by Andre Agassi
When Brad returns, the waiter comes for our order. Brad asks for penne arrabbiata with grilled chicken and mozzarella.
Perry orders chicken parmesan. Brad looks at Perry with disgust. Bad call, he says.
The waiter stops writing.
What you want to do, Brad says, is order a chicken breast, separate, then order all your mozzarella and sauce on the side. See, that way the chicken breast is fresh, not soggy, plus you can control your chicken-to-cheese-and-sauce ratio.
Perry thanks Brad for the menu coaching, but says he’ll stick with his order. The waiter looks to me. I point at Brad and say: I’ll have whatever he’s having.
Brad smiles.
Perry clears his throat and says, So Brad. Would you have any interest in maybe becoming Andre’s coach?
Brad thinks it over. For three seconds. Yeah, he says. I think I’d like that. I think I can help you.
I ask, When can we start?
Tomorrow, Brad says. I’ll meet you on the courts at ten in the morning.
Huh. Well. That might a problem. I never play before one.
Andre, he says, we start at ten.
I’M LATE, OF COURSE. Brad looks at his watch.
Thought we said ten?
Man, I don’t even know what ten a.m. means.
We start hitting, and Brad starts talking. He doesn’t stop, as though the hours between last night’s monologue and this morning’s workout have been a mere intermission. He’s picking apart my game, anticipating and analyzing my shots as I make them. The main point he stresses is the backhand up the line.
The second you get a chance to take a backhand up the line, he says, you’ve got to do it. That’s your money shot. That’s your equity shot. You can pay a lot of bills with that shot.
We play a few games, and he stops every other point to come to the net and tell me why I just did the dumbest possible thing.
What’d you do that for? I know it’s a killer shot, but every shot doesn’t have to be killer. Sometimes the best shot is a holding shot, an OK shot, a shot that gives the other guy a chance to miss. Let the other guy play.
I like the way this feels. I respond to Brad’s ideas, his enthusiasm, his energy. I find peace in his claim that perfectionism is voluntary. Perfectionism is something I chose, and it’s ruining me, and I can choose something else. I must choose something else. No one has ever said this to me. I’ve always assumed perfectionism was like my thinning hair or my thickened spinal cord. An inborn part of me.
After a light midday meal I put my feet up, watch TV, read the papers, sit under a shade tree—then go out and win my match against Mark Petchey, a British kid my age. My next match is against Becker, who’s now being coached by Nick. After saying publicly that he couldn’t imagine coaching any of my rivals, Nick is now coaching one of my archrivals. In fact, Nick’s sitting in Becker’s box. Becker is serving big, as always, 135 miles an hour, but with Nick in his corner, I’m juiced with adrenaline and able to handle anything he dishes up. And Becker knows it. He stops competing and plays to the crowd. Down a set and a break, he hands his racket to the ballgirl as if to say: Here, you can do as well as I’m doing.
I’m thinking: Yes, let her play, I’ll beat the both of you.
After dispatching Becker, I’m in the final. My opponent? Pete. As always, Pete.
The match is slated for national TV. Brad and I are both keyed up as we walk into the locker room, only to find Pete lying on the ground. A doctor and a trainer are leaning over him. The tournament director hovers in the background. Pete brings his knees up to his chest and groans.
Food poisoning, the doctor says.
Brad whispers to me, Guess you just won Key Biscayne.
The director takes Brad and me aside and asks if we’d be willing to give Pete time to recover. I feel Brad stiffen. I know what he wants me to say. But I tell the director, Give Pete all the time he needs.
The director sighs and puts his hand on my arm. Thank you, he says. We’ve got fourteen thousand people out there. Plus the network.
Brad and I lounge around the locker room, flipping channels on the TV, making phone calls. I dial Brooke, who’s auditioning for Grease on Broadway. Otherwise, she’d be here.
Brad shoots me an evil glare.
Relax, I tell him, Pete probably won’t get better.
The doctor gives Pete an IV, then props him on his feet. Pete wobbles, a newborn colt. He’ll never make it.
The tournament director comes to us.
Pete’s ready, he says.
Fucking A, Brad says. So are we.
Should be a short night, I tell Brad.
