Open

by Andre Agassi

  7

  I PUT IN MY EARRING and run down to the hard courts. The morning is mine, mine, and I spend it hitting balls. Hit harder. I hit for two hours, channeling my newfound freedom into every swing. I can feel the difference. The ball explodes off my racket. Nick appears, shaking his head. I pity your next opponent, he says.

  Meanwhile, back in Vegas, my mother begins correspondence school on my behalf. Her first actual correspondence is a letter to me, in which she says that her son might not go to college, but he’s damn sure going to graduate high school. I write back and thank her for doing my homework and taking my tests. But when she earns the degree, I add, she can keep it.

  In March 1985, I fly to Los Angeles and stay with Philly, who’s living in someone’s guest cottage, giving tennis lessons, searching for what he wants to do with his life. He helps me train for La Quinta, one of the year’s biggest tournaments. The guest cottage is tiny, smaller than our room back in Vegas, smaller than our rented Omni, but we don’t mind, we’re thrilled to be reunited, hopeful about my new direction. There’s just one problem: We have no money. We subsist on baked potatoes and lentil soup. Three times a day we bake two potatoes and heat a can of generic lentil soup. We then pour the soup over the potatoes and voilà—breakfast, lunch, or dinner is served. The whole meal costs eighty-nine cents and keeps hunger at bay for about three hours.

  THE DAY BEFORE THE TOURNAMENT, we drive Philly’s beat-up jalopy over to La Quinta. The car produces enormous clouds of black smoke. It feels like driving in a portable summer storm.

  Maybe we should stick a potato in the tailpipe, I tell Philly.

  Our first stop is the grocery store. I stand before the bin of potatoes and my stomach rolls. I can’t face another spud. I walk off, wander up and down the aisles, and find myself in the frozen-food section. My eye lands on one particularly enticing treat. Oreo ice cream sandwiches. I reach for them like a sleepwalker. I take a box of ice cream sandwiches from the case and meet my brother in the express lane. Slipping behind him I gently set the ice cream sandwiches on the conveyor belt.

  He looks down, then looks at me.

  We can’t afford that.

  I’ll have this instead of my potato.

  He picks up the box, looks at the price, lets out a low whistle. Andre, this costs as much as ten potatoes. We can’t.

  I know. Fuck.

  Walking back to the frozen-food case, I think: I hate Philly. I love Philly. I hate potatoes.

  Woozy with hunger, I go out and beat Broderick Dyke in the first round at La Quinta, 6–4, 6–4. In the second round I beat Rill Baxter, 6–2, 6–1. In the third round I beat Russell Simpson, 6–3, 6–3. Then I win my first round in the main draw against John Austin, 6–4, 6–1. Down a break in the first set, I come storming back. I’m fifteen years old, beating grown men, beating them senseless, churning my way through the ranks. Everywhere I walk people are pointing at me, whispering. There he is. That’s the kid I was telling you about—the prodigy. It’s the prettiest word I’ve ever heard applied to me.

  Prize money for reaching the second round at La Quinta, is $2,600. But I’m an amateur, so I get nothing. Still, Philly learns that the tournament will reimburse players for expenses. We sit in his jalopy and make up an itemized list of imaginary expenses, including our imaginary first-class flight from Vegas, our imaginary five-star-hotel room, our imaginarily lavish restaurant meals. We think we’re shrewd, because our expenses equal exactly $2,600.

  Philly and I have the balls to ask for so much because we’re from Vegas. We’ve spent our childhoods in casinos. We think we’re born bluffers. We think we’re high rollers. After all, we did learn to double down before we were potty-trained. Recently, while walking through Caesars, Philly and I passed a slot machine just as it began to play that old Depression-era song We’re in the Money. We knew the song from Pops, so we felt it was a sign. It didn’t occur to us that the slot machine played that song all day long. We sat down at the nearest blackjack table—and won. Now, with the same swagger born of naïveté, I walk our list of expenses into the office of the tournament director, Charlie Pasarell, while Philly waits in the car.

