by Andre Agassi
No, what I need is a new goal. The problem, all this time, is that I’ve had the wrong goals. I never really wanted to be number one, that was just something others wanted for me. So I’m number one. So a computer loves me. So what? What I think I’ve always wanted, since I was a boy, and what I want now, is far more difficult, far more substantial. I want to win the French Open. Then I’ll have all four slams to my credit. The complete set. I’ll be only the fifth man to accomplish such a feat in the open era—and the first American.
I’ve never cared about computer rankings, and I’ve never cared about the number of slams I won. Roy Emerson has the most slams (twelve), and nobody thinks he’s better than Rod Laver. Nobody. My fellow players, along with any tennis expert or historian I respect, agree that Laver was the best, the king, because he won all four. More, he did it in the same year—twice. Granted, there were only two surfaces back then, grass and clay, but still, that’s godlike. That’s inimitable.
I think about the greats from past eras, how they all chased Laver, how they dreamed of winning all four slams. They all skipped certain slams, because they didn’t give a damn about quantity. They cared about versatility. They all feared that they wouldn’t be considered truly great if their resumes were incomplete, if one or two of the game’s four prizes could elude them.
The more I think about winning all four slams, the more excited I become. It’s a sudden and shocking insight into myself. I realize this is what I’ve long wanted. I’ve simply repressed the desire because it didn’t seem possible, especially after reaching the final of the French Open two years in a row and losing. Also, I’ve allowed myself to get sidetracked by sportswriters and fans who don’t understand, who count the number of slams a player won and use that bogus number to gauge his legacy. Winning all four is the true Holy Grail. So, in 1995, in Palermo, I decide that I will chase this Grail, full speed ahead.
Brooke, meanwhile, never wavers in pursuit of her own personal Grail. Her run on Broadway is deemed a great success, and she doesn’t feel empty. She feels hungry. She wants more. She looks to the next big thing. Offers are slow to come in, however. I try to help. I tell her that the public doesn’t know her. They think they do, but they don’t. A problem with which I have some experience. Some people think she’s a model, some think she’s an actress. She needs to hone her image. I ask Perry to step in, have a look at Brooke’s career.
It doesn’t take him long to form an opinion and a plan. He says what Brooke needs now is a TV show. Her future, he says, lies in TV. So she immediately begins searching for scripts and pilots in which she can shine.
Just before the start of the 1995 French Open, Brooke and I go to Fisher Island for a few days. We both need rest and sleep. I can’t get either, though. I can’t stop thinking about Paris. I lie in bed at night, taut as a wire, playing matches on the ceiling.
I continue to obsess on the plane to Paris, even though Brooke is with me. She’s not working just now, so she’s able to get away.
Our first time in Paris together, she says, kissing me.
Yes, I say, stroking her hand.
How to tell her that this is not, even partially, a vacation? That this trip isn’t remotely about us?
We stay at the Hôtel Raphael, just around the corner from the Arc de Triomphe. Brooke likes the creaky old elevator with the iron door that manually closes. I like the small candlelit bar off the lobby. The rooms are small too, and they have no TVs, which appalls Brad. He can’t take it, in fact. He checks out a few minutes after checking in, switching to a more modern hotel.
Brooke speaks French, so she’s able to show me Paris through a new, wider lens. I feel comfortable exploring the city, because there’s no fear of getting lost, and she can translate. I tell her about the first time I was here, with Philly. I tell her about the Louvre, the painting that freaked us both out. She’s fascinated and wants me to take her to see it.
Another time, I say.
We eat at fancy restaurants, visit out-of-the-way neighborhoods I’d never venture into on my own. Some of it charms me, but most leaves me cold, because I’m loath to break my concentration. The owner of one café invites us down to his ancient wine cellar, a musty, medieval tomb filled with dust-covered bottles. He hands one to Brooke. She peers at the date on the label: 1787. She cradles the bottle like a baby, then holds it up to me, incredulous.
I don’t get it, I whisper. It’s a bottle. It has dust on it.
She glares, as if she’d like to break the bottle over my head.
