by Andre Agassi
She asks, Is it on TV?
I don’t know. Probably.
I’ll watch.
OK.
OK.
Goodnight.
Hours later I play Spadea, my practice partner from New Year’s Day one year ago. He isn’t half the player I am. There have been days in my prime when I could have beaten him with a spatula. But I’ve been on the road for thirty-two of the last fifty-two weeks, not to mention the training with Gil, the struggles with the school, and the maneuvering with Brooke. My mind is still on the phone with Brooke. Spadea edges me in four sets.
The newspapers are cruel. They point out that I’ve been ousted early from my last six slams. Fair enough. But they say I’m embarrassing myself. Too long at the fair, they say. Agassi doesn’t seem to know when to hang it up. He’s won three slams. He’s nearly twenty-nine years old. How much more does he really hope to accomplish?
Every other article contains the threadbare phrase: At an age when most of his peers are thinking about retiring—
I WALK IN THE DOOR and call out Brooke’s name. Nothing. It’s midmorning, she must be at the studio. I spend the day waiting for her to come home. I try to rest, but it’s hard with an albino pit bull eyeing you.
When Brooke gets home, it’s dark and the weather has turned bad. A rainy, wintry night. She suggests we go out for dinner.
Sushi?
Lovely.
We drive to one of our favorite places, Matsuhisa, sit at the bar. She orders sake. I’m starved. I ask for all my favorites. The blue fin sashimi, the crab toro cucumber avocado hand roll. Brooke sighs.
You always order the same thing.
I’m too hungry and tired to bother about her disapproval.
She sighs again.
What’s wrong?
I can’t even look you in the eye right now.
Her eyes are wet.
Brooke?
No, really, I can’t look at you.
Easy does it. Take a deep breath. Please, please, try not to cry. Let’s get the check and go. Let’s just talk about this at home.
I don’t know why, but after all that’s been written about me in the last few days, it’s important that tomorrow’s newspapers don’t report that I was seen fighting with my wife.
In the car Brooke is still crying. I’m not happy, she says. We’re not happy. We haven’t been happy for so very long. And I don’t know if we can ever be happy again if we stay together.
So. There it is. That’s that.
I walk into the house, a zombie. I pull a suitcase out of the closet, which I notice is so organized, so neat, it’s unsettling. I realize how difficult it must be for Brooke, living with my losses, my silences, my peaks and valleys. But I also notice how little space in this closet is allotted to me. Symbolic. I think of J.P. This is not your house.
I grab the few hangers holding my clothes and carry them downstairs.
Brooke is in the kitchen, sobbing. Not crying as she did at the restaurant and in the car, but sobbing. She’s sitting on a stool at the butcher block island. Always an island. One way or another, we spend all our time together on islands. We are islands. Two islands. And I can’t recall when it was different.
She asks, What are you doing? What’s going on?
What do you mean? I’m leaving.
It’s raining. Wait until morning.
Why wait? No time like the present.
I make a pile of essentials: clothes, blender, Jamaican coffee beans, French press—and a gift Brooke recently gave me. The scary painting Philly and I saw years ago at the Louvre. She commissioned an artist to make an exact replica. I look at the man hanging from the cliff. How has he not fallen off that cliff by now? I throw everything in the backseat of my car, a mint-condition convertible Eldorado Cadillac, 1976, the last year they made them. The car is a pure lustrous white, lily white, so I named it Lily. I turn Lily’s key, and the dashboard lights come on like an old TV set. The odometer reads 23,000 miles. It strikes me that Lily is the exact opposite of me. Old, with low mileage.
I peel out of the driveway.
A mile from the house I start crying. Through my tears, and the gathering fog, I can barely see the chrome wreath of the hood ornament. But I keep going, and going, until I reach San Bernardino. The fog is now snow. The pass through the mountains is closed. I phone Perry and ask him if there’s another way to Vegas.
What’s wrong?
I tell him. Trial separation, I say. We don’t know each other anymore.