But Pete does it again. He sends his evil twin onto the court. This is not the Pete who was curled in a ball on the locker-room floor. This is not the Pete who was getting an IV and wobbling in circles. This Pete is in the prime of life, serving at warp speed, barely breaking a sweat. He’s playing his best tennis, unbeatable, and he jumps out to a 5–1 lead.
Now I’m angry. I feel as if I found a wounded bird, brought it home, and nursed it back to health, only to have it try to peck my eyes out. I fight back and win the set. Surely I’ve withstood the only attack Pete can mount. He can’t possibly have anything left.
But in the second set he’s even better. And in the third he’s a freak. He wins the best-of-three match.
I burst into the locker room. Brad is waiting for me, seething. He says again that if he’d been in my place, he’d have forced Pete to forfeit. He’d have demanded that the director fork over the winner’s check.
That’s not me, I tell Brad. I don’t want to win like that. Besides, if I can’t beat a guy who’s poisoned, lying on the ground, I don’t deserve it.
Brad abruptly stops talking. His eyes get big. He nods. He can’t argue with that. He respects my principles, he says, even though he doesn’t agree.
We walk out of the stadium together like Bogart and Claude Rains at the end of Casablanca. The beginning of a beautiful friendship. A vital new member of the team.
THEN THE TEAM goes on an epic losing streak.
Adopting Brad’s concepts is like learning to write with my left hand. He calls his philosophy Bradtennis. I call it Braditude. Whatever the hell it’s called, it’s hard. I feel as if I’m back in school, not comprehending, longing to be somewhere else. Again and again Brad says I need to be consistent, steady, like gravity. He says this over and over: Be like gravity. Constant pressure, weighing down your opponent. He tries to sell me on the joy of winning ugly, the virtue of winning ugly, but I only know how to lose ugly. And think ugly. I trust Brad, I know his advice is spot on, I do everything he says—so why am I not winning? I’ve given up perfectionism—so why am I not perfect?
I go to Osaka, lose again to Pete. Instead of gravity, I’m like flubber.
I go to Monte Carlo and lose to Yevgeny Kafelnikov—in the first round.
To add insult to injury, Kafelnikov is asked at the post-match news conference how it felt to beat me, since so many fans were cheering for me.
Difficult, Kafelnikov says, because Agassi is like Jesus.
I don’t know what he means, but I don’t think it’s a compliment.
I go to Duluth, Georgia, lose to MaliVai Washington. Afterward, in the locker room, I feel crushed. Brad appears, smiling. Good things, he says, are about to happen.
I stare, incredulous.
He says, You have to suffer. You have to lose a shitload of close matches. And then one day you’re going to win a close one and the skies are going to part and you’re going to break through. You just need that one breakthrough, that one opening, and after that nothing will stop you from being the best in the world.
You’re crazy.
You’re learning.
You’re nuts.
You’ll see.
I GO TO THE 1994 FRENCH OPEN and play five vicious sets with Thomas Muster. Down 1–5 in the fifth set, something happens. I always hear Brad’s philosophy in my head, but now it’s coming from inside, not outside. I’
ve internalized it, the way I once did my father’s voice. I claw back and tie the set at 5. Muster breaks me. He’s serving for the match. Still, I get the game to 30–40, I have hope. I’m on my toes, ready, but he hits a backhand I can’t handle. I reach, hit it wide.
Match, Muster.
At the net he rubs my head, musses my hair. Apart from being condescending, his gesture nearly dislodges my hairpiece.
Good try, he says.
I stare at him with pure hatred. Big mistake, Muster. Don’t touch the hair. Don’t ever touch the hair. Just for that, I tell him at the net, I’ll make you a promise. I’ll never lose to you again.
In the locker room Brad congratulates me.
Good things, he says, are about to happen.
What?
He nods. Trust me—good things.
Clearly he doesn’t understand the pain that losing causes me. And when someone doesn’t understand, there’s no point trying to explain.
At the 1994 Wimbledon I reach the fourth round but lose a nail-biter to Todd Martin. I’m wounded, frightened, disappointed. In the locker room Brad smiles and says: Good things.