  Charlie is a former player. In fact, back in 1969 he played Pancho Gonzalez in the longest men’s singles match ever at Wimbledon. Pancho is now my brother-in-law—he recently married Rita. Another sign that Philly and I are in the money. But the biggest sign of all: one of Charlie’s oldest friends is Alan King, who hosted the very same Vegas tournament where I saw Caesar and Cleopatra and the wheelbarrow full of silver dollars, where I worked as a ball boy with Wendi, where I first stepped onto a professional tennis court in an official capacity. Signs, signs, everywhere signs. I place the list on Charlie’s desk and stand back.

  Huh, Charlie says, looking over the list. Very interesting.

  Sorry?

  Expenses don’t usually work out so neat.

  I feel a hot flash.

  Your expenses, Andre, are exactly the same amount as the prize money you’d be able to collect if you were a pro.

  Charlie looks at me over the top of his glasses. I feel my heart shrivel to the size of a lentil. I consider making a run for it. I imagine Philly and me living in that guest cottage for the rest of our lives. But Charlie suppresses a smile, reaches into a strongbox, and removes a wad of bills.

  Here’s two grand, kid. Don’t grind me for the other six hun.

  Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.

  I run outside and dive into Philly’s car. He peels out as if we’ve just held up the First Bank of La Quinta. I count out $1,000 and throw it at my brother.

  Your cut of the loot.

  What? No! Andre, you worked hard for this, bro.

  Are you kidding? We worked. Philly, I couldn’t have done this without you! Impossible! We’re in this together, man.

  In the back of our minds we’re both thinking of the morning I woke up with $300 on my chest. We’re also thinking of all those nights, sitting in the ad court–deuce court of our bedroom, sharing everything. He leans over, while driving, and gives me a hug. Then we talk about where we’re going to eat dinner. We’re drooling as we bandy names of restaurants about. In the end we agree that this is a special occasion, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, which calls for something truly fancy.

  Sizzler.

  I can already taste that rib eye, Philly says.

  I’m not going to bother with a plate. I’m just going to shove my head into the salad bar.

  They have an all-you-can-eat shrimp special.

  They’re going to be sorry they ever came up with that idea!

  You said it, bro!

  We gnaw through the La Quinta Sizzler, not leaving a single seed or crouton in our wake, then sit around and stare at the money we have left over. We line up the bills, stack them, stroke them. We talk about our new buddy, Benjamin Franklin. We’re so drunk on calories, we break out the steam iron and run it lightly over each bill, gently smoothing out the wrinkles in Ben’s face.

  8

  I CONTINUE TO LIVE AND TRAIN at the Bollettieri Academy, with Nick as my coach and sometime travel companion, though he feels more like a sounding board. And, honestly, a friend. Our makeshift truce has turned into a surprisingly harmonious working relationship. Nick respects the way I stood up to him, and I respect him for being true to his word. We’re working hard to achieve a common goal, to conquer the tennis world. I don’t expect much from Nick in the way of Xs and Os; I look to him for cooperation, not information. Meanwhile, he looks to me for headline-generating wins which help his academy. I don’t pay him a salary, because I can’t, but it’s understood that when I turn pro I’ll give him bonuses based on what I earn. He considers this more than generous.

  Early spring, 1986. I tramp all over Florida, playing a series of satellite tournaments. Kissimmee. Miami. Sarasota. Tampa. After a year of working hard, focusing exclusively on tennis, I play well, making it to the fifth tournament of the series, the Masters. I reach the final and, though I
lose, I’m entitled to a finalist check of $1,100.

  I want to take it. I yearn to take it. Philly and I sure could use the money. Still, if I take that check I’m a professional tennis player, forever, no turning back.

  I phone my father back in Vegas and ask him what I should do.

  My father says, What the hell do you mean? Take the money.

  If I take the money, there’s no turning back. I’m pro.

  So?

  If I cash this check, Pops, that’s it.

  He acts as if we have a bad connection.

  You’ve dropped out of school! You have an eighth-grade education. What are your choices? What the hell else are you going to do? Be a doctor?

  None of this comes as news, but I hate the way he puts it.

