Open: An Autobiography

Day after day, it’s not there. It’s like waiting for Steffi’s call. If only I had hair, so I could pull it out. Finally, the cover of People carries a photo of Brooke and me. The headline reads: Suddenly Split. It’s April 26, 1999, three days before my twenty-ninth birthday, almost exactly two years after our wedding.

Reborn, renewed, I win Hong Kong - but on the flight home I can’t lift my arm. I rush from the airport to Gil’s house. He examines the shoulder, grimaces. He doesn’t like the look of it.

We might need to shut everything down and skip the entire clay season.

No, no, no, Brad says. We have to be in Rome for the Italian Open.

Please. I never win that thing. Let’s forget it.

No, Brad says. Let’s go to Rome, see how the shoulder does. You didn’t want to go to Hong Kong, right? But you won, right? I see a trend developing.

I let him drag me onto a plane, and in Rome I lose in the third round to Rafter, whom I just beat at Indian Wells. Now I really want to shut it down. But Brad talks me into going to play the World Team Cup in Germany. I don’t have the strength to argue with him.

The weather in Germany is cold, dreary, meaning the ball plays heavy. I look at Brad with murder in my eye. I can’t believe he’s dragged me to Düsseldorf with a sore shoulder. In the middle of the first set, down 3:4, I can’t take another swing. I quit. That’s it. We’re going home, I tell Brad. I have to get my shoulder right. And I have to figure out this thing with Steffi.

As we board the flight from Frankfurt to San Francisco, I’m not speaking to Brad. I’m mad as hell. We have twelve hours ahead of us, side by side, and I tell him: Here’s how it’s going to be, Brad. I haven’t slept all night, because of this shoulder. I’m going to swallow two sleeping pills right now and I’m not going to listen to you for the next twelve hours and it’s going to be heaven. You hear me? And when we land, the first thing I want you to do is pull me out of the French Open.

He leans into me and badgers me for two hours. You’re not going back to Vegas. You’re not pulling out. You’re coming with me to my house in San Francisco. I’ve got the guest cottage set up with plenty of firewood, the way you like it, and then you and I are flying back to Paris and you’re going to play. It’s the only slam you don’t have, and you’ve always wanted it, and you can’t win it if you don’t play.

French Open? Please. You must be kidding. That ship has sailed.

How do you know? Who’s to say this isn’t your year?

Trust me. In no sense is 1999 my year.

Look, you were just starting to show glimpses of the player you used to be. I saw something in you I hadn’t seen in years. We have to stay after that.

I see right through him. It’s not that he thinks the French Open is remotely winnable. But if I pull out of the French Open, it will be easier to pull out of Wimbledon, and there goes the whole year. Goodbye comeback. Hello retirement.

Landing in San Francisco, I’m once again too tired to argue. I slide into Brad’s car, and he drives me to his place and puts me in the cottage. I sleep for twelve hours. When I wake a chiropractor is there, ready to treat me.

It’s not going to work, I say.

It’s going to work, Brad says.

I get treatments twice a day. The rest of the time I watch the fog and stoke the fire. By Friday I do feel better. Brad smiles. We hit balls on his backyard court, twenty minutes, then I hit a few serves.

Call Gilly, I say. Let’s go to Paris.

IN OUR PARIS HOTEL Brad is looking over the draw.

I ask, How is it?

He says nothing.

Brad?

Couldn’t be worse.

Seriously?

Nightmare. Your first-rounder is Franco Squillari, lefty, from Argentina, probably the roughest guy in the draw who’s not seeded. An absolute beast on clay.

I can’t believe you talked me into this.

We practice Saturday and Sunday. Monday we start. I’m in the locker room, getting my feet taped, and I realize I forgot to pack underwear in my tennis bag. The match is in five minutes. Can I play without underwear? I don’t even know if it’s physically possible.

Brad jokes that I can borrow his.

I will never want to win that badly.

Then I think: This is perfect. I didn’t want to be here anyway, I shouldn’t be here, I’m playing the quintessential dirt rat in the first round on center court. Why shouldn’t I go commando?

There are sixteen thousand people in the stands, screaming like peasants overrunning Versailles. Before I’ve broken a sweat I’m down a set and a break. I look to my box, stare at Gil and Brad. Help me. Brad stares back, stone-faced: Help yourself.

I hitch up my shorts, take the deepest breath possible and let it out slowly. I tell myself that it can’t get any worse. I tell myself: Just win one set. Winning one set off this guy would be an accomplishment. One set - try for that. Scaling down the task makes it seem manageable and makes me looser. I start ripping my backhand, hitting my spots. The crowd stirs. They haven’t seen me play well here in a long time. Something inside me stirs too.