Open: An Autobiography

Then, in August, at the RCA Championships in Indianapolis, playing a first-round match against Daniel Nestor, a Serb from Canada, I’m well ahead. But I feel unduly piqued that he’s just broken my serve. I can’t let go of my sudden anger. I look up at the sky and fantasize about flying away. Since I can’t fly away, at least this tennis ball can fly away. Be free, little ball. I whack it high above the stands and out of the stadium.

Automatic warning.

The umpire, Dana Laconto, says into the microphone, Code violation. Warning. Abuse of ball.

Fuck you, Dana.

He calls over the ref. He tells the ref that Agassi said, Fuck you, Dana.

The referee approaches and asks, Did you say that?

Yes.

This match is over.

Fine. Fuck you too. And fuck the umpire you rode in on.

The fans start a riot. They don’t understand what’s happening, because they can’t hear me. They only know that they paid to see a match and now it’s being canceled. They’re booing, firing seat cushions and water bottles onto the court. The mascot of the RCA Championships is a Spuds MacKenzie dog, which now trots onto the court, dodging seat cushions and water bottles. He reaches the middle of the net, lifts his hind leg, and pees.

I couldn’t agree more.

He makes a jaunty exit. I’m right behind him, ducking my head, dragging my tennis bag.

The crowd is going berserk, like the crowd in a gladiator movie. They’re showering the court with garbage.

In the locker room Brad says, What the - ?

They defaulted me.

Why?

I tell him.

He shakes his head.

His seven-year-old son, Zach, is crying because the people are being mean to Uncle Andre. And because Spuds MacKenzie peed on the net. I send them both away, then sit in the locker room for an hour, head bowed. So here we are. A new low. Fine. I can handle this. I can actually get comfortable here. I can settle in. Rock bottom can be very cozy, because at least you’re at rest. You know you’re not going anywhere for a while.

But rock bottom is still a ways down. I go to the 1996 U.S. Open, and right away there’s controversy. Something about seeding. A few of my fellow players complain that I’ve gotten special treatment, that I was bumped up in the draw because tournament officials and CBS

want to see me and Pete in the final. Muster says I’m a prima donna. I take particular glee, therefore, in knocking his hair-mussing ass out of the quarters, continuing to keep my promise that I would never lose to him again.

I reach the semis against Chang. I can’t wait to put a beating on him after losing to him months ago at Indian Wells. It should be no problem. He’s on the back nine of his career, Brad says. So am I, people say. But I have a gold medal. I almost wish I could wear it during the match. Chang, however, doesn’t give a damn about my gold medal. He fires sixteen aces, wriggles out of three break points, forces me into forty-five unforced errors. Seven years after winning his last slam, Chang is almighty, omnipotent. He is risen, and I am fallen.

The next morning, sportswriters trash me. I quit. I tanked. I didn’t care. It almost seems as if they’re angry with me. And I know why. As a result of my loss, they now have to deal with Chang for one more day.

I don’t watch the final on TV when Pete beats Chang in straight sets. But I do read about it. Every article says matter-of-factly that Pete is the best player of his generation.

AS THE YEAR WINDS DOWN I go to Munich, where the boos are deafening. I lose to Mark Woodforde, whom I beat 6:0, 6:0, two short years ago. Brad is apoplectic. He begs me to tell him what’s wrong.

I don’t know.

Tell me, man. Tell me.

I would if I could.

We agree that I should rest, pull out of the Australian Open.

Go home, he says. Get some rest. Spend some time with your fiancée. That’ll cure whatever ails you.

20

BROOKE AND I BUY A HOUSE in Pacific Palisades. It’s not the house I wanted. I had my heart set on a big rambling farmhouse with a family room off the kitchen. But she loved this one, so here we are, living in a multilevel, French Country knockoff set against the side of a cliff. It has no flow, and it feels sterile, the ideal house for a childless couple who plan to spend lots of time in different rooms.

The real estate agent gushed about the breathtaking views of the skyline. In the fore-ground is Sunset Boulevard. At night I can see the Holiday Inn where I stayed after our first date. Many nights I stare at the hotel and wonder what would have happened if I’d kept driving, if I’d never phoned Brooke again. I decide that the view from our new house is better when fog or smog prevents me from seeing that Holiday Inn.