quinta. Also, he’s going to get me into the next Florida satellite. Furthermore, I’m to consider myself hereby dismissed and excused from Bradenton Academy. He’ll set up a correspondence program of some sort, when he gets around to it.
Gabriel walks off, smirking. You won, kid.
I watch everyone else board the bus for Bradenton Academy, and as it rumbles away, spewing black smoke, I sit on a bench, basking in the sunshine. I tell myself: You’re fourteen years old, and you never have to go to school again. From now on, every morning will feel like Christmas and the first day of summer vacation, combined. A smile spreads across my face, my first in months. No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks. You’re free, Andre. You’ll never have to learn anything again.