by Andre Agassi
This moment is the crucial test for both of us. This is the turning point in the match, perhaps in both of our lives. It’s a test of wills, of heart, of manhood. I toss the ball in the air and refuse to back down. Contrary to Medvedev’s expectations, I serve hard and aggressive to his backhand. The ball takes a wicked skidding bounce. Medvedev stretches out and shovels the ball to the center of the court. I hit a forehand behind him. He gets there, hits a backhand at my feet. I bend, play an awkward forehand volley that lands on the line, he shovels it over the net, and then I tap it ever so lightly back over, where it dies, a huge winner for such a soft shot.
I go on to hold serve.
I have a bounce in my step as I walk to my chair. The crowd is going crazy. The momentum hasn’t shifted, but it’s twitched. That was Medvedev’s moment, and he missed it, and I think I can see on his face that he knows it.
Allez, Agassi! Allez!
One good game, I think. Play one good game, and you’ll have won a set, and then at least you can walk out of here holding your head up.
The clouds have blown away. The sun has dried the clay hard and the pace is now lightning fast. I catch Medvedev sneaking a worried look at the sky as we retake the court. He wants those rain clouds to return. He wants no part of this blazing sun. He’s starting to sweat. His nostrils are flaring. He looks like a horse—like a dragon. You can beat the dragon. He falls behind love–40. I break him and win the third set.
Now we play on my terms. I move Medvedev side to side, hit the ball big, do everything Brad said to do. Medvedev is a step slower, notably distracted. He’s had too long to think about winning. He was five points away, five points, and it’s haunting him. He’s going over and over it in his mind. He’s telling himself, I was so close. I was there. The finish line! He’s living in the past, and I’m in the present. He’s thinking, I’m feeling. Don’t think, Andre. Hit harder.
In the fourth set, I break him again. Then we settle into a dogfight. We play good solid tennis, each of us sprinting and grunting and digging deep. The set could go either way. But I have one distinct advantage, a secret weapon I can pull out any time I need a point—my net play. Everything I do at the net is working, and it’s clearly troubling Medvedev, messing with his head. He becomes skittish, almost paranoid. If I merely pretend to rush the net, he flinches. I jump, he lunges.
I win the fourth set.
I break him early in the fifth set and go up 3–2. It’s happening. It’s turning. The thing that should have been mine in 1990 and 1991 and 1995 is coming around again. I’m up 5–3. He’s serving, 40–15. I have two match points. I need to win this thing right now, or I’m going to have to serve out the match, and I don’t want that. If I don’t win this thing right now, maybe I don’t win at all. If I don’t win this thing right now, I’ll be in Medvedev’s shoes, haunted by how close I was. If I don’t win this thing right now, I’ll have to think about the French Open in my old age, in my rocking chair, mumbling about Medvedev with a plaid blanket over my legs. I’ve already obsessed about this tournament for the last ten years. I can’t bear the idea of obsessing about it for another eighty. After all this work and sweat, after this improbable comeback and this miraculous tournament, if I don’t win this thing right now, I’ll never be happy, truly happy, again. And Brad will have to be institutionalized. The finish line is close enough to kiss. I feel it pulling me.
Medvedev wins both match points. He staves off death. We’re back to deuce. I win the next point, however. Match point, again.
I yell at myself: Now. Now. Win this now.
But he wins the next point, then wins the game.
The changeover takes an eternity. I mop my face with a towel. I look at Brad, expecting him to be disconsolate, as I am. But his face is determined. He holds up four fingers. Four more points. Four points equals all four slams. Come on! Let’s go!
If I’m going to lose this match, if I’m doomed to live with withering regret, it won’t be because I didn’t do what Brad said. I hear his voice in my ear: Go back to the well.
Medvedev’s forehand is the well.
We walk onto the court. I’m going to hit everything to Medvedev’s forehand, and he knows I’m going to. On the first point he’s tight, tentative on a passing shot up the line. He puts the ball into the net.
