Open: An Autobiography

Mine is one of the first to be sold in the U.S. We’re driving it all over the desert outside Vegas when we get stuck in the sand. J.P. jokes that they must not have run into any sand during the Gulf War. We hop out and set across the desert. I have a flight this afternoon and a match tomorrow. If I can’t get us out of this desert, all kinds of people are going to be angry with me. But as we walk and walk, my match suddenly seems a trivial matter. Survival starts to be a real concern. In every direction, we see nothing, and darkness is coming on.

It feels as though this might become a turning point in our lives, J.P. says. And I don’t mean in a good way.

Thanks for the positive thinking.

Finally we come to a shack. An old hermit loans us his shovel. We hike back to the Hummer, and I hurriedly set about digging around the back wheel. Suddenly my shovel hits something hard. Caliche, the cement-like layer of soil under the Nevada desert. I feel something snap deep inside my wrist. I cry out.

What is it? Wendi says.

I don’t know.

I look at my wrist.

Rub some dirt on it, J.P. says.

I dig out the Hummer, make my flight, even win my match the next day. Days later, however, I wake in agony. The wrist feels broken. I can barely bend it back and forth. I feel as if several sewing needles and rusty razor blades have been implanted in the joint. This is bad.

This is big.

Then the pain goes away. I’m relieved. Then it comes back. I’m scared. Soon the occasional pain becomes constant. It’s tolerable in the morning, but by day’s end the needle-razor feeling is all I can think about.

A doctor says I have tendinitis. Specifically dorsal capsulitis. Tiny rips in the wrist that refuse to heal. The result of overuse, he says. The only possible cures are rest and surgery.

I choose rest. I shut myself down, gentle the wrist. After weeks of carrying the wrist around like a wounded bird, I still can’t work out, do a push-up, or open a door without grimacing.

The one upside of the wrist injury is that I get to spend more time with Wendi. Instead of hard-court season, the start of 1993 becomes Wendi Season, and I throw myself into it. She enjoys the extra attention, but she also worries that she’s neglecting her studies. She’s en-rolled in yet another college. Her fifth. Or sixth. I’ve lost track.

Driving along Rainbow Boulevard, steering with my left hand to avoid engaging my bad right wrist, I roll down the window and turn up the radio. The spring breeze flutters Wendi’s hair. She turns down the radio and says how long it’s been since she really knew what she wanted.

I nod and turn up the radio.

She turns down the radio and says she’s attended all these different colleges, lived in all these different states, she’s been searching her whole life for meaning, purpose - nothing ever feels right. She just can’t seem to figure out who she is.

Again, I nod. I agree. I know that feeling. Winning Wimbledon has done nothing to salve it.

Then I look over at Wendi and realize she’s not just idly talking, she’s going somewhere with this. She’s making a point - about us. She turns in her seat and looks me in the eye. Andre, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I just don’t think I can be happy, really happy, until I figure out who I am and what I’m supposed to do with my life. And I don’t see how I can do that if we stay together.

She’s crying.

I can’t be your traveling companion, she says, your sidekick, your fan, anymore. Well, I’ll always be your fan, but you know what I mean.

She needs to find herself, and to do that she needs to be free.

And so do you, she says. We can’t realize our separate goals if we stay together.

Even an open relationship is too confining.

I can’t argue with her. If that’s how she feels, there’s nothing I can say. I want her to be happy. Of course at this moment our song comes on the radio. I will always love you. I stare at Wendi, try to catch her eye, but she keeps her face turned away. I make a U-turn, drive back to her house, walk her to the door. She gives me one long, last hug.

I drive away and barely make it to the end of the block before pulling over and phoning Perry. When he answers I can’t speak. I’m crying too hard. He thinks it’s a prank call.

Hello, he says, annoyed. Hel-lo?

He hangs up.

I call back, but still can’t speak. Again he hangs up.

I GO UNDERGROUND. I hole up in the bachelor pad, boozing, sleeping, eating junk. I feel shooting pains in my chest. I tell Gil. He says it sounds like a typical broken heart. Tiny rips that refuse to heal. The result of overuse.

Then he says, What are we doing about Wimbledon? Time to start thinking about getting ourselves overseas. Time to throw down, Andre. It’s on.