Open: An Autobiography

After we’ve signed the last autograph and answered the last question, Brad says he needs a beer. He looks sly. Something’s up. I take him to the Tombs, the place Perry and I frequented when I visited him during his Georgetown days. The bar has a miniature street door, then a narrow staircase down into damp darkness and a smell of unclean bathrooms. It also has one of those open kitchens, so you can watch the cooks, and while that’s a good thing at some places, it’s not a plus at the Tombs. We find a booth and order drinks. Brad is put out because they don’t have Bud Ice. He settles for Bud. I feel tremendous after the workout, relaxed, fit. I haven’t thought of Becker in almost twenty minutes. Brad puts a stop to that. From the inside pocket of his black cashmere pullover he removes a wad of papers, and in an agit-ated way he drops them on the table.

Becker, he says.

What?

This is what he said after beating you at Wimbledon.

What do I care?

He’s talking shit.

What kind of shit?

He reads.

Becker used his post-match news conference to complain that Wimbledon promotes me over other players. He complained that Wimbledon officials unfairly bend over backward to schedule my matches on Centre Court. He complained that all major tournaments kiss my ass. Then he got personal. He called me an elitist. He said that I don’t associate with other players. He said that I’m not well liked on the tour. He said I’m not open, and if I were open, maybe other players wouldn’t fear me so much.

In short, he issued a declaration of war.

Brad has never cared for Becker. Brad has always called him B. B. Socrates, because he thinks Becker tries to come off as an intellectual, when he’s just an overgrown farmboy. But Brad is now so incensed that he can’t sit still in our booth at the Tombs.

Andre, he says, it is so fucking on. Mark my words. We’re going to run into this motherfucker again. We’re going to run into him at the U.S. Open. And until then, we’re going to prepare, train, plot revenge.

I read Becker’s quotes again. I can’t believe it. I knew the guy didn’t like me, but this. I look down and find that I’m clenching and unclenching my fist.

Brad says, Do you hear? I want you to take - this - fucker - OUT.

Consider it done.

We clink our beer bottles, swear an oath.

What’s more, I tell myself, after Becker I’m going to keep on winning. I’m simply not going to lose anymore. At least not until the frost is on the pumpkin. I’m sick of losing, sick of being disappointed, sick and tired of guys disrespecting my game as much as I do.

AND SO THE SUMMER OF 1995 becomes the Summer of Revenge. Running on pure animosity I steamroll through the D.C. tournament. In the final I face Edberg. I’m the better player, but it’s well over one hundred degrees, and such extreme heat is a great equalizer. In this heat, all men are the same. At the start of our match I can’t think, can’t find a groove.

Luckily, Edberg can’t either. I win the first set, he wins the second, and in the third set I go up 5:2. The fans cheer - those fans who aren’t suffering heatstroke. The match is stopped several times so that someone in the stands can receive medical attention.

I’m serving for the match. At least that’s what they tell me. I’m also hallucinating. I don’t know what game I’m playing. Is this Nerf ping-pong? I’m supposed to hit this fuzzy yellow ball back and forth? To whom? My teeth are chattering. I see three balls come across the net, and I hit the middle one.

My only hope is that Edberg is hallucinating too. Maybe he’ll black out before I do and I’ll win in a forfeit. I wait, watch him closely, but then I take a turn for the worse. My stomach clinches. He breaks me.

Now he’s serving. I call time, step away, and toss my breakfast onto a decorative planter at the back of the court. When I resume my position, Edberg has no trouble holding serve.

I’m serving again for the match. We rally, weakly, each of us hitting timid shots in the center of the court, like ten-year-old girls playing badminton. He breaks me - again.

Five:all. I drop my racket and stumble off the court.

There’s an unwritten rule, or maybe it’s actually written, that if you leave the court with your racket, you forfeit. So I drop the racket, to let people know I’m coming back. In my delirious state, I still care about the rules of tennis, but I also care about the rules of physics. What goes down, in this heat, must come up, and soon. I vomit several times on my way to the locker room. I run to the toilet and bring up a meal I had days ago. Maybe years ago. I feel as if I’m going into shock. At last the locker room’s air-conditioning, plus the total purge of my stomach, starts to revive me.

The referee knocks at the door.

Andre! You’re going to lose points if you don’t return to the court right now.

Stomach empty, head spinning, I return. I break Edberg. I have no idea how. Then I hold on for the match.