Open: An Autobiography

Late one night we go for a walk along the Seine. It’s her thirtieth birthday. We stop near a flight of stone steps leading down to the river, and I present her with a diamond tennis bracelet. She laughs as I put it around her wrist and fiddle with the clasp. We both admire the way it catches the moonlight. Then, just beyond Brooke’s shoulder, standing on the stone steps, a drunken Frenchman staggers into view and sends a high, looping arc of urine into the Seine. I don’t believe in omens, as a rule, but this seems ominous. I just can’t tell if it portends something for the French Open or my relationship with Brooke.

At last the tournament begins. I win my first four matches without dropping a set. It’s evident to reporters and commentators that I’m a different player. Stronger and more focused. On a mission. No one sees this more clearly than my fellow players. I’ve always noticed the way players silently anoint the alpha dog in their midst, the way they single out the one player who’s feeling it, who’s likeliest to win. At this tournament, for the first time, I’m that player. I feel them all watching me in the locker room. I feel them noting my every move, the little things I do, even studying how I organize my bag. They’re quicker to step aside when I walk by, eager to give up the training table. A new degree of respect is directed toward me, and while I try not to take it seriously, I can’t help but enjoy it. Better me getting this treatment than someone else.

Brooke, however, doesn’t seem to notice any difference in me, doesn’t treat me any differently. At night I sit in the hotel room, staring out the window at Paris, an eagle on a cliff, but she talks to me of this and that, Grease and Paris and what so-and-so said about such-and-such. She doesn’t understand the work I did in Gil’s gym, the trials and sacrifices and concentration that have led to this new confidence - or the huge task that lies ahead. And she doesn’t try to understand. She’s more interested in where we’re going to eat next, which wine cellar we’re going to explore. She takes it for granted that I’m going to win, and she wishes I’d hurry up and do it, so we can have fun. It’s not selfishness on her part, just a mistaken impression that winning is normal, losing is abnormal.

In the quarters I face Kafelnikov, the Russian who likened me to Jesus. I sneer at him across the net as the match begins: Jesus is about to whip you with a car antenna. I know I can beat Kafelnikov. He knows it too. It’s written all over his face. But early in the first set, I lunge for a ball and feel something snap. My hip flexor. I ignore it, pretend it didn’t happen, pretend I don’t have a hip, but the hip sends lines of pain up and down my leg.

I can’t bend. I can’t move. I ask for the trainer, who gives me two aspirin and tells me there’s nothing he can do. His eyes are the size of poker chips when he tells me.

I lose the first set. Then the second. In the third I rally. I’m up 4:1, the crowd urging me onward. Allez, Agassi! But I grow less mobile with every minute. Kafelnikov, moving well, ties the set, and I feel my limbs go slack. It’s another Russian crucifixion. Au revoir, Grail. I walk off the court without collecting my rackets.

The real test wasn’t supposed to be Kafelnikov. It was supposed to be Muster, the hair-musser who’s been dominating on clay. So even if I’d gotten by Kafelnikov I don’t know how hobbled I would have been against Muster. But I promised Muster I’d never lose to him again, and I meant it, and I liked my chances. I think no matter who was on the other side of that net, I could have done something great. As I leave Paris I don’t feel defeated; I feel cheated. This was it, I just know. My last chance. Never again will I be in Paris feeling so strong, so young.

Never again will I inspire such fear in the locker room.

My golden opportunity to win all four slams is gone.

Brooke has already flown home ahead of me, so it’s just Gil and me on the flight, Gil talking softly about how we’re going to treat the flexor, how we’re going to adjust after what we’ve just put ourselves through, and get ready for what’s coming - grass. We spend a week in Vegas, doing nothing but watching movies and waiting for my hip to mend. An MRI tells us the damage isn’t permanent. Cold comfort.

We fly to England. I’m the number one seed at the 1995 Wimbledon, because I’m still ranked number one in the world. Fans greet me with an enthusiasm and glee that clash sharply with my mood. Nike has been here ahead of time, priming the pump, handing out Agassi Kits - adhesive sideburns, Fu Manchu mustaches, and bandanas. This is my new look. I’ve morphed from pirate to bandit. It’s surreal, as always, to see guys trying to look like me, and as always it’s even a bit more surreal to see girls trying. Girls with Fu Manchus and sideburns - it almost makes me crack a smile. Almost.