We go to the Canadian Open. Brad shocks me at the start of the tournament. Good things, he says, are not about to happen. On the contrary, he sees a few very bad things on the horizon.
He’s looking over my draw. NG, he says.
What the hell does NG mean?
Not Good. You got a terrible draw.
Let me see that.
I snatch the paper from his hands. He’s right. My first match is a gimme, against Jakob Hlasek, from Switzerland, but in the second round I’ll get David Wheaton, who always gives me a host of problems. Still, I love few things more than low expectations. Just tell me I can’t do something. I inform Brad that I’m going to win the whole thing.
And when I do, I add, you have to get an earring.
I don’t like jewelry, he says.
He thinks about it.
OK, he says. Done, and done.
THE COURT AT THE CANADIAN OPEN feels impossibly small, which makes the opponent look bigger.
Wheaton is a big guy, but here in Canada he looks ten feet tall. It’s an optical illusion, but still, I feel as if he’s standing two inches from my face. Distracted, I find myself down two match points in the third-set tiebreak.
Then, wholly out of character, I pull myself together. I shake off all distractions and optical illusions and fight back and win. I do what Brad said I would do. I win a close one. Later I tell Brad, That’s the match you said I’d win. That’s the match you said would change things.
He smiles as if I just sat down in a restaurant all by myself and ordered the chicken parm with the chicken breast separate from the sauce and cheese. Very good, Grasshopper. Wax on, wax off.
My game speeding up, my mind slowing down, I storm through the rest of the draw and win the Canadian Open.
Brad chooses a diamond stud.
GOING INTO THE 1994 U.S. OPEN, I’m number twenty, therefore unseeded. No unseeded player has won the U.S. Open since the 1960s.
Brad likes it. He says he wants me unseeded. He wants me to be the joker in the deck. You’ll play someone tough in the early rounds, he says, and if you beat them, you’ll win this tournament.
He’s sure of it. So sure, he vows to shave his entire body when I do. I’m always telling Brad he’s too hairy. He makes Sasquatch look like Kojak. He needs to trim that chest, those arms—and those eyebrows. Either trim them or name them.
Trust me, I tell him, you shave that chest and you’ll feel things you’ve never felt before.
Win the U.S. Open, he says, and so will you.
Because of my low ranking, I’m under the radar at this U.S. Open. (I’d be more under the radar if Brooke weren’t on hand, setting off a photo shoot each time she turns her head.) I’m all business, and I dress the part. I wear a black hat, black shorts, black socks, black-and-white shoes. But at the start of my first-rounder, against Robert Eriksson, I feel the old brittle nerves. I feel sick to my stomach. I fight through it, thinking of Brad, refusing to entertain any thought of perfection. I concentrate on being solid, letting Eriksson lose, and he does. He sends me sailing into the second round.
Then—after nearly choking—I beat Guy Forget, from France. Then I take out Wayne Ferreira, from South Africa, in straight sets.
Up next is Chang. I wake the morning of the match with ferocious diarrhea. By match time I’m weak, depleted, and babbling like Peaches. Gil makes me drink an extra dose of Gil Water. This batch has a thickness, a density, like oil. I force it down, nearly puking several times. As I do, Gil whispers, Thank you for trusting me.
Then I walk into a classic Chang buzz saw. He’s that rare phenomenon—an opponent who wants to win exactly as much as I do, no more, no less. We both know from the opening serve that it’s going down to the wire. Photo finish. No other way to settle it. But in the fifth set, thinking we’re destined for a tiebreak, I catch a rhythm and break him early. I’m making crazy shots, and I feel him losing traction. It’s almost not fair, after such a back-and-forth fight, the way I’m sneaking away with this match. I should be having more trouble with him in the final minutes, but it’s sinfully easy.
At his news conference, Chang tells reporters about a different match than the one I just played. He says he could have played another two sets. Andre got lucky, he says. Furthermore, Chang expresses a great deal of pride that he exposed holes in my game, and he predicts other players in the tournament will thank him. He says I’m vulnerable now. I’m toast.
Next I face Muster. I make good my vow that I will never lose to him again. It takes every ounce of self-control not to rub his head at the net.
