Open: An Autobiography

But it’s not to be. Now, believing he can win, Philippoussis stands a little taller, and breaks me. It’s all gone in a blink. One minute, I’m almost serving for the match, the next minute he’s raising his arms in conquest. Tennis.

In the locker room my body feels different. Grass has become an ordeal, and a five-setter on grass leaves me physically shattered. Also, the courts at Wimbledon are playing truer this year, which has meant longer rallies, more movement, more lunging and bending. My back is suddenly an issue. It’s never been good, but now it’s actively, troublingly bad. Pain runs from my back, down my butt, circumvents my knee, then reconnects with my shin and shoots down to my ankle. I’m grateful that I haven’t beaten Philippoussis, that I haven’t advanced in the tournament, because I’d have to forfeit the next match.

AS THE 2003 U.S. OPEN GETS UNDER WAY, Pete announces his retirement. He stops several times during his news conference to collect himself. I find myself deeply affected as well. Our rivalry has been one of the lodestars of my career. Losing to Pete has caused me enormous pain, but in the long run it’s also made me more resilient. If I’d beaten Pete more often, or if he’d come along in a different generation, I’d have a better record, and I might go down as a better player, but I’d be less.

For hours after Pete’s news conference I feel a sharp loneliness. I’m the last one standing.

I’m the last American slam winner still playing. I tell reporters: You sort of expect to leave the dance with the ones you came with. Then I realize this is the wrong analogy, because I’m not leaving the dance - they are. I’m still dancing.

I reach the quarters. I face Coria, who knocked me out of the French Open. I’m itching to lace them up, get out there, but we’re delayed for days by rain. Holed up in the hotel, there is nothing to do but wait and read. I watch raindrops slide down the window, each one as gray as the hairs of my stubble. Each raindrop seems like a minute forever melting away.

Gil forces me to drink Gil Water and rest. He says it’s going to be good, but he knows.

Time is running out. Finally the clouds part and we’re on the court and Coria isn’t the same guy I saw in Paris. He has a leg injury, which I exploit. I run him, merciless, grind him down to dust, and win the first two sets.

In the third set I have four match points - and lose them all. I look to the box and see Gil, squirming. In my entire career he’s never once taken a bathroom break during one of my matches. Never. Not once. He says he doesn’t want to take the chance that I’ll look to my box and not see him there and panic. He deserves better than this. I refocus. I click the lens left, then right, and serve out the match.

There is no time to rest. All the rain has shrunk the tournament schedule. I have to play the semifinal the next day, against Ferrero, who just won the French Open. He has so much confidence, it’s shooting from his pores. He’s a hundred years younger than I am, and it shows. He puts me away in four sets.

I bow to all four corners, blow kisses to the crowd, and I think they know I’ve given them everything. I see Jaden and Stefanie waiting outside the locker room, Stefanie eight months pregnant with our second child, and the disappointment of the loss slides away like a raindrop.

OUR DAUGHTER IS BORN OCTOBER 3, 2003, another beautiful intruder. We name her Jaz Elle - and, as we did with our son, we secretly vow she won’t play tennis. (We don’t even have a tennis court in our backyard.) But there is something else that Jaz Agassi won’t do - sleep. She makes her brother seem like a narcoleptic. Thus, I leave for the 2004 Australian Open looking like a vampire. Every other player, meanwhile, looks as if he’s had twelve hours of sack time. They’re all bright-eyed - and muscular. They seem bulkier than in years past, as if they all have their own Gils.

My legs stay fresh until the semis, when I run into Safin, who plays like a dingo. He missed most of last year with a wrist injury. Now, fully healed and rested, he’s unstoppable.

Side to side, back and forth, our rallies take forever. Each of us refuses to miss, to make an unforced error, and after four hours neither of us wants the win any less. In fact, we each want it a little more. The difference is Safin’s serve. He takes the fifth set, and I wonder if I’ve just had my last hurrah in Australia.

Is this the end? I’ve heard this question every other day for months, years, but this is the first time I’m the one asking.

REST IS YOUR FRIEND, Gil says. You need more rest between tournaments, and you need to choose your battles ever more carefully. Rome and Hamburg? Pass. Davis Cup?

Sorry, can’t do it. You need to save up your sap for the big ones, and the next big one is the French Open.

As a result, when we arrive in Paris, I feel years younger. Darren looks over my draw and projects a clear path to the semis.