  I tell the tournament director I’ll take the money. As the words leave my mouth I feel a shelf of possibilities fall away. I don’t know what those possibilities might be, but that’s the point—I never will know. The man hands me a check, and as I walk out of his office I feel as if I’m starting down a long, long road, one that seems to lead into a dark, ominous forest.

  It’s April 29, 1986. My sixteenth birthday.

  In disbelief, all day long, I tell myself: You’re a professional tennis player now. That’s what you are. That’s who you are. No matter how many times I say it, it just doesn’t sound right.

  The one unequivocally good thing about my decision to turn pro is that my father sends Philly on the road with me full-time, to help with the minutiae, the endless details and arrangements of being a pro, from renting cars to reserving hotel rooms to stringing rackets.

  You need him, my father says. But all three of us know that Philly and I need each other.

  The day after I turn pro, Philly gets a call from Nike. They want to meet with me about an endorsement deal. Philly and I meet the Nike man in Newport Beach, at a restaurant called the Rusty Pelican. His name is Ian Hamilton.

  I call him Mr. Hamilton, but he says I should call him Ian. He smiles in a way that makes me trust him instantly. Philly, however, remains wary.

  Boys, Ian says, I think Andre has a very bright future.

  Thank you.

  I’d like Nike to be a part of that future, to be a partner in that future.

  Thank you.

  I’d like to offer you a two-year contract.

  Thank you.

  During which time Nike will provide all your gear, and pay you $20,000.

  For both years?

  For each year.

  Ah.

  Philly jumps in. What would Andre have to do in exchange for this money?

  Ian looks confused. Well, he says. Andre would have to do what Andre has been doing, son. Keep being Andre. And wear Nike stuff.

  Philly and I look at each other, two Vegas kids who still think they know how to bluff. But our poker faces are long gone. We left them back at Sizzler. We can’t believe this is happening, and we can’t pretend to feel otherwise. At least Philly still has the presence of mind to ask Ian if we may be excused. We need a few moments in private to discuss his offer.

  We speed-walk to the back of the Rusty Pelican and dial my father from the pay phone.

  Pops, I whisper, Philly and I are here with the guy from Nike and he’s offering me $20,000. What do you think?

  Ask for more money.

  Really?

  More money! More money!

  He hangs up. Philly and I rehearse what we’re going to say. I play me, he plays Ian. Men passing us on their way in and out of the men’s room think we’re doing a skit. At last we walk casually back to the table. Philly spells out our counteroffer. More money. He looks grave. He looks, I can’t help but notice, like my father.

  OK, Ian says. I think we can manage that. I have the budget for $25,000 for the second year. Deal?

  We shake his hand. Then we all walk out of the Rusty Pelican. Philly and I wait for Ian to drive off before jumping up and down, singing We’re in the Money.

  Can you believe this is happening?

  No, Philly says. Honestly? No, I can’t.

  Can I drive back to L.A.?

  No. Your hands are shaking. You’ll plow us straight into a median, and we can’t have that. You’re worth twenty grand, bro!

  And twenty-five next year.

  All the way back to Philly’s place, item one on our agenda is what model of cool but cheap car we’re going to buy. The main thing is to buy a car with a tailpipe that doesn’t blow black clouds. Pulling up to Sizzler in a car that doesn’t smoke—now that would be the height of luxury.

  MY FIRST TOURNAMENT as a pro is in Schenectady, New York. I reach the final of the $100,000 tournament, then lose to Ramesh Krishnan, 6–2, 6–3. I don’t feel bad, however. Krishnan is great, better than his ranking of forty-something, and I’m an unknown teenager, playing in the final of a fairly important tournament. It’s that ultimate rarity—a painless loss. I feel nothing but pride. In fact, I feel a trace of hope, because I know I could have played better, and I know Krishnan knows.

