Open: An Autobiography

I sweep the floors. When there’s nothing left to clean, I do laundry. All the laundry. I fold every sweater and T-shirt and still I haven’t made a dent in my energy. I don’t want to sit down. If I had table silver I’d polish it. If I had leather shoes I’d shine them. If I had a giant jug of coins I’d roll them into paper wrappers. I look high and low for Slim - he’s out in the garage, taking apart the engine of his car and putting it together again. I tell him I could do anything right now, anything, man, anything, anything, any-fuckingthing. I could get in the car and drive to Palm Springs and play eighteen holes, then drive home and make lunch and go for a swim.

I don’t sleep for two days. When I finally do, it’s the sleep of the dead and the innocent.

· · ·

PLAYING WEEKS LATER, I struggle against Scott Draper. Left-handed, talented, he’s a good player, but I’ve beaten him soundly in the past. I shouldn’t have any trouble with him, and yet he’s cleaning my clock. I’m so far from being able to beat Draper, in fact, I honestly wonder if it was me who beat him the last time. How could I have been that much better such a short time ago? He’s outplaying me in every phase of the game.

Afterward, reporters ask if I’m OK. They don’t sound accusatory or mean. They sound like Perry and Brad. They’re actually concerned, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

Brooke is remarkably unconcerned. I lose all the time now, and the only time I don’t lose is when I pull out of a tournament, and her only comment is that she enjoys having me around more. Also, since I’m generally playing less often, she says I’m not as moody.

Her oblivion is partly due to the wedding planning, but also her rigorous premarital training regimen. She’s working with Gil to get in shape for that white dress. She’s running, lifting, stretching, counting every calorie. For added motivation, she tapes a photo on the refrigerator door, and around the photo she puts a magnetic heart frame. It’s a photo of the perfect woman, she says. The perfect woman with the perfect legs - the legs Brooke wants.

Astonished, I stare at the photo. I reach out and touch the frame.

Is that - ?

Yep, Brooke says. Steffi Graf.

I PLAY DAVIS CUP IN APRIL, looking for a spark. I practice hard, train hard. We’re up against the Netherlands. My first match, in Newport Beach, is against Sjeng Schalken. He’s six foot five but serves like a man five foot six. Still, he strikes the ball cleanly, and like me he’s a punisher, a baseliner who stays back and tries to run an opponent into the ground. I know what I’m in for. The day is sunny, windy, and weird - Dutch fans wear wooden shoes and wave tulips. I beat Schalken in three wearying sets.

Two days later I play Jan Siemerink, aka the Garbage Man. He’s a lefty, an excellent volleyer, who gets to the net quick and covers it well. But that’s the only part of his game that isn’t comically, fundamentally unsound. Every Siemerink forehand looks mishit, every backhand seems shanked. Even his serve has a wacky, slingy quality. Garbage. I start the match confident, then recall that his lack of form is a powerful weapon. His abysmal shotmaking keeps you always off balance. Your timing never feels right. After two hours, I’m wrong-footed, breathing hard, and have a splitting headache. I’m also down two sets to love. Still, somehow I win, making me 24:4 in Davis Cup play, one of the best records ever compiled by an American. Sportswriters praise this small part of my game, and ask why I can’t translate it to the rest of my game. Even if their praise is tempered, I bask in it. It feels good. I give a small thanks for Davis Cup.

On the other hand, Davis Cup plays havoc with my manicure schedule. Brooke has made many requests of me for the wedding, but her non-negotiable demand is that my nails be perfect. I pick at my cuticles, a lifelong nervous habit, and when she puts a wedding band on my finger, she says, she wants my hands looking their best. Just before my match with the Garbage Man, and again after the match, I submit. I sit myself in the manicurist’s chair, watch the woman work at my cuticles, and tell myself this feels as off balance and wrong-footed as my match against the Garbage Man.

I think: Now this is what I call garbage.

WITH FOUR HELICOPTERS full of paparazzi circling overhead, on April 19, 1997, Brooke and I get married. The ceremony takes place in Monterey, in a tiny church that’s stiflingly, criminally hot. I’d give anything for a puff of fresh air, but the windows must remain shut to block out the noise of the helicopters.

The heat is one reason I break out in a sweat during the ceremony. The main reason, however, is that my body and nerves are shot. As the priest drones on, sweat drips from my brow, from my chin, from my ears. Everyone is looking. They’re sweating too, but not like me.