I think about the day Wendi and I broke up, when I pulled over and phoned Perry. I think of all that’s happened since—and yet here I am, pulled over again, phoning Perry with a broken heart.
He says there’s no other way to get to Vegas, so I need to make a U-turn, head back toward the coast, and stop at the first motel that has a room. I drive slowly, picking my way through the snow, the car spinning and skidding on the slick highway. I stop at every motel. No vacancy. Finally I get the last available bed at a fleabag in Nowhere, California. I lie on the smelly bedspread, interrogating myself. How the hell did you get here? How did it come to this? Why are you reacting like this? Your marriage is far from perfect, you’re not even sure why you got married in the first place, or if you ever wanted to get married—so why are you such an emotional wreck thinking it might be over?
Because you hate losing. And divorce is one tough loss.
But you’ve suffered tough losses before—why does this one feel different?
Because you don’t see any way that, as a result of this loss, you can improve.
I PHONE BROOKE TWO DAYS LATER. I’m contrite, she’s hardened.
We both need time to think, she says. We shouldn’t talk for a while. We need to go inside ourselves, not interfere with each other.
Inside ourselves? What does that even mean—for how long?
Three weeks.
Three? Where do you come up with that number?
She doesn’t answer.
She suggests I use the time to see a therapist.
SHE’S A SMALL DARK WOMAN in a small dark office in Vegas. I sit on a love seat—how exquisitely ironic. She sits in a chair three feet away. She listens without interrupting. I’d rather she interrupted. I want answers. The more I talk, the more acutely aware I become of talking to myself. As always. This isn’t the way to save a marriage. Marriages don’t get saved or solved by one person talking.
I wake later that night on the floor. My back is stiff. I go out to the living room and sit on the couch with a pad and pen. I write pages and pages to Brooke. Another pleading handwritten letter, but this one is all true. In the morning I fax the pages to Brooke’s house. I watch the pages go through the fax machine and I think of how it all started, five years ago, sliding the pages into Philly’s fax machine, holding my breath, waiting for the witty, flirty reply from a hut somewhere in Africa.
This time there is no reply.
I fax her again. Then again.
She’s much farther away than Africa.
I phone.
I know you said three weeks, but I need to talk to you. I think we should meet, I think we need to be working through these things together.
Oh Andre, she says.
I wait.
Oh Andre, she says again. You don’t understand. You just don’t get it. This isn’t about us—this is about you individually and me individually.
I tell her she’s right, I don’t understand. I tell her I don’t see how we got here. I tell her how unhappy I’ve been for so long. I tell her I’m sorry that we’ve grown distant, that I’ve grown cold. I tell her about the whirl, the constant whirl, the centrifugal force of this fucked-up tennis life. I tell her that I haven’t known who I am for the longest time, maybe ever. I tell her about the search for a self, the endless monologue in my head, the depression. I tell her everything in my heart, and it all comes out halting, clumsy, inarticulate. It’s embarrassing, but necessary, because I don’t want to lose her, I’ve had en
ough losing, and I know if I’m honest she’ll give me a second chance.
She says that she’s sorry I’m suffering, but she can’t solve it. She can’t fix me. I need to fix myself. By myself.
Listening to the dial tone, I feel resigned, calm. The phone call now seems like the brief, curt handshake at the net between two mismatched opponents.
I eat something, watch TV, go to bed early. In the morning I phone Perry and tell him I want the fastest divorce in the history of divorce.
I give my platinum wedding band to a friend and point him to the nearest pawnshop. Take their first offer, I tell him. When he brings me the cash I make a donation to my new school in the name of Brooke Christa Shields. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, she will forever be one of the original benefactors.