He wins the next point, however, when I net my running forehand.
Suddenly I rediscover my serve. Out of nowhere I uncork a big first serve that he can’t handle. He hits a tired forehand that flies long. I hit my next first serve, even bigger, and he nets a forehand.
Championship point. Half the crowd is yelling my name, the other half is yelling, Ssssh. I hit another sizzling first serve, and when Medvedev steps to the side and takes a chicken-wing swing, I’m the second person to know that I’ve won the French Open. Brad is the first. Medvedev is third. The ball lands well beyond the baseline. Watching it fall is one of the great joys of my life.
I raise my arms and my racket falls on the clay. I’m sobbing. I’m rubbing my head. I’m terrified by how good this feels. Winning isn’t supposed to feel this good. Winning is never supposed to matter this much. But it does, it does, I can’t help it. I’m overjoyed, grateful to Brad, to Gil, to Paris—even to Brooke and Nick. Without Nick I wouldn’t be here. Without all the ups and downs with Brooke, even the misery of our final days, this wouldn’t be possible. I even reserve some gratitude for myself, for all the good and bad choices that led here.
I walk off the court, blowing kisses in all four directions, the most heartfelt gesture I can think of to express the gratitude pulsing through me, the emotion that feels like the source of all other emotions. I vow that I will do this from now on, win or lose, whenever I walk off a tennis court. I will blow kisses to the four corners of the earth, thanking everyone.
WE HAVE A SMALL PARTY at an Italian restaurant, Stressa, in downtown Paris, close to the Seine, close to the spot where I gave Brooke the tennis bracelet. I’m drinking champagne out of my trophy. Gil is drinking a Coke and he’s physically incapable of not smiling. Every now and then he puts his hand on mine—it’s as heavy as a dictionary—and says, You did it.
We did it, Gilly.
McEnroe is there. He hands me a phone and says: Someone wants to say hello.
Andre? Andre! Congratulations. I got such joy watching you tonight. I envy you.
Borg.
Envy? Why?
Doing something so few of us have done.
The sun is coming up when Brad and I walk back to the hotel. He puts his arm around me and says, The journey ended the right way.
Seconds after beating Andrei Medvedev to capture the 1999 French Open
How so?
He says, Usually in life the journey ends the wrong fucking way. But this one time it ended the right way.
I throw an arm around Brad. It’s one of the few things the prophet has gotten wrong all month. The journey is just beginning.
23
ON THE CONCORDE BACK TO NEW YORK, Brad tells me it’s destiny—destiny. He’s had a couple of beers.
You won the 1999 French Open on the men’s side, he says. And who should happen to have won it on the women’s side? Who? Tell me.
I smile.
That’s right. Steffi Graf. It’s destiny you end up together. Only two people in the history of the world have won all four slams and a gold medal—you and Steffi Graf. The Golden Slam. It’s destiny that you two should be married.
In fact, he says, here’s my prediction. He takes the Concorde promotional literature from the seat pocket and scribbles on the upper right-hand corner: 2001—Steffi Agassi.
What the hell does that mean?
You guys will be married by 2001. And you’ll have your first kids together in 2002.
Brad, she has a boyfriend. Have you forgotten?
After the two weeks you’ve just had, you’re going to tell me anything is impossible?
Well, I’ll say this. Now that I’ve won the French Open, I d
o feel slightly more—I don’t know. Worthy?
There. Now you’re talking.
I don’t believe people are destined to win tennis tournaments. Destined to come together, maybe, but not destined to hit more winners and aces than their opponent. Still, I’m reluctant to question anything Brad says. So, just in case, and because I like the way it looks, I tear off the corner of the Concorde program on which he’s written his latest prophecy and I put it in my pocket.
We spend the next five days on Fisher Island, recuperating and celebrating. Mostly the latter. The party keeps growing. Brad’s wife, Kimmie, flies in. J.P. and Joni fly in. Late at night we crank the stereo, listening over and over to Sinatra singing That’s Life, Kimmie and Joni dancing like go-go girls atop the table and bed.
