Open: An Autobiography

I don’t believe people are destined to win tennis tournaments. Destined to come together, maybe, but not destined to hit more winners and aces than their opponent. Still, I’m reluctant to question anything Brad says. So, just in case, and because I like the way it looks, I tear off the corner of the Concorde program on which he’s written his latest prophecy and I put it in my pocket.

We spend the next five days on Fisher Island, recuperating and celebrating. Mostly the latter. The party keeps growing. Brad’s wife, Kimmie, flies in. J.P. and Joni fly in. Late at night we crank the stereo, listening over and over to Sinatra singing That’s Life, Kimmie and Joni dancing like go-go girls atop the table and bed.

Then I take to the grass courts at the hotel. I hit with Brad for several days, and we board a plane for London. Halfway across the Atlantic, I realize that we’re going to land on Steffi’s birthday. What are the chances? What if we bump into her? It would be nice to have something for her.

I look at Brad, sleeping. I know he’ll want to go straight from the airport to the practice courts at Wimbledon, so there won’t be time to stop at a stationery store. I should make some kind of birthday card now. But with what?

I notice that the airplane’s first-class menu is kind of cool. On the cover is a photo of a country church under a sliver of moon. I combine two covers into one card and along the inside I write: Dear Steffi, I wanted to take this opportunity to wish you a happy birthday. How proud you must feel. Congratulations on what I know is only a sliver of what is out there for you.

I punch holes in the two menus. Now I just need something to hold them together. I ask the flight attendant if she has any string or ribbon. Maybe some tinsel? She gives me a bit of raffia coiled around the neck of a champagne bottle. I carefully weave the raffia through the holes. It feels as though I’m stringing a tennis racket.

When the card is finished I wake Brad and show him my handiwork.

Old World craftsmanship, I say.

He twirls a knuckle in his eye, nods approvingly. All you need is a look, he says. An opening. I tuck the card in my tennis bag and wait.

THERE ARE THREE LEVELS of practice courts at the Wimbledon practice site, Aorangi Park. It’s a tiered mountain, an Aztec temple of tennis courts. Brad and I hit on the middle tier for half an hour. When we’re done I pack my tennis bag, taking my time, as always. It’s hard to get reorganized after a transatlantic flight. I’m carefully arranging, rearranging, slipping my wet shirt into a plastic bag, when Brad begins punching my shoulder.

She’s coming, dude, she’s coming.

I look up like an Irish setter. If I had a tail it would be wagging. She’s thirty yards off, wearing tight-fitting blue warm-up pants. I notice for the first time that she walks slightly pigeon-toed, like me. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail and gleaming in the sun. It looks, yet again, like a halo.

I stand. She gives me the European double-cheek kiss.

Congratulations on the French, she says. I was so happy for you. I had tears in my eyes.

Me too.

She smiles.

Congratulations to you as well, I say. You paved the way. You warmed up the court for me.

Thank you.

Silence.

Luckily, no fans or photographers are around, so she seems relaxed, in no hurry. I’m oddly relaxed as well. Brad, however, is making small squeaking noises, like air being slowly let out of a balloon.

Oh, I say. Hey. I just remembered. I have a gift for you. I knew it was your birthday, so I made you a card. Happy Birthday.

She takes the card, looks at it for several seconds, then looks up, touched.

How did you know it was my birthday?

I just - know.

Thank you, she says. Really.

She walks away quickly.

THE NEXT DAY she’s coming off the practice courts just as Brad and I arrive. This time there are mobs of fans and reporters all around and she seems painfully self-conscious. She slows, gives us a half wave, and in a stage whisper says: How can I reach you?

I’ll give my number to Heinz.

OK.

Goodbye.

Bye.

After practice Perry and Brad and I sit around the house we’ve rented, debating when she’s going to call.

Soon, Brad says.

Very soon, Perry says.

The day passes without a call.

Another day passes.

I’m in agony. Wimbledon starts Monday, and I can’t sleep, can’t think. Sleeping pills are powerless against this kind of anxiety.

She had better call, Brad says, or you’re going to lose in the first round.

Saturday night, just after dinner, the phone rings.

Hello?

Hi. It’s Stefanie.

Stefanie?

Stefanie.

Stefanie - Graf?

Yes.

Oh. You go by Stefanie?

She explains that her mother called her Steffi years ago, and the press picked it up and it stuck. But she thinks of herself as Stefanie.

Stefanie it is, I say.