22
THE FIRST TOURNAMENT of my new, Brooke-less life is San Jose. J.P. drives up from Orange County for a few days of emergency counseling. He encourages, advises, cajoles, promises that better days are ahead. He understands that I have good moments and bad. One moment I say, To hell with her, and the next moment I miss her. He says it’s all par for the course. He tells me that for the last few years my mind has been a swamp—stagnant, fetid, seeping in every direction. Now it’s time for my mind to be a river—raging, channeled, and therefore pure. I like it. I tell him I’ll try to keep this image in mind. He talks and talks, and as long as he’s talking, I’m OK. I’m in control. His advice feels like an oxygen cup on my mouth.
Then he leaves, drives back to Orange County, and I’m a mess again. I’m standing on the court, in the middle of a match, thinking about everything but my opponent. I’m asking myself, If you took a vow, before God and your family, if you said I do, and now you don’t, what does that make you?
A failure.
I walk in circles, cursing myself. The linesman hears me call myself an obscene name and walks past me, across the court, to the umpire’s chair. He reports me to the umpire for using foul language.
The umpire gives me a warning.
Now here comes the linesman, walking back across the court, past me, to resume his position. I glare. The mealy-mouthed fink. The pathetic tattletale. I know I shouldn’t, I know there will be hell to pay, but I can’t hold it in.
You’re a cocksucker.
He stops, turns, marches straight back to the umpire, reports me again.
This time I’m docked a point.
The linesman comes back again, past me, to resume his position.
I say, You’re still a cocksucker.
He stops, turns, walks back to the umpire, who heaves a sigh and pitches forward in his chair. The umpire calls over the supervisor, who also sighs, then beckons me.
Andre. Did you call the linesman a cocksucker?
Do you want me to lie or tell you the truth?
I need to know if you said it.
I said it. And you want to know something? He is a cocksucker.
They kick me out of the tournament.
I HEAD BACK TO VEGAS. Brad phones. Indian Wells is coming up, he says. I tell Brad that I’m going through some stuff right now, but I can’t tell him what. And Indian Wells is out of the question.
I have to get well, get right, which means spending lots of time with Gil. Every night we buy a sack of hamburgers and drive around the city. I’m breaking training, big time, but Gil sees again that I need comfort food. He also sees that he might lose a finger if he tries to take the hamburger away from me.
We drive into the mountains, up and down the Strip, listening to Gil’s special CD. He calls it Belly Cramps. Gil’s philosophy in all things is to seek the pain, woo the pain, recognize that pain is life. If you’re heartbroken, Gil says, don’t hide from it. Wallow in it. We hurt, he says, so let’s hurt. Belly Cramps is his medley of the most painful love songs ever written. We listen to them over and over until we know the lyrics by heart. After a song has played Gil will speak the lyrics. For my money, his speaking is better than anyone’s singing. He puts all recording artists to shame. I’d rather hear Gil talk a song than Sinatra croon it.
With each passing year Gil’s voice grows deeper, richer, and softer, and when he speaks the chorus of a torch song he sounds as if he’s channeling Moses and Elvis. He deserves a Grammy for his rendition of Barry Manilow’s Please Don’t Be Scared:
Cause feeling pain’s a hard way
To know you’re still alive.
But his take on Roy Clark’s version of We Can’t Build a Fire in the Rain knocks me out every time. One line in particular resonates with us both:
Just going through the motions and pretending
we have something left to gain.
When I’m not with Gil, I’m locked in my new house, the one I bought with Brooke for those infrequent occasions when we came home to Vegas. Now I think of it as Bachelor Pad II. I like the house, it’s more my style than the French Country place where she and I lived in Pacific Palisades, but it doesn’t have a fireplace. I can’t think without a fireplace. I must have fire. So I hire a guy to build one.
While it’s under construction the house is a disaster area. Huge plastic sheets hang from the walls. Tarps cover the furniture. A thick coat of dust lies everywhere. One morning, staring into the unfinished fireplace, I think about Mandela. I think about the promises I’ve made to myself and others. I reach for the phone and dial Brad.
Come to Vegas. I’m ready to play.
He says he’s on his way.
