Open: An Autobiography

As the third set begins, Pete stumbles. I get a second wind. The set falls to me, as does the fourth. The wheel clicks in my direction. I see fear creep into Pete’s face. We’re tied, two sets apiece, and doubt, unmistakable doubt, is trailing him like the long afternoon shadows on the Wimbledon grass. For once, it’s not me but Pete yelling and cursing at himself.

In the fifth set, Pete’s wincing, kneading his shoulder. He asks for a trainer. During the delay, while he’s being worked on, I tell myself this match is mine. Two Wimbledons in a row - won’t that be something? We’ll see what the tabloids have to say then. Or what I’ll say.

How do you like your Burger King now?

When we resume play, however, Pete is a different person. Not revived, not reenergized - wholly different. He’s done it again, sloughed off that other doubt-ridden Pete as a snake sheds its skin. And now he’s in the process of shedding me. Leading 5:4, he starts the tenth game of the set by blasting three straight aces. But not just any aces. They even have a different sound about them. Like Civil War cannons. Triple match point.

Suddenly he’s walking toward the net, extending his hand, the victor once again. The handshake physically hurts, and it has nothing to do with my tender wrist.

· · ·

BACK AT THE BACHELOR PAD, days after losing to Pete, I have one simple goal. I want to avoid thinking about tennis for seven days. I just need a break. I’m heart sore, wrist sore, bone tired. I need to do nothing for one week - just sit and be quiet. No pain, no drama, no serves, no tabloids, no singers, no match points. I’m sipping my first cup of coffee, flipping through USA Today, when a headline catches my eye. Because my name is in it. Bollettieri Parts Ways with Agassi. Nick tells the newspaper he’s done with me. He wants to spend more time with his family. After ten years, this is how he lets me know. Not even a panda ass-up in my chair.

Minutes later a FedEx envelope arrives with a letter from Nick. It says no more than the newspaper story. I read it a few dozen times before putting it in a shoe box. I go to the mirror.

I don’t feel all that bad. I don’t feel anything. Numb. As if the cortisone has spread from my wrist to engulf my being.

I drive over to Gil’s and sit with him in the gym. He listens and feels bad and angry right along with me.

Well, I say, I guess it’s BreakUp-With-Andre time. First Wendi, now Nick.

My entourage is thinning faster than my hair.

THOUGH IT MAKES NO SENSE, I’d like to get on the court again. I want the pain that only tennis provides.

But not this much pain. The cortisone has completely worn off, and the needle-razor feeling in my wrist is simply too much. I see a new doctor, who says the wrist needs surgery. I see another doctor, who says more resting might do the trick. I side with the rest doctor. After four weeks of rest, however, I step on a court and realize with one swing that surgery is my only option.

I just don’t trust surgeons. I trust very few people, and I especially dislike the notion of trusting one perfect stranger, surrendering all control to one person whom I’ve only just met. I cringe at the thought of lying on a table, unconscious, while someone slices open the wrist with which I make my living. What if he’s distracted that day? What if he’s off? I see it happening on the court all the time - half the time it’s happening to me. I’m in the top ten, but some days you’d think I was a rank amateur. What if my surgeon is the Andre Agassi of medicine?

What if he doesn’t have his A game that day? What if he’s drunk or on drugs?

I ask Gil to be there in the operating room during my surgery. I want him to act as sentry, monitor, backstop, witness. In other words, I want him to do what he always does. Stand guard. But this time wearing a gown and mask.

He frowns. He shakes his head. He doesn’t know.

Gil has several endearingly dainty qualities, like his horror of the sun, but the most endearing is his squeamish streak. He can’t abide the sight of needles. He gets the willies when he has to have a flu shot.

For me, however, he’ll rally. He says, I’ll tough it out.

I owe you, I tell him.

Never, he says. No such thing as debts between us.

On December 19, 1993, Gil and I fly to Santa Barbara and check into the hospital. As nurses flutter about, prepping me, I tell Gil that I feel so nervous, I might pass out.

Then they won’t need to give you the gas.

This could be it, Gil, the end of my tennis career.

No.

Then what? What will I do?