Open: An Autobiography

The second set turns into a street fight and a wrestling match and pistols at fifty paces.

Squillari doesn’t give an inch and I have to bludgeon the set from him, 7:5. Then a shocking thing happens. I win the third set. Now I start to feel hope, actual hope, rising from my toes.

My body is tingling. I glance at Squillari - he’s hopeless. His face is expressionless. One of the fittest guys on the tour, he’s unable to take a step. He’s done. In the fourth set I roll him, and all at once I’m walking off the court with one of the most improbable wins of my career.

Back at the hotel, covered with clay, I tell Gil: Did you see him? Did you see that dirt rat cramp? We made him cramp, Gil!

I saw.

The elevator is tiny. There’s room for five normal-sized humans, or else me and Gil. Brad tells us to go ahead, he’ll catch the next one. I hit the button, and on the way up Gil leans against one corner of the elevator, I lean against the other. I feel him staring.

What?

Nothing.

He keeps staring.

What is it, Gil?

Nothing. He smiles and says again: Nothing.

In the second round, I stick with no underwear. (I will never don underwear again.

Something works, you don’t change.) I play Arnaud Clément, from France. I win the first set 6:2. I’m up in the second, playing the best I’ve ever played on clay. I’m rocking him to sleep.

Then Clément wakes up. He wins the second set - and the third. How did that just happen?

I’m serving at 4:5, love:30, in the fourth set. I’m two points from being bounced out of this tournament.

I think: Two points. Two points.

He hits a forehand inside-out winner. I walk over and check the mark. It’s out. I circle the mark with the racket. The linesman runs out to confirm. He examines it, like Hercule Poirot.

He puts up his hand. Out!

If that thing had caught the line I’d be down triple match point. Instead I’m at 15:30. What a difference. What if - ?

But I plead with myself to stop thinking about what if. Don’t think, Andre. Turn off your mind. I play two minutes of the best tennis I’m capable of playing. I hold. We’re at 5:all.

Clément is serving. If I were a different player, he would have the edge. But I’m my father’s son. I’m a returner. I let nothing past me. Then I run him from side to side. Back and forth.

His tongue starts to hang from his mouth. Just when he and the crowd think I can’t run him any more, I run him a little more. He’s a metronome. Then he’s a goner. He pitches forward as if shot in the head. His cramps have cramps. He calls for medical treatment.

I break him. Then I hold easily to win the fourth set.

I win the fifth set 6:0.

In the locker room, Brad is talking to himself, to me, to anyone who will listen.

His back tire blew out! Did you see? Holy shit! His back tire - boom.

Reporters ask if I feel lucky that Clément cramped.

Lucky? I worked hard for those cramps.

At the hotel, riding the tiny elevator with Gil, my face is covered with clay. My eyes and ears and mouth are filled with clay. My clothes are spotted with clay. I look down. I never noticed before how Roland Garros clay, when it dries, looks like blood. I’m trying to brush it off when I feel Gil staring again.

What is it?

Nothing, he says, smiling.

IN THE THIRD ROUND I’m playing Chris Woodruff. I’ve played him once before, here, in 1996 and lost. A disastrous loss. I secretly liked my chances that year. This time I know from the start that I’m going to win. I have no doubt that I’ll have my revenge, served ice cold. I beat him 6:3, 6:4, 6:4, on the same court where he beat me. Brad requested it, because he wanted me to remember, to make it personal.

I’m in the round of sixteen at the French Open for the first time since 1995. My reward is Carlos Moyá, the defending champion.

Not to worry, Brad says. Even though Moyá‘s the champ, and real good on the dirt, you can take away his time. You can bull-rush him, stand inside the baseline, hit the ball early and apply pressure. Go after his backhand, but if you have to bring it to his forehand, do it with purpose, with heat. Don’t just go there - drive it hard up Main Street. Make him feel you.

In the first set, it’s me feeling Moyá. I lose the set fast. In the second set I fall down two breaks. I’m not playing my game. I’m not doing anything Brad said to do. I look up at my box and Brad screams: Come on! Let’s go!

Back to basics. I make Moyá run. And run. I establish a sadistic rhythm, chanting to myself: Run, Moyá, run. I make him run laps. I make him run the Boston Marathon. I win the second set, and the crowd is cheering. In the third set I run Moyá more than I’ve run the last three opponents combined, and suddenly, all at once, he’s cooked. He wants no part of this.

He didn’t sign on for anything like this.

As the fourth set opens, I’m oozing confidence. I hop up and down. I want Moyá to see how much energy I’ve got left. He sees, and he sighs. I put him away and sprint to the locker room. Brad gives me a fist bump that almost breaks my fist.

In the hotel elevator, I feel Gil staring again.

Gil, what is it?