Open: An Autobiography

It rains every day, but still the fans mob Wimbledon. They brave the rain, the cold, they line up all the way down Church Road, for the love of tennis. I want to go out there and stand with them, question them, find out what makes them love it so much. I wonder what it would be like to feel such passion for the game. I wonder if the fake Fu Manchus stay on in the rain, or if they disintegrate like my old hairpieces.

I win my first two matches easily, and then beat Wheaton in four sets. The big news of that day, however, is Tarango, who lost, then fought with an umpire before leaving the court. Then Tarango’s wife slapped the umpire. One of the great scandals in Wimbledon history. Instead of facing Tarango, therefore, I’ll face Alexander Mronz, from Germany. Reporters ask me which opponent I would have preferred, and I badly want to tell the story of Tarango cheating when I was eight. I don’t, however. I don’t want to get in a public spat with Tarango, and I fear making an enemy of his wife. I say the diplomatic thing, that it doesn’t matter whom I play, even though Tarango was the more dangerous threat.

I beat Mronz in three easy sets.

In the semis I face Becker. I’ve beaten him the last eight times we’ve played. Pete has already moved on to the final and he’s awaiting the winner of Agassi-Becker, which is to say he’s awaiting me, because every slam final is beginning to feel like a standing date between me and Pete.

I take the first set from Becker, no problem. In the second set I jump out to a 4:1 lead.

Here I come, Pete. Get ready, Pete. Then, just like that, Becker begins to play a rougher, brawnier game. He wins several scrappy points. After chipping at my confidence with a tiny nail he now pulls out a sledgehammer. He plays from the baseline, an unusual tactic for him, and flat outmuscles me. He breaks me, and though I’m still up 4:2, I feel something snap. Not my hip - my mind. I’m suddenly unable to control my thoughts. I’m thinking of Pete, waiting.

I’m thinking of my sister Rita, whose husband, Pancho, just lost a long bout with stomach cancer. I’m thinking of Becker, still working with Nick, who, tanner than ever, the color of prime rib, sits above us in Becker’s box. I wonder if Nick has told Becker my secrets - for instance, the way I’ve figured out Becker’s serve. (Just before he tosses the ball, Becker sticks out his tongue and it points like a tiny red arrow to where he’s aiming.) I’m thinking of Brooke, who’s been shopping at Harrods this week with Pete’s girlfriend, a law student named DeLaina Mul-cahy. All these thoughts go crashing through my mind, making me feel scattered, fractured, and this allows Becker to capture the momentum. He never gives it back. He wins in four sets.

The loss is one of the most devastating of my life. Afterward, I don’t say a word to anyone.

Gil, Brad, Brooke - I don’t speak to them because I can’t. I am broken, gut-shot.

BROOKE AND I ARE DUE TO FLY AWAY on a vacation. We’ve been planning it for weeks. We wanted someplace remote, with no phones, no other people, so we booked Indigo Island, 150 miles from Nassau. After the Wimbledon debacle, I want to cancel, but Brooke reminds me we’ve secured the entire island, our deposit is nonrefundable.

Besides, it’s supposed to be paradise, she says. It will be good for us.

I frown.

Just as I feared, from the moment we arrive, paradise feels like Super-max. On the entire island there is one house, and it’s not big enough for the three of us - Brooke, me, and my black mood.

Brooke lies in the sun and waits for me to speak. She’s not frightened by my silence, but she doesn’t understand it, either. In her world, everyone pretends, whereas in mine some things can’t be pretended away.

After two days of silence I thank her for being so patient, and tell her I’m back.

I’m going to go for a jog on the beach, I say.

I start at a leisurely pace, then find myself running hundred-meter sprints. I’m already thinking about getting in shape, reloading for the hard courts of summer.

I GO TO WASHINGTON, D.C. The Legg Mason Tennis Classic. The weather is obscenely hot. Brad and I try to get acclimated to the heat by practicing in the middle of the afternoon.

When we’re done, fans gather and shout questions. Few of the other players hang around talking to fans, but I do. I like it. For me, fans are always preferable to reporters.