Open: An Autobiography

But when I pull up to Gil’s house I realize that I might not have thought this all the way through. The car is very small, and Gil is very big. The car is so small that it makes Gil look twice as big. He contorts himself to fit into the passenger side, and even then he needs to tilt sideways, and even then his head touches the roof. The Corvette looks as if, at any moment, it might burst apart.

Seeing Gil squished and uncomfortable, I’m motivated to go very fast. Of course I don’t need extra motivation in the Corvette. The car is supersonic. We crank the music and fly out of Vegas, across Hoover Dam, down toward the craggy Joshua tree forests of northwest Arizona. We decide to stop for lunch outside Kingman. The prospect of food, combined with the speed of the Corvette, and the loud music, and the presence of Gil, makes me mash the gas.

We hit Mach 1. I see Gil make a face and twirl a finger. I look in the rearview mirror - a highway patrol car inches from my back fender.

The patrolman quickly gives me a speeding ticket.

Not my first, I tell Gil, who shakes his head.

In Kingman we stop at Carl’s Jr. and eat an enormous lunch. We both love to eat, and we both have a secret weakness for fast food, so we fall off the nutrition wagon, ordering French fries, then ordering seconds, refilling our sodas. When I squeeze Gil back into the Corvette I realize we’re well behind schedule. We need to make up time. I floor it and zoom back onto U.S. 95. Two hundred miles to Scottsdale. Two hours of driving.

Twenty minutes later, Gil makes the same twirling gesture.

A different patrolman this time. He takes my license and registration and asks, Have you received a speeding ticket recently?

I look at Gil. He frowns.

Well, if you consider an hour ago recent, then yes, Officer, I have.

Wait right here.

He walks back to his car. One minute later, he returns.

The judge wants you back in Kingman.

Kingman? What?

Come with me, sir.

Come with - what about the car?

Your friend can drive it.

But, but, can’t I just follow you?

Sir, you are going to listen to everything I say and do everything I say and that’s why you’re not going back to Kingman in handcuffs. You will sit in the back of my car and your friend will follow us. Now. Step out.

I’m in the back of a police car, Gil following in a Corvette that fits him like a whalebone cor-set. We’re in the middle of nowhere and I’m hearing the crazy-ass plinking banjos from Deliverance. It takes forty-five minutes to reach Kingman Municipal Court. I follow the patrolman in-to a side door and find myself before the small, elderly judge, who wears a cowboy hat and a belt buckle the size of a pie tin.

The banjos are getting louder.

I look around for a certificate on the wall, something to prove that this is in fact a courthouse and he’s a real judge. All I see are heads of dead animals.

The judge begins by rattling off a series of random questions.

You’re playing in Scottsdale?

Yes, sir.

You’ve played that tournament before?

Uh - yes, sir.

What kind of draw do you have?

Pardon?

Who do you play in the first round?

The judge, it turns out, is a tennis fan. Also, he’s followed my career closely. He thinks I should’ve beaten Courier at the French Open. He has a slew of opinions about Connors, Lendl, Chang, the state of the game, the scarcity of great American players. After sharing his opinions with me, liberally, for twenty-five minutes, he asks, Would you mind signing something for my kids?

No problem, sir. Your honor.

I sign everything he puts before me, then await sentencing.

All right, the judge says. I sentence you to go give ‘em hell down in Scottsdale.

Sorry? I don’t under - . I mean, your honor, I drove back here, thirty-some miles, sure I was going to be sent to jail, or at least fined.

No! No, no, no, I just wanted to meet you. But you’d better have your friend out there drive you to Scottsdale, because one more ticket today and I will have to keep you in Kingman until the cows come home.

I walk out of the courthouse but sprint to the Corvette, where Gil is waiting. I tell him the judge is a tennis buff who wanted to meet me. Gil thinks I’m lying. I beg him to please just drive us away from this courthouse. He pulls away - slowly. Under normal circumstances, Gil is a cautious driver. But so unnerved is he by our run-in with Arizona law enforcement that he keeps the car in sixth gear and goes fifty-four miles per hour all the way to Scottsdale.

Naturally I’m late to the hit-and-giggle. As we roll into the parking lot of the stadium, I pull on my tennis gear. We stop at the security hut and tell the guard I’m expected, I’m one of the players. He doesn’t believe me. I show him my driver’s license, which I feel fortunate to still have in my possession. He waves our car through.

Gil says, Don’t worry about the car, I’ll take care of it. Just go.