Then I take to the grass courts at the hotel. I hit with Brad for several days, and we board a plane for London. Halfway across the Atlantic, I realize that we’re going to land on Steffi’s birthday. What are the chances? What if we bump into her? It would be nice to have something for her.
I look at Brad, sleeping. I know he’ll want to go straight from the airport to the practice courts at Wimbledon, so there won’t be time to stop at a stationery store. I should make some kind of birthday card now. But with what?
I notice that the airplane’s first-class menu is kind of cool. On the cover is a photo of a country church under a sliver of moon. I combine two covers into one card and along the inside I write: Dear Steffi, I wanted to take this opportunity to wish you a happy birthday. How proud you must feel. Congratulations on what I know is only a sliver of what is out there for you.
I punch holes in the two menus. Now I just need something to hold them together. I ask the flight attendant if she has any string or ribbon. Maybe some tinsel? She gives me a bit of raffia coiled around the neck of a champagne bottle. I carefully weave the raffia through the holes. It feels as though I’m stringing a tennis racket.
When the card is finished I wake Brad and show him my handiwork.
Old World craftsmanship, I say.
He twirls a knuckle in his eye, nods approvingly. All you need is a look, he says. An opening. I tuck the card in my tennis bag and wait.
THERE ARE THREE LEVELS of practice courts at the Wimbledon practice site, Aorangi Park. It’s a tiered mountain, an Aztec temple of tennis courts. Brad and I hit on the middle tier for half an hour. When we’re done I pack my tennis bag, taking my time, as always. It’s hard to get reorganized after a transatlantic flight. I’m carefully arranging, rearranging, slipping my wet shirt into a plastic bag, when Brad begins punching my shoulder.
She’s coming, dude, she’s coming.
I look up like an Irish setter. If I had a tail it would be wagging. She’s thirty yards off, wearing tight-fitting blue warm-up pants. I notice for the first time that she walks slightly pigeon-toed, like me. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail and gleaming in the sun. It looks, yet again, like a halo.
I stand. She gives me the European double-cheek kiss.
Congratulations on the French, she says. I was so happy for you. I had tears in my eyes.
Me too.
She smiles.
Congratulations to you as well, I say. You paved the way. You warmed up the court for me.
Thank you.
Silence.
Luckily, no fans or photographers are around, so she seems relaxed, in no hurry. I’m oddly relaxed as well. Brad, however, is making small squeaking noises, like air being slowly let out of a balloon.
Oh, I say. Hey. I just remembered. I have a gift for you. I knew it was your birthday, so I made you a card. Happy Birthday.
She takes the card, looks at it for several seconds, then looks up, touched.
How did you know it was my birthday?
I just—know.
Thank you, she says. Really.
She walks away quickly.
THE NEXT DAY she’s coming off the practice courts just as Brad and I arrive. This time there are mobs of fans and reporters all around and she seems painfully self-conscious. She slows, gives us a half wave, and in a stage whisper says: How can I reach you?
I’ll give my number to Heinz.
OK.
Goodbye.
Bye.
After practice Perry and Brad and I sit around the house we’ve rented, debating when she’s going to call.
Soon, Brad says.
Very soon, Perry says.
The day passes without a call.
Another day passes.
I’m in agony. Wimbledon starts Monday, and I can’t sleep, can’t think. Sleeping pills are powerless against this kind of anxiety.
She had better call, Brad says, or you’re going to lose in the first round.
Saturday night, just after dinner, the phone rings.
Hello?
Hi. It’s Stefanie.
Stefanie?
Stefanie.
Stefanie—Graf?
Yes.
Oh. You go by Stefanie?
She explains that her mother called her Steffi years ago, and the press picked it up and it stuck. But she thinks of herself as Stefanie.
Stefanie it is, I say.