Unbelievable. He could dump me—no one would blame him—but instead he drops everything the moment I call. I love the guy. Now, while he’s on his way, I worry that he won’t be comfortable, because of all the construction. Then I smile. I have two leather club chairs set in front of a large-screen TV, and a wet bar stocked with Bud Ice. All Brad’s basic needs will be met.
Five hours later he comes through the door, flops into one of the club chairs, opens a beer, and instantly looks as if he’s nestled in his mother’s arms. I join him in a beer. Six o’clock rolls around. We switch to frozen margaritas. At eight o’clock we’re still in the club chairs, Brad flipping channels, looking for sports highlights.
I say, Listen, Brad, I need to tell you something. It’s something I should have told you a while ago.
He’s staring at the TV. I’m staring into the unfinished fireplace, imagining flames.
You see that game the other night? he asks. No one is beating Duke this year.
Brad, this is important. Something you need to know. Brooke and I—we’re done. We’re not going to make it.
He turns. He looks me dead in the eye. Then he puts his elbows on his knees and hangs his head. I had no idea he’d take it this hard. He stays this way for three full seconds. Finally he looks up and gives me a big, toothy smile.
He says, It’s going to be a great year.
What?
We’re going to have a great year.
But—
This is the best thing that’s ever happened to your tennis.
I’m miserable. What are you talking about?
Miserable? Then you’re looking at this all wrong. You don’t have kids. You’re free as a bird. If you had kids, OK, there would be real problems. But this way, you get off scot free.
I guess.
You’ve got the world by the balls. You’re solo, rid of all that drama!
He looks deranged. He looks delirious. He tells me we have Key Biscayne coming up, then clay season, then—good things. About to happen.
This burden is off you now, he says. Instead of lying around Vegas, feeling your pain, let’s go put some pain on your opponents.
You know what? You’re right. That calls for another batch of margaritas!
At nine o’clock I say, We should think about food.
But Brad is peacefully, contentedly licking salt from the rim of his glass, and he’s found tennis on the TV, a night match in Indian Wells. Steffi Graf versus Serena Williams.
He wheels and gives me the toothy s
mile again.
That’s your play right there!
He points to the TV.
He says, Steffi Graf! That’s who you should be with.
Yeah. Right. She wants no part of me.
I’ve told Brad the stories. The 1991 French Open. The 1992 Wimbledon Ball. I’ve tried and tried. No dice. Steffi Graf is like the French Open. I just can’t get across that particular finish line.
That’s all in the past, Brad says. Besides, your approach back then was so un-Andre. Asking once and backing off? Strictly amateur. Since when do you let other people run your game? Since when do you take no for an answer?
I nod. Maybe.
You just need a look, Brad says. A crack of light. A window. An opening.
The next tournament where Steffi and I are both scheduled to play is Key Biscayne. Brad tells me to relax, he’ll get me close. He knows Steffi’s coach, Heinz Gunthardt. He’ll talk to Heinz about setting up a practice session.
· · ·
THE MOMENT WE ARRIVE IN KEY BISCAYNE, Brad phones Heinz, who’s surprised by the proposition. He says no. He says Steffi would never agree to break her regular preparation schedule for a practice session with a stranger. She’s too regimented. Also, she’s shy. She’d be highly uncomfortable. But Brad is persistent, and Heinz must have some trace of romantic in him. He suggests Brad and I book the court for right after Steffi’s practice session, then arrive early. Heinz will then casually suggest that Steffi hit a few balls with me.
It’s all set, Brad says. High noon. You. Me. Steffi. Heinz. Let’s get this party started.
FIRST THINGS FIRST. I phone J.P. and tell him to get his ass to Florida, pronto. I need advice. I need a sounding board. I need a wingman. Then I hit the court and practice for my practice session.
On the appointed day, Brad and I get to the court forty minutes early. I’ve never been so breathless. I’ve played seven times in the final of a Grand Slam and I never felt like this. We find Heinz and Steffi deeply absorbed in their practice session. We stand off to the side, watching. After a few minutes Heinz calls Steffi to the net and says something to her. He points to us.
She looks.