I’m in the semis. I’m due to play Martin on Saturday. Friday afternoon, Gil and I are eating lunch at P. J. Clarke’s. We order the same thing we always order at P. J. Clarke’s—cheeseburgers on toasted English muffins. We’re sitting in the section of our favorite waitress, the one we always agree has a story to tell, if only someone were brave enough to ask her. While we’re waiting for the food we riffle through a stack of New York newspapers. I see Lupica’s column is about me. I shouldn’t read it, but I do. He writes that the U.S. Open is mine to lose, but you can count on the fact that I will find a way to lose it.
Agassi, Lupica writes, simply isn’t a champion.
I close the paper and feel as if the walls are closing in, as if my vision is narrowing to a pinprick. Lupica sounds so sure, as if he’s seen the future. What if he’s right? What if this is it, my moment of truth, and I’m revealed to be a fraud? If it doesn’t happen now, when will I have another chance to win the U.S. Open? So many things have to fall your way. Finals don’t grow on trees. What if I never win this tournament? What if I always look back on this moment with regret? What if hiring Brad was a mistake? What if Brooke is the wrong girl for me? What if my team, so carefully assembled, is the wrong team?
Gil looks up and sees me turning white.
What’s wrong?
I read him the column. He doesn’t move.
I’d like to meet that Lupica one day, he says.
What if he’s right?
Control what you can control.
Yeah.
Control what you can control.
Right.
Here comes our food.
Martin, who just beat me at Wimbledon, is a deadly opponent. He has a nice hold game and a solid break game. He’s huge, six foot six, and returns the serve off both wings with precision and conviction. He’ll cane a serve that isn’t first-rate, which puts enormous pressure on an average server like me. With his own serve he’s uncannily accurate. If he misses, it’s only by a bee’s dick. He hits the line, and he hasn’t the vaguest interest in hitting the inside half of the line—he wants to hit that outside half. For some reason, I’m better against big servers who miss by a lot. I like to cheat forward, guess which way the serve is coming, and with players like Martin I tend to guess wrong more often, thus
leaving myself less lateral coverage. He’s a nasty matchup for a player with my tendencies, and as our semi begins I like his chances, and Lupica’s, better than mine.
Still, as the first few games unfold, I realize that several things are in my favor. Martin is better on grass than hard court. This is my surface. Also, like me, he’s an underachiever. He’s a fellow slave to nerves. I understand the man I’m playing, therefore, understand him intimately. Simply knowing your enemy is a powerful advantage.
Above all, Martin has a tic. A tell. Some players, when serving, look at their opponent. Some look at nothing. Martin looks at a particular spot in the service box. If he stares a long time at that spot, he’s serving in the opposite direction. If he merely glances, he’s serving right at that spot. You might not notice it at 0–0, or 15–love, but on break point, he stares at that spot with psycho eyes, like the killer in a horror movie, or glances and looks away like a beginner at the poker tables.
The match unfolds so easily, however, that I don’t need Martin’s tell. He seems unsteady, dwarfed by the occasion, whereas I’m playing with uncommon determination. I see him doubt himself—I can almost hear his doubt—and I sympathize. As I walk off the court, the winner in four sets, I think, He’s got some maturing to do. Then I catch myself. Did I really just say that—about someone else?
In the final I face Michael Stich, from Germany. He’s been to the final at three slams, so he’s not like Martin, he’s a threat on every surface. He’s also a superb athlete with an unreal wingspan. He has a mighty first serve, heavy and fast, and when it’s on, which it usually is, he can serve you into next week. He’s so accurate, you’re shocked when he misses, and you have to overcome your shock to stay in the point. Even when he does miss, however, you’re not out of the woods, because then he falls back on his safe serve, a knuckleball that leaves you with your jock on the ground. And just to keep you a bit more off balance, Stich is without any patterns or tendencies. You never know if he’s going to serve and volley or stay back at the baseline.
Hoping to seize control, dictate the terms, I come fast out of the blocks, hitting the ball clean, crisp, pretending to feel no fear. I like the sound the ball makes off my racket. I like the sound of the crowd, their oohs and aahs. Stich, meanwhile, comes out skittish. When you lose the first set as quickly as he does, 6–1, your instinct is to panic. I can see in his body language that he’s succumbing to that instinct.