Late one night we go for a walk along the Seine. It’s her thirtieth birthday. We stop near a flight of stone steps leading down to the river, and I present her with a diamond tennis bracelet. She laughs as I put it around her wrist and fiddle with the clasp. We both admire the way it catches the moonlight. Then, just beyond Brooke’s shoulder, standing on the stone steps, a drunken Frenchman staggers into view and sends a high, looping arc of urine into the Seine. I don’t believe in omens, as a rule, but this seems ominous. I just can’t tell if it portends something for the French Open or my relationship with Brooke.
At last the tournament begins. I win my first four matches without dropping a set. It’s evident to reporters and commentators that I’m a different player. Stronger and more focused. On a mission. No one sees this more clearly than my fellow players. I’ve always noticed the way players silently anoint the alpha dog in their midst, the way they single out the one player who’s feeling it, who’s likeliest to win. At this tournament, for the first time, I’m that player. I feel them all watching me in the locker room. I feel them noting my every move, the little things I do, even studying how I organize my bag. They’re quicker to step aside when I walk by, eager to give up the training table. A new degree of respect is directed toward me, and while I try not to take it seriously, I can’t help but enjoy it. Better me getting this treatment than someone else.
Brooke, however, doesn’t seem to notice any difference in me, doesn’t treat me any differently. At night I sit in the hotel room, staring out the window at Paris, an eagle on a cliff, but she talks to me of this and that, Grease and Paris and what so-and-so said about such-and-such. She doesn’t understand the work I did in Gil’s gym, the trials and sacrifices and concentration that have led to this new confidence—or the huge task that lies ahead. And she doesn’t try to understand. She’s more interested in where we’re going to eat next, which wine cellar we’re going to explore. She takes it for granted that I’m going to win, and she wishes I’d hurry up and do it, so we can have fun. It’s not selfishness on her part, just a mistaken impression that winning is normal, losing is abnormal.
In the quarters I face Kafelnikov, the Russian who likened me to Jesus. I sneer at him across the net as the match begins: Jesus is about to whip you with a car antenna. I know I can beat Kafelnikov. He knows it too. It’s written all over his face. But early in the first set, I lunge for a ball and feel something snap. My hip flexor. I ignore it, pretend it didn’t happen, pretend I don’t have a hip, but the hip sends lines of pain up and down my leg.
I can’t bend. I can’t move. I ask for the trainer, who gives me two aspirin and tells me there’s nothing he can do. His eyes are the size of poker chips when he tells me.
I lose the first set. Then the second. In the third I rally. I’m up 4–1, the crowd urging me onward. Allez, Agassi! But I grow less mobile with every minute. Kafelnikov, moving well, ties the set, and I feel my limbs go slack. It’s another Russian crucifixion. Au revoir, Grail. I walk off the court without collecting my rackets.
The real test wasn’t supposed to be Kafelnikov. It was supposed to be Muster, the hair-musser who’s been dominating on clay. So even if I’d gotten by Kafelnikov I don’t know how hobbled I would have been against Muster. But I promised Muster I’d never lose to him again, and I meant it, and I liked my chances. I think no matter who was on the other side of that net, I could have done something great. As I leave Paris I don’t feel defeated; I feel cheated. T
his was it, I just know. My last chance. Never again will I be in Paris feeling so strong, so young. Never again will I inspire such fear in the locker room.
My golden opportunity to win all four slams is gone.
Brooke has already flown home ahead of me, so it’s just Gil and me on the flight, Gil talking softly about how we’re going to treat the flexor, how we’re going to adjust after what we’ve just put ourselves through, and get ready for what’s coming—grass. We spend a week in Vegas, doing nothing but watching movies and waiting for my hip to mend. An MRI tells us the damage isn’t permanent. Cold comfort.
We fly to England. I’m the number one seed at the 1995 Wimbledon, because I’m still ranked number one in the world. Fans greet me with an enthusiasm and glee that clash sharply with my mood. Nike has been here ahead of time, priming the pump, handing out Agassi Kits—adhesive sideburns, Fu Manchu mustaches, and bandanas. This is my new look. I’ve morphed from pirate to bandit. It’s surreal, as always, to see guys trying to look like me, and as always it’s even a bit more surreal to see girls trying. Girls with Fu Manchus and sideburns—it almost makes me crack a smile. Almost.
