Open (36 page)

Mission accomplished. The Australian sun is flame-broiling my skin. I scold myself, then forgive myself, then press reset and find a way to tie the second set. Then I win the tiebreak.

My mind is chattering. What else can I do with my life? Should I break up with Brooke? Should I marry her? I lose the third set. Again Etlis can’t stand prosperity. I win the fourth set in another tiebreak. In the fifth set Etlis wears out, gives up. I’m neither proud nor relieved. I’m embarrassed. My head looks like a blood blister.
Put a blister on his brain
.

Later, reporters ask if I worry about sunburn. I laugh. Honestly, I tell them, sunburn is the least of my worries. I want to add: I’m already mentally fried. But I don’t.

In the quarters I play Courier. He’s beaten me six straight times. We’ve had terrific battles, on the court and in the newspapers. After he beat me at the 1989 French Open, he complained about all the attention I get. He said he felt as if he forever plays second fiddle to me.

Sounds like an insecurity problem, I told reporters.

To which Courier shot back:
I’m
insecure?

He’s also been chippy about my ever-changing appearance and psyche. Asked what he thought of the new Agassi, he once said: You mean the new Agassi, or the new
new
Agassi? We’ve patched things up since then. I’ve told Courier that I root for his success, that I consider him a friend, and he’s said the same. But there’s still a curtain of tension between us, and there may always be, at least until one of us retires, since our rivalry dates back to puberty, back to Nick.

The match starts late, delayed by the women’s quarters. We get on the court close to midnight and play nine games on serve. So this is how it’s going to be. Then the rain falls. Officials could close the roof, but it would take forty minutes. They ask if we’d rather come back tomorrow. We both say yes.

Sleep helps. I wake refreshed, wanting to beat Courier. But it’s not Courier on the other side of the net—it’s a pale facsimile. Despite being up two sets to love, he looks tentative, burned out. I recognize that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror many times. I swoop in for the kill. I win the match, beating Courier for the first time in years.

When reporters ask about Courier’s game I say: He’s not where he wants to be.

I want to say: There’s a lot of that going around.

The win helps me regain the number one rank. Once again I’ve dethroned Pete, but it’s just another reminder of when I didn’t, couldn’t, beat him.

In the semis I face Chang. I know I can win, but I also know that I will lose. In fact I want to lose, I must lose, because Becker is waiting in the final. The last thing I need right now is another holy war with Becker. I couldn’t handle that. I wouldn’t have the stomach for it, which means I’d lose. Given a choice between Becker and Chang, I’d rather lose to Chang. Besides, it’s always easier psychologically to lose in the semis than in the final.

So I’ll lose today. Congratulations, Chang. I hope you and your Messiah will be very happy.

But losing on purpose isn’t easy. It’s almost harder than winning. You have to lose in such a way that the crowd can’t tell, and in a way that
you
can’t tell—because of course you’re not wholly conscious of losing on purpose. You’re not even half conscious. Your mind is tanking, but your body is fighting on. Muscle memory. It’s not even all of your mind that purposely loses, but a breakaway faction, a splinter group. The deliberately bad decisions are made in a dark place, far below the surface. You don’t do those tiny things you need to do. You don’t run the extra few feet, you don’t lunge. You’re slow to come out of stops. You hesitate to bend or dig. You get handsy, not using your legs and hips. You make a careless error, compensate for the error with a spectacular shot, then make two more errors, and slowly but surely you slide backward. You never actually think, I’m going to net this ball. It’s more complicated, more insidious.

At the post-match news conference Brad tells reporters: Today, Andre hit the wall.

True, I think. So very true. But I don’t tell Brad that I hit the wall every day. It would crush him to know that today the wall felt good, that I kissed the wall, that I’m glad I lost, that I’d rather be on that plane back to Los Angeles than lacing them up for a rematch with our old friend B. B. Socrates. I’d rather be anywhere but here—even Hollywood, my next stop. Since I lost, I’ll get home just in time to watch the Super Bowl, followed by the special hour-long episode of
Friends
, featuring Brooke Shields.

P
ERRY GRINDS ME EVERY DAY
, asking what’s wrong, what’s the matter. I can’t tell him. I don’t know. More accurately, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to admit to Perry or myself that a loss to Pete can have this kind of lingering effect. For once I don’t want to sit with Perry and try to unravel the skeins of my subconscious. I’ve given up on understanding myself. I have no interest in self-analysis. In the long, losing struggle with myself, I’m tanking.

