Open: An Autobiography

Just as I’ve got a small bonfire going, J.P. appears. He watches, then calmly adds a piece of hotel stationery to my bonfire. Then a napkin. I add the room-service menu. We feed the bonfire for fifteen minutes, neither of us saying a word. As the last flame dies down he asks, Do you want to go for a walk?

We wind our way through the beer gardens of downtown Munich. Everywhere we look, people are being boisterous, festive. They’re drinking from one-liter tankards, singing and laughing. The laughter gives me the shakes.

We come to a large stone bridge with a cobblestone walkway. We cross. Far below is a rushing river. At the apex of the bridge we stop. No one is around. The singing and laughter have subsided. We hear nothing but the rushing water. I stare into the river and ask J.P.: What if I’m no good? What if today wasn’t a bad day, but my best day? I’m always making excuses when I lose. I could have beaten him if such-and-such. If I’d wanted it. If I’d had my A game. If I’d gotten the calls. But what if I’m playing my best, and I care, and I want it, and I’m still not the best in the world?

Well - what if?

I think I’d rather die.

I lean against the railing, sobbing. J.P. has the decency, the wisdom, to say and do nothing. He knows there is nothing to say, nothing to do, but to wait for this fire to burn out.

I FACE CARL-UWE STEEB, another German, the following afternoon. Spent, physically and emotionally, I play Steeb exactly the wrong way. Yes, I’m attacking his backhand, which is his weakest shot, but I’m doing it with pace. If I were to give him no pace, he’d have to generate his own, and his backhand would be much weaker. His greatest flaw would be on display. Using my pace, however, he can hit a low slice that stays down on this fast surface. I’m making him better than he is, all because I’m trying to hit bigger than I need to, trying to be perfect. With a cordial smile Steeb accepts my gifts, settling into his legs and his Agassi-augmented backhand, having a marvelous time. Later, the captain of the Davis Cup team accuses me of tanking, as does a prominent sportswriter.

PART OF THE PROBLEM with my game in 1989 is my racket. I’ve always used a Prince, but Nick has convinced me to sign with a new company, Donnay. Why? Because Nick’s got money troubles, and for delivering me to Donnay he gets a lucrative contract for himself.

Nick, I tell him - I love my Prince.

You could play with a broomstick, he says. It wouldn’t matter.

Now, with the Donnay, I feel as if I am playing with a broomstick. I feel as if I’m playing left-handed, as if I’ve suffered a brain injury. Everything is slightly off. The ball doesn’t listen to me. The ball doesn’t do what I say.

I’m in New York, hanging out with J.P. It’s well after midnight. We’re sitting in a seedy deli with garish fluorescent lights and loud countermen arguing in several Eastern European languages. We’re each having a cup of coffee and I’m holding my head in my hands, telling J.P.

over and over: When I hit the ball with this new racket, I don’t know where it’s going.

You’ll find a solution, J.P. says.

How? What?

I don’t know. But you will. This is a momentary crisis, Andre. One of many. As sure as we’re sitting here, there will be others. Bigger, smaller, and everything in between. Treat this crisis as practice for the next crisis.

And then the crisis is resolved during a practice. Days later, I’m in Florida, hitting at the Bollettieri Academy and someone hands me a new Prince. I hit three balls, just three, and it’s something like a religious experience. Every ball goes like a laser to the spot where I want it to go. The court opens before me like Xanadu.

I don’t care about any deals, I tell Nick. I can’t sacrifice my life to a deal.

I’ll handle it, he says.

He doctors a Prince racket, stencils it to look like a Donnay, and I cruise to several easy victories at Indian Wells. I lose in the quarters, but I don’t care, because I have my racket back, my game back.

The next day, three Donnay execs descend on Indian Wells.

This is unacceptable, they say. It’s clear to everyone that you’re playing with a doctored Prince. You’re going to ruin us. You’re going to be liable for the destruction of our company.

Your racket is going to be liable for the destruction of me.