It rains every day, but still the fans mob Wimbledon. They brave the rain, the cold, they line up all the way down Church Road, for the love of tennis. I want to go out there and stand with them, question them, find out what makes them love it so much. I wonder what it would be like to feel such passion for the game. I wonder if the fake Fu Manchus stay on in the rain, or if they disintegrate like my old hairpieces.
I win my first two matches easily, and then beat Wheaton in four sets. The big news of that day, however, is Tarango, who lost, then fought with an umpire before leaving the court. Then Tarango’s wife slapped the umpire. One of the great scandals in Wimbledon history. Instead of facing Tarango, therefore, I’ll face Alexander Mronz, from Germany. Reporters ask me which opponent I would have preferred, and I badly want to tell the story of Tarango cheating when I was eight. I don’t, however. I don’t want to get in a public spat with Tarango, and I fear making an enemy of his wife. I say the diplomatic thing, that it doesn’t matter whom I play, even though Tarango was the more dangerous threat.
I beat Mronz in three easy sets.
In the semis I face Becker. I’ve beaten him the last eight times we’ve played. Pete has already moved on to the final and he’s awaiting the winner of Agassi-Becker, which is to say he’s awaiting me, because every slam final is beginning to feel like a standing date between me and Pete.
I take the first set from Becker, no problem. In the second set I jump out to a 4–1 lead. Here I come, Pete. Get ready, Pete. Then, just like that, Becker begins to play a rougher, brawnier game. He wins several scrappy points. After chipping at my confidence with a tiny nail he now pulls out a sledgehammer. He plays from the baseline, an unusual tactic for him, and flat outmuscles me. He breaks me, and though I’m still up 4–2, I feel something snap. Not my hip—my mind. I’m suddenly unable to control my thoughts. I’m thinking of Pete, waiting. I’m thinking of my sister Rita, whose husband, Pancho, just lost a long bout with stomach cancer. I’m thinking of Becker, still working with Nick, who, tanner than ever, the color of prime rib, sits above us in Becker’s box. I wonder if Nick has told Becker my secrets—for instance, the way I’ve figured out Becker’s serve. (Just before he tosses the ball, Becker sticks out his tongue and it points like a tiny red arrow to where he’s aiming.) I’m thinking of Brooke, who’s been shopping at Harrods this week with Pete’s girlfriend, a law student named DeLaina Mulcahy. All these thoughts go crashing through my mind, making me feel scattered, fractured, and this allows Becker to capture the momentum. He never gives it back. He wins in four sets.
The loss is one of the most devastating of my life. Afterward, I don’t say a word to anyone. Gil, Brad, Brooke—I don’t speak to them because I can’t. I am broken, gut-shot.
BROOKE AND I ARE DUE TO FLY AWAY on a vacation. We’ve been planning it for weeks. We wanted someplace remote, with no phones, no other people, so we booked Indigo Island, 150 miles from Nassau. After the Wimbledon debacle, I want to cancel, but Brooke reminds me we’ve secured the entire island, our deposit is nonrefundable.
Besides, it’s supposed to be paradise, she says. It will be good for us.
I frown.
Just as I feared, from the moment we arrive, paradise feels like Super-max. On the entire island there is one house, and it’s not big enough for the three of us—Brooke, me, and my black mood.
Brooke lies in the sun and waits for me to speak. She’s not frightened by my silence, but she doesn’t understand it, either. In her world, everyone pretends, whereas in mine some things can’t be pretended away.
After two days of silence I thank her for being so patient, and tell her I’m back.
I’m going to go for a jog on the beach, I say.
I start at a leisurely pace, then find myself running hundred-meter sprints. I’m already thinking about getting in shape, reloading for the hard courts of summer.
I GO TO WASHINGTON, D.C. The Legg Mason Tennis Classic. The weather is obscenely hot. Brad and I try to get acclimated to the heat by practicing in the middle of the afternoon. When we’re done, fans gather and shout questions. Few of the other players hang around talking to fans, but I do. I like it. For me, fans are always preferable to reporters.
