Open: An Autobiography

Besides, I don’t need to read the book. I know the author, Brad Gilbert. I know him well.

He’s a fellow player. I’ve faced him many times, including weeks ago. His game is the opposite of mine. He’s a junker, meaning he mixes speeds, uses change of pace, misdirection, guile. He has limited skills, and takes a conspicuous pride in this fact. If I’m the classic underachiever, Brad’s the consummate overachiever. Rather than overpowering opponents, he frustrates them, preys on their flaws. He’s preyed on me plenty. I’m intrigued, but it’s not feas-ible. Brad’s still playing. In fact, due to my surgery and my time away from the game, he’s ranked higher than I.

No, Perry says, Brad is nearing the end of his career. He’s thirty-two, and maybe he’s open to the idea of coaching. Perry repeats that he’s deeply impressed with Brad’s book and thinks it contains the kind of practical wisdom I need.

In March 1994, when we’re all in Key Biscayne for the tournament, Perry invites Brad to dinner at an Italian restaurant on Fisher Island. Café Porte Chervo. Right on the water. One of our favorites.

It’s early evening. The sun is just disappearing behind the masts and sails of the boats at the dock. Perry and I are early, Brad is right on time. I’d forgotten how distinctive looking he is. Dark, rugged, he’s certainly handsome, but not classically so. His features aren’t chiseled; they look molded. I can’t shake the idea that Brad looks like Early Man, that he just jumped from a time machine, slightly out of breath from discovering fire. Maybe it’s all his hair that makes me think this. His head, arms, biceps, shoulders, face are covered with black hair.

Brad has so much hair, I’m both horrified and jealous. His eyebrows alone are fascinating. I think: I could make a beautiful toupee out of just that left eyebrow.

The maître d’, Renato, says we can sit on the terrace overlooking the dock.

I say, Sounds great.

No, Brad says. Uh-uh. We have to sit inside.

Why?

Because of Manny.

Excuse me? Who’s Manny?

Manny Mosquito. Mosquitoes - yeah, I have a real thing about them, and trust me, Manny is here, Manny is out in force, and Manny likes me. Look at them all! Swarms! Look! No, I need to sit inside. Far from Manny!

He explains that mosquitoes are the reason he’s wearing jeans instead of shorts, even though it’s a hundred degrees and muggy. Manny, he says one last time, with a shudder.

Perry and I look at each other.

OK, Perry says. Inside it is.

Renato puts us at a table by the window. He hands us menus. Brad scans his and frowns.

Problem, he says.

What?

They don’t carry my beer. Bud Ice.

Maybe they have -

Got to have Bud Ice. It’s the only beer I drink.

He stands and says he’s going to the market next door to buy some Bud Ice.

Perry and I order a bottle of red wine and wait. We say nothing while Brad’s gone. He returns in five minutes with a six of Bud Ice, which he asks Renato to put on ice. Not the refrigerator, Brad says, because that’s not cold enough. On ice, or else in the freezer.

When Brad is finally settled, half a cold Bud Ice down his gullet, Perry starts.

So, listen, Brad, one reason we wanted to meet with you is, we want to get your take on Andre’s game.

Say what?

Andre’s game. We’d like you to tell us what you think.

What I think?

Yes.

You want to know what I think of his game?

That’s right.

You want me to be honest?

Please.

Brutally honest?

Don’t hold back.

He takes an enormous swallow of beer and commences a careful, thorough, brutal-as-advertised summary of my flaws as a tennis player.

It’s not rocket science, he says. If I were you, with your skills, your talent, your return and footwork, I’d dominate. But you’ve lost the fire you had when you were sixteen. That kid, taking the ball early, being aggressive, what the hell happened to that kid?

Brad says my overall problem, the problem that threatens to end my career prema-turely - the problem that feels like my father’s legacy - is perfectionism.

You always try to be perfect, he says, and you always fall short, and it fucks with your head. Your confidence is shot, and perfectionism is the reason. You try to hit a winner on every ball, when just being steady, consistent, meat and potatoes, would be enough to win ninety percent of the time.

He talks a mile a minute, a constant drone, not unlike a mosquito. He builds his argument with sports metaphors, from all sports, indiscriminately. He’s an avid sports fan, and an equally avid metaphor fan.