I go to San Jose and get annihilated by Pete. Definitely not what the doctor ordered. I lose my temper several times during the match, cursing at my racket, screaming at myself. Pete looks bemused. The umpire penalizes me for swearing.

Oh, you like that? Here, take this.

I serve a ball into the upper deck.

I go to Indian Wells, lose to Chang in the quarters. I can’t face the post-match press conference. I skip out, pay a hefty fine. I go to Monte Carlo. I lose to Alberto Costa of Spain in fifty-four minutes. As I walk off the court I hear whistles, catcalls. They may as well be coming from inside my heart. I want to yell at the crowd: I agree!

Gil asks me, What is it?

I tell him. I come right out with it. Since losing to Pete at the U.S. Open, I’ve lost the will.

Then let’s not do this, Gil says. We’ve got to be clear on what we’re doing.

I want to quit, I say, but I don’t know how—or when.

At the 1996 French Open I’m coming unglued. I’m screaming at myself all through my first-round match. I receive an official warning. I scream louder. I’m penalized a point. I’m one
motherfucking cocksucker
away from getting DQ’d for the tournament. Rain starts to fall, and during the delay I sit in the locker room and stare straight ahead as if hypnotized.
When play resumes I outlast my opponent, Jacobo Díaz, whom I can’t see. He’s as blurry and watery as the reflections in the rain puddles along the alleys of the court.

Beating Díaz merely delays the inevitable. In the next round I lose to Chris Woodruff, from Tennessee. He always reminds me of a country-western singer, and plays as if he’d rather be performing at a rodeo. He’s even more awkward on clay, and to compensate he gets aggressive, especially on his backhand. I can’t counter his aggression. I make sixty-three unforced errors. He reacts with unbridled joy, and I gaze at him, coveting not his victory but his enthusiasm.

Sportswriters accuse me of tanking, not going for every ball. They never get it right. When I tank, they say I’m not good enough; when I’m not good enough, they say I tank. I nearly tell them I wasn’t tanking, that I was torturing myself for not being good enough. Whenever I know that I don’t deserve to win, that I’m unworthy of winning, I torture myself. You could look it up.

But I don’t say anything. Once again I leave the stadium without sitting for the obligatory news conference. Once again I happily pay the fine. Money well spent.

B
ROOKE TAKES ME TO A JOINT
in Manhattan where the front room is smaller than a phone booth but the main dining room is big and warm and mustard yellow. Campagnola—I like the way she says it, I like the way it smells, I like the way we both feel as we walk in off the street. I like the autographed photo of Sinatra next to the coat room.

This is my
favorite
place in New York, Brooke says, so I christen it my favorite too. We sit in a corner, eating a light meal in that hazy twilight hour between the lunch crowd and the dinner rush. They don’t normally serve food at this hour, but the manager says in our case they’ll make an exception.

Campagnola quickly becomes an extension of our kitchen, and then of our entire relationship. Brooke and I go there to remind ourselves of the reasons we’re good together. We go there on special occasions, and we go there to make humdrum weekdays feel like special occasions. We go there so often and so automatically after every match at the U.S. Open that the chefs and waiters begin to set their watches by us. In a fifth set I sometimes find myself thinking of the gang at Campagnola, knowing that they’re keeping one eye on the TV while prepping the mozzarella, tomatoes, and prosciutto. I know, as I’m bouncing the ball, just about to
serve, that I’ll soon be seated at the corner table, eating buttery fried shrimp with white wine sauce and lemon, plus a side of raviolis so soft and sweet they should count as dessert. I know that when Brooke and I walk in the door, win or lose, the place will erupt with applause.

Campagnola’s manager, Frankie, is always dressed razor sharp, Gil sharp. Italian suit, flowered tie, silk handkerchief. He always greets us with a gap-toothed smile and a fresh batch of funny stories. He’s a second father to me, Brooke says when she introduces us, and those are magic words. Surrogate father is a role for which I have the greatest respect, so I like Frankie right away. Then he buys us a bottle of red, tells us about the celebs and grifters and bankers and mobsters who hang out in his joint, makes Brooke laugh until her cheeks are pink, and now I like him for my own reasons.