After we’ve signed the last autograph and answered the last question, Brad says he needs a beer. He looks sly. Something’s up. I take him to the Tombs, the place Perry and I frequented when I visited him during his Georgetown days. The bar has a miniature street door, then a narrow staircase down into damp darkness and a smell of unclean bathrooms. It also has one of those open kitchens, so you can watch the cooks, and while that’s a good thing at some places, it’s not a plus at the Tombs. We find a booth and order drinks. Brad is put out because they don’t have Bud Ice. He settles for Bud. I feel tremendous after the workout, relaxed, fit. I haven’t thought of Becker in almost twenty minutes. Brad puts a stop to that. From the inside pocket of his black cashmere pullover he removes a wad of papers, and in an agitated way he drops them on the table.
Becker, he says.
What?
This is what he said after beating you at Wimbledon.
What do I care?
He’s talking shit.
What kind of shit?
He reads.
Becker used his post-match news conference to complain that Wimbledon promotes me over other players. He complained that Wimbledon officials unfairly bend over backward to schedule my matches on Centre Court. He complained that all major tournaments kiss my ass. Then he got personal. He called me an elitist. He said that I don’t associate with other players. He said that I’m not well liked on the tour. He said I’m not open, and if I were open, maybe other players wouldn’t fear me so much.
In short, he issued a declaration of war.
Brad has never cared for Becker. Brad has always called him B. B. Socrates, because he thinks Becker tries to come off as an intellectual, when he’s just an overgrown farmboy. But Brad is now so incensed that he can’t sit still in our booth at the Tombs.
Andre, he says, it is so fucking on. Mark my words. We’re going to run into this motherfucker again. We’re going to run into him at the U.S. Open. And until then, we’re going to prepare, train, plot revenge.
I read Becker’s quotes again. I can’t believe it. I knew the guy didn’t like me, but this. I look down and find that I’m clenching and unclenching my fist.
Brad says, Do you hear? I want you to take—this—fucker—OUT.
Consider it done.
We clink our beer bottles, swear an oath.
What’s more, I tell myself, after Becker I’m going to keep on winning. I’m simply not going to lose anymore. At least not until the frost is on the pumpkin. I’m sick of losing, sick of being disappointed, sick and tired of guys disrespecting my game as much as I do.
AND SO THE SUMMER OF 1995 becomes the Summ
er of Revenge. Running on pure animosity I steamroll through the D.C. tournament. In the final I face Edberg. I’m the better player, but it’s well over one hundred degrees, and such extreme heat is a great equalizer. In this heat, all men are the same. At the start of our match I can’t think, can’t find a groove. Luckily, Edberg can’t either. I win the first set, he wins the second, and in the third set I go up 5–2. The fans cheer—those fans who aren’t suffering heatstroke. The match is stopped several times so that someone in the stands can receive medical attention.
I’m serving for the match. At least that’s what they tell me. I’m also hallucinating. I don’t know what game I’m playing. Is this Nerf ping-pong? I’m supposed to hit this fuzzy yellow ball back and forth? To whom? My teeth are chattering. I see three balls come across the net, and I hit the middle one.
My only hope is that Edberg is hallucinating too. Maybe he’ll black out before I do and I’ll win in a forfeit. I wait, watch him closely, but then I take a turn for the worse. My stomach clinches. He breaks me.
Now he’s serving. I call time, step away, and toss my breakfast onto a decorative planter at the back of the court. When I resume my position, Edberg has no trouble holding serve.
I’m serving again for the match. We rally, weakly, each of us hitting timid shots in the center of the court, like ten-year-old girls playing badminton. He breaks me—again.
Five–all. I drop my racket and stumble off the court.
There’s an unwritten rule, or maybe it’s actually written, that if you leave the court with your racket, you forfeit. So I drop the racket, to let people know I’m coming back. In my delirious state, I still care about the rules of tennis, but I also care about the rules of physics. What goes down, in this heat, must come up, and soon. I vomit several times on my way to the locker room. I run to the toilet and bring up a meal I had days ago. Maybe years ago. I feel as if I’m going into shock. At last the locker room’s air-conditioning, plus the total purge of my stomach, starts to revive me.