Open: An Autobiography

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 smile 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.