Frank says, John Gotti? You want to know about Gotti? He always sits right over there, corner table, facing out. If anybody’s going to take him down, he wants to see it coming.

I feel the same way, I say.

Frankie laughs darkly, then nods. I know, right?

Frankie is honest, hardworking, sincere, my kind of people. I find myself looking for his face the moment we walk through the door. I feel better, my aches and anxieties fade, when Frankie throws out his arms and smiles and whisks us to our table. Sometimes he kicks out other customers, and Brooke and I pretend not to notice their frowning and complaining.

Frankie’s chief virtue, in my book, is the way he talks about his kids. He loves them, brags about them, pulls out photos of them at the drop of a hat. But clearly he worries about their future. Running a hand over his tired face one night, he tells me his kids are only in grade school, but he’s already stressed about college. He groans about the cost of higher education. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it.

Days later I talk to Perry and ask him to put aside a nest egg of Nike stock in Frankie’s name. When Brooke and I next drop into Campagnola, I tell Frankie about it. The shares can’t be touched for ten years, I say, but by then they should be worth enough to significantly lighten that tuition burden.

Frankie’s bottom lip trembles. Andre, he says, I can’t believe you’d do that for me.

The look on his face is a complete shock. I didn’t understand the meaning and value of education, the hardship and stress it causes most
parents and children. I’ve never thought of education like that. School was always a place I managed to escape, not a thing to be treasured. Setting aside the stock was merely something I did because Frankie specifically mentioned college and I wanted to help. When I saw what it meant to him, however, I was the one who got educated.

Helping Frankie provides more satisfaction and makes me feel more connected and alive and
myself
than anything else that happens in 1996. I tell myself: Remember this. Hold on to this. This is the only perfection there is, the perfection of helping others. This is the only thing we can do that has any lasting value or meaning. This is why we’re here. To make each other feel safe.

And as 1996 wears on, safety seems like an especially precious commodity. Brooke is regularly receiving letters from stalkers, threatening her—and sometimes me—with death and unspeakable horrors. The letters are detailed, grisly, sick. We forward them to the FBI. We also ask Gil to work with the agents, monitor their progress. Several times, when a letter is traceable, Gil goes rogue. He boards a plane and pays the stalker a visit. He usually appears early in the morning, just after dawn, at the stalker’s house or workplace. He holds up the letter and says very softly, I know who you are and where you live. Now take a good look at me, because if you ever bother Brooke and Andre again, you will see me again, and you don’t want that, because then it will be
on
.

The scariest letters can’t be traced. When they rise above a certain gruesome threshold, when they threaten that something is going to happen on a specific date, Gil will stand outside Brooke’s brownstone while we sleep. By stand I mean
stand
. On the stoop. Arms folded. He stations himself there, looking left, then right, and he stays that way all night.

Night after night.

The strain, the sordidness, exact a heavy toll on Gil. He worries constantly that he’s not doing enough, that he may have missed something, that he’ll blink or look away one time and some creep will slither past. He becomes obsessed. He falls into a nearly debilitating depression, and I fall with him, because I’m the cause. I brought this on Gil. I feel deep guilt, and I’m beset by premonitions of doom.

I try to talk myself out of it. I tell myself that you can’t be unhappy when you have money in the bank and own your own plane. But I can’t help it, I feel listless, hopeless, trapped in a life I didn’t choose, hounded by people I can’t see. And I can’t discuss any of it with Brooke, because I can’t admit to such weakness. Feeling depressed after a loss is one thing,
but feeling depressed about nothing, about life in general, is another thing altogether. I can’t feel this way. I refuse to admit that I feel this way.

Even if I wanted to discuss it with Brooke, we’re not communicating well these days. We’re not on the same frequency. We don’t have the same bandwidth. For instance, when I try to talk with her about Frankie, about the satisfaction of helping him, she doesn’t seem to hear. After the initial fun of introducing me to Frankie, she’s cool about him, indifferent, as if he’s played his part and now it’s time for him to move offstage. This follows a precedent, a pattern that repeats itself with many people and places Brooke brings into my life. Museums, galleries, celebrities, writers, shows, friends—I often get more from them than she does. Just as I start to enjoy something, to learn from it, she casts it aside.