Open: An Autobiography

I GO TO MY FIRST U.S. OPEN in the late summer of 1986, feeling eager for the step up in competition. Then I see the New York skyline from the airplane window and my eagerness evaporates. It’s a beautiful sight, but intimidating for someone who grew up in the desert. So many people. So many dreams.

So many opinions.

Up close, at street level, New York is less intimidating than irritating. The nasty smells, the ear-splitting sounds - and the tipping. Raised in a house that depended on tips, I believe in tips, but in New York the tip takes on a brand new dimension. It costs me a hundred dollars just to get from the airport to my hotel room. By the time I’ve greased the palm of the cabbie, the doorman, the bellhop, and the concierge, I’m tapped out.

Also, I’m late for everything. I continually underestimate the time it takes to travel in New York from Point A to Point B. One day, right before the start of the tournament, I’m due to practice at two o’clock. I leave my hotel in what I think is plenty of time to reach the arena in Flushing Meadows. I board a charter bus outside the hotel, and by the time we navigate the midtown gridlock and cross the Triborough I’m horribly late. A woman tells me they’ve given away my court.

I stand before her, pleading for another practice time.

Who are you?

I show her my credentials, flash a weak smile.

Behind her is a chalkboard, covered with a sea of players’ names, which she consults skeptically. I think of Mrs. G. She runs her fingers up and down the left column.

OK, she says. Four o’clock, Court 8.

I peer at the name of the player I’ll be practicing with.

I’m sorry. I can’t practice with that guy. I’m possibly going to play that guy in the second round.

She consults the chalkboard again, sighing, annoyed, and now I wonder if Mrs. G has a long-lost sister. At least I’m no longer rocking a mohawk, which would make me even more offensive to this woman. On the other hand, my current hairstyle is only slightly less outrageous. A fluffy, spiky, two-toned mullet, with black roots and frosted tips.

OK, she says. Court 17, five o’clock. But you’ll have to share with three other guys.

I tell Nick: It feels as if I’m in over my head in this town.

Nah, he says. You’ll be fine.

The whole place looks a lot better from a distance.

What doesn’t?

In the first round I face Jeremy Bates, from Great Britain. We’re on a back court, far from the crowds and the main action. I’m excited. I’m proud. Then I’m terrified. I feel as if it’s the final Sunday of the tournament. My butterflies are flying in tight formation.

Because it’s a Grand Slam, the energy of the match is different from anything I’ve experienced. More frenetic. The play is moving at warp speed, a rhythm with which I’m unfamiliar.

Plus, the day is windy, so points seem to be flying past like the gum wrappers and dust. I don’t understand what’s happening. This doesn’t even feel like tennis. Bates isn’t a better player than I, but he’s playing better, because he came in knowing what to expect. He beats me in four sets, then looks up at my box, where Philly is sitting with Nick, and shoves his fist into the crook of his arm, the international sign for Up yours. Apparently Bates and Nick have a history.

I feel disappointed, slightly embarrassed. But I know that I wasn’t prepared for my first U.S. Open or New York. I see a gap between where I am and where I need to be, and I feel reasonably confident that I can close that gap.

You’re going to get better, Philly says, putting an arm around me. It’s just a matter of time.

Thanks. I know.

And I do know. I really do. But then I begin to lose. Not just lose, but lose badly. Weakly.

Miserably. In Memphis I get knocked out in the first round. In Key Biscayne, first round again.

Philly, I say, what’s going on? I have no clue out there. I feel like a hacker, a weekend player. I’m lost.

The low point is at the Spectrum in Philadelphia. It’s not a tennis facility but a converted basketball arena, and barely that. Cavernous, poorly lit, it’s got two tennis courts, side by side, and two matches taking place simultaneously. At the same moment I’m returning serve, somebody is returning serve in the next court, and if his serve goes wide at the same moment mine kicks, we both need to worry about colliding head-on. My concentration is fragile enough without factoring in collisions with other players. I don’t know yet how to tune out distractions.

After one set I can’t think and can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat.

Also, my opponent is bad, which puts me at a disadvantage. I’m at my worst against less-er opponents. I play down to their level. I don’t know how to maintain my game while adjusting for an opponent’s, which feels like inhaling and exhaling at the same time. Against great players I rise to the challenge. Against bad players I press, which is the tennis term for not letting things flow. Pressing is one of the deadliest things you can do in tennis.