While talking to her I go skiing around the living room in my sweat socks. I schuss across the wood floors. Brad pleads with me to stop, to sit in a chair. He’s sure I’m going to break a leg or tweak a knee. I settle into an easy cross-country motion around the perimeter of the room. He smiles and tells Perry, We’re going to have a good tournament. It’s going to be a good Wimbledon.
Sssh, I tell him.
Then I lock myself in a back room.
Listen, I tell Stefanie, back in Key Biscayne you said you didn’t want any misunderstandings with me. Well, I don’t want any misunderstandings with you either. So I need to tell you, I just need to say before we go any further, that I think you are beautiful. I respect you, I admire you, and I would absolutely love to get to know you better. That’s my goal. That’s my only agenda. That’s where I am. Tell me this is possible. Tell me we can go to dinner.
No.
Please.
It’s not possible—not here.
Not here. OK. Can we go somewhere else?
No. I have a boyfriend.
I think: the boyfriend. Still. I’ve read about him. Race-car driver. The same boyfriend she’s had for six years. I try to come up with something clever to say, some way of telling her to open herself to the possibility of being with me. With the silence stretching to an uncomfortable length, the moment sliding away, all I can come up with is this:
Six years is a long time.
Yes, she says. Yes it is.
If you’re not moving forward, you’re moving backward. I’ve lived that.
She doesn’t say anything. But it’s the way she doesn’t say anything. I’ve struck a chord.
I continue. It can’t be exactly what you’re looking for. I mean, I don’t want to make any assumptions—but.
I hold my breath. She doesn’t contradict me.
I say, I don’t want to be disrespectful, or take liberties, but just, can you just, please, could you, maybe, I don’t know, just get to know me?
No.
Coffee?
I can’t be in public with you. It wouldn’t be right.
What about letters? Can I write you?
She laughs.
Can I send you stuff? Can I let you know me before you decide if you want to get to know me?
No.
Not even letters?
There is someone who reads my mail.
I see.
I knock my fist against my forehead. Think, Andre, think.
I say, OK, look, how about this. You’re playing your next tournament in San Francisco. I’ll be there practicing with Brad. You said you love San Francisco. Let’s meet in San Francisco.
This is—possible.
This is—possible?
I wait for her to elaborate. She doesn’t.
So can I call you, or do y
ou just want to call me?
Call me after this tournament, she says. Let’s both play, and call me when you finish the tournament.
She gives me her cell phone number. I write it on a paper napkin, kiss it, and put it in my tennis bag.
I REACH THE SEMIS AND PLAY RAFTER. I beat him in straight sets. I don’t have to wonder who’s waiting for me in the final. It’s Pete. As always, Pete. I stagger back to the house, thinking shower, food, sleep. The phone rings—I’m sure it’s Stefanie, wishing me luck against Pete, confirming our San Francisco date.
But it’s Brooke. She’s in London and asks to come by and see me.
As I hang up the phone and turn, Perry is there, inches from my face.
Andre, please tell me you said no. Please tell me you’re not letting that woman come here.
She’s coming. In the morning.
Before you play the final at Wimbledon?
It’ll be fine.
SHE ARRIVES AT TEN, wearing an enormous British hat with a wide, floppy brim and plastic flowers. I give her a quick tour of the house. We compare it to the houses she and I used to rent, back in the day. I ask if she’d like something to drink.
Do you have any tea?
Sure.
I hear Brad cough in the next room. I know what the cough means. It’s the morning of the final. An athlete should never change his routine on the morning of a final. I’ve had coffee every morning of the tournament. I should be having coffee now.
But I want to be a good host. I make a pot of tea, and we drink it at a table under the kitchen window. We talk without saying anything. I ask if she has anything special she wanted to tell me. She misses me, she says. She wanted to tell me that.
She sees a stack of magazines on the corner of the table, copies of a recent Sports Illustrated. I’m on the cover. The headline is Suddenly Andre. (I’m suddenly starting to hate that word, suddenly.) Tournament officials sent them over, I tell her. They want me to autograph copies for fans and Wimbledon officials and staffers.