Open: An Autobiography

I tell him about the knock on me, that I’ve snuck up on my high ranking, that I’ve never beaten anyone good, that I’ve been lucky. Horseshoe up my ass. He says I’m experiencing backlash, and never even got to enjoy the lash.

I laugh.

He says it must be bizarre to have strangers think they know me, and love me beyond reason, while others think they know me and resent me beyond reason - all while I’m a relative stranger to myself.

What makes it perverse, I tell him, is that it all revolves around tennis, and I hate tennis.

Right, sure. But you don’t actually hate tennis.

Yes. Yes, I do.

I talk about my father. I tell J.P. about the yelling, the pressure, the rage, the abandonment. J.P. gets a funny look on his face. You do realize, don’t you, that God isn’t anything like your father? You know that - don’t you?

I almost drive the Corvette onto the shoulder.

God, he says, is the opposite of your father. God isn’t mad at you all the time. God isn’t yelling in your ear, harping on your imperfections. That voice you hear all the time, that angry voice? That’s not God. That’s still your father.

I turn to him: Do me a favor? Say that again.

He does. Word for word.

Say it once more.

He does.

I thank him. I ask about his own life. He tells me that he hates what he does. He can’t abide being a pastor. He no longer wants to be responsible for people’s souls. It’s a round-the-clock job, he says, and it leaves him no time for reading and reflection. (I wonder if this is a slight jab at me.) He’s also hounded by death threats. Prostitutes and drug pushers come to his church and reform, and then their pimps and junkies and families, who’ve depended on that stream of income, blame J.P.

What do you think you’d like to do instead?

Actually, I’m a songwriter. A composer. I’d like to make music for a living.

He says he’s written a song, When God Ran, that’s a huge hit on the Christian charts. He sings a few bars. He has a nice voice and the song is moving.

I tell him that if he wants it bad enough, and works hard enough, he’ll succeed.

When I start talking like a motivational speaker, I know I’m tired. I look at my watch. Three in the morning. Wow, I say, stifling a yawn, if you don’t mind, can you just drop me off at my parents’ house? I live right up here at the corner and I’m exhausted. I can’t drive another minute. Take my car, take yourself home, bring it back to me when you can.

I don’t want to take your car.

Why not? Fun car. Goes like the wind.

I see that. But what if I wreck it?

If you wreck it, as long as you’re okay, I would laugh. I don’t give a shit about the car.

How long do you want me to - I mean, when should I bring it back?

Whenever.

He brings it back the next day.

Driving to church in this thing was awkward enough, he says, tossing me the keys. But, Andre, I officiate at funerals. You cannot drive up to a funeral in a white Corvette.

I INVITE J.P. TO MUNICH for Davis Cup. I look forward to Davis Cup, because it’s not about me, it’s about country. I imagine it’s as close as I’ll ever get to playing on a team, so I expect the trip to be a pleasant diversion, the matches to be easy, and I want to share the experience with my new friend.

Early on I find myself pitted against Becker, who’s attained godlike status in West Germany. The fans are bringing down the house, twelve thousand Germans cheering his every swing, booing me. And yet I’m unfazed, because I’m in a zone. Maybe not the zone, but my zone. I can’t miss. Also, I promised myself months ago that I’d never again lose to Becker, and I’m making good on that promise. I jump out to a two-set lead. J.P. and Philly and Nick are the only people cheering for me, and I can hear them. A fine day in Munich.

Then I lose my concentration, followed by my confidence. I drop a game and head for my chair during the changeover, discouraged.

Suddenly several German officials are gabbling at me. They’re calling me back onto the court.

The game isn’t over.

Come back, Mr. Agassi, come back.

Becker giggles. The audience roars with laughter.

I walk back onto the court, feeling my eyes throb. Once again I’m at the Bollettieri Academy, being humiliated by Nick in front of the other kids. I have enough trouble being laughed at in the press, but I can’t handle being laughed at in person. I lose the game. I lose the match.

Showered, climbing into a car outside the arena, I ignore J.P. and turn to Nick and Philly. I tell them: The first person who talks to me about tennis is fired.

I SIT ON THE BALCONY of my Munich hotel room, alone, staring out over the city.

Without thinking, I begin lighting things on fire. Paper, clothes, shoes. For years this has been one of my furtive ways of coping with extreme stress. I don’t do it consciously. An impulse comes over me and I reach for the matches.