  Next I travel to Stratton Mountain, Vermont, where I beat Tim Mayotte, who’s ranked number twelve. In the quarterfinal I play John McEnroe, which feels like playing John Lennon. The man is a legend. I’ve grown up watching him, admiring him, though I’ve often rooted against him, because his archrival, Borg, was my idol. I’d love to beat Mac, but this is his first tournament after a brief hiatus. He’s well rested, raring to go, and he was recently ranked number one in the world. Moments before we take the court I wonder why a player as polished and accomplished as Mac needs a hiatus. Then he shows me. He demonstrates the virtue of rest. He beats me soundly, 6–3, 6–3. During the loss, however, I manage to hit one atomic winner, a forehand return of Mac’s serve that explodes past him. At the post-match news conference, Mac announces to reporters: I’ve played Becker, Connors, and Lendl, and no one ever hit a return that hard at me. I never even saw the ball.

  This one quote, this ringing endorsement of my game from a player of Mac’s status, puts me on the national map. Newspapers write about me. Fans write to me. Philly suddenly finds himself deluged with requests for interviews. He giggles every time he fields another.

  Nice to be popular, he says.

  My ranking, meanwhile, keeps pace with my popularity.

  I GO TO MY FIRST U.S. OPEN in the late summer of 1986, feeling eager for the step up in competition. Then I see the New York skyline from the airplane window and my eagerness evaporates. It’s a beautiful sight, but intimidating for someone who grew up in the desert. So many people. So many dreams.

  So many opinions.

  Up close, at street level, New York is less intimidating than irritating. The nasty smells, the ear-splitting sounds—and the tipping. Raised in a house that depended on tips, I believe in tips, but in New York the tip takes on a brand new dimension. It costs me a hundred dollars just to get from the airport to my hotel room. By the time I’ve greased the palm of the cabbie, the doorman, the bellhop, and the concierge, I’m tapped out.

  Also, I’m late for everything. I continually underestimate the time it takes to travel in New York from Point A to Point B. One day, right before the start of the tournament, I’m due to practice at two o’clock. I leave my hotel in what I think is plenty of time to reach the arena in Flushing Meadows. I board a charter bus outside the hotel, and by the time we navigate the midtown gridlock and cross the Triborough I’m horribly late. A woman tells me they’ve given away my court.

  I stand before her, pleading for another practice time.

  Who are you?

  I show her my credentials, flash a weak smile.

  Behind her is a chalkboard, covered with a sea of players’ names, which she consults skeptically. I think of Mrs. G. She runs her fingers up and down the left column.

  OK, she says. Four o’clock, Court 8.

  I peer at the name of the player I’ll be practicing with.

  I’m sorry. I can’t practice with that guy. I’m possibly going to pla
y that guy in the second round.

  She consults the chalkboard again, sighing, annoyed, and now I wonder if Mrs. G has a long-lost sister. At least I’m no longer rocking a mohawk, which would make me even more offensive to this woman. On the other hand, my current hairstyle is only slightly less outrageous. A fluffy, spiky, two-toned mullet, with black roots and frosted tips.

  OK, she says. Court 17, five o’clock. But you’ll have to share with three other guys.

  I tell Nick: It feels as if I’m in over my head in this town.

  Nah, he says. You’ll be fine.

  The whole place looks a lot better from a distance.

  What doesn’t?

  In the first round I face Jeremy Bates, from Great Britain. We’re on a back court, far from the crowds and the main action. I’m excited. I’m proud. Then I’m terrified. I feel as if it’s the final Sunday of the tournament. My butterflies are flying in tight formation.

  Because it’s a Grand Slam, the energy of the match is different from anything I’ve experienced. More frenetic. The play is moving at warp speed, a rhythm with which I’m unfamiliar. Plus, the day is windy, so points seem to be flying past like the gum wrappers and dust. I don’t understand what’s happening. This doesn’t even feel like tennis. Bates isn’t a better player than I, but he’s playing better, because he came in knowing what to expect. He beats me in four sets, then looks up at my box, where Philly is sitting with Nick, and shoves his fist into the crook of his arm, the international sign for Up yours. Apparently Bates and Nick have a history.

  I feel disappointed, slightly embarrassed. But I know that I wasn’t prepared for my first U.S. Open or New York. I see a gap between where I am and where I need to be, and I feel reasonably confident that I can close that gap.

  You’re going to get better, Philly says, putting an arm around me. It’s just a matter of time.