Open: An Autobiography

In the final I face Clément, a grudge match four months after he knocked me out of the U.S. Open. I rarely leave the baseline. I make few mistakes, and those I do make, I put quickly behind me. While Clément is muttering to himself in French, I feel a serene calm. My mother’s son. I beat him in straight sets.

It’s my seventh slam, putting me tenth on the all-time list. I’m tied with McEnroe, Wilander, and others - one ahead of Becker and Edberg. Wilander and I are the only ones to win three Australian Opens in the open era. At the moment, however, all I care about is seeing Brad do the backstroke in the Yarra, then getting home to Stefanie.

WE SPEND THE EARLY PART of 2001 nesting at Bachelor Pad II, converting it from bachelor pad to proper home. We shop for furniture that we both like. We give small dinner parties. We talk late into the night about the future. She buys me a kitchen chalkboard, for honey-do lists, but I convert it into an Appreciation Board. I hang the board on the kitchen wall and promise Stefanie that every evening I’ll write something about my love for her - and the next evening I’ll wipe the board clean and write something new. I also buy a crate of 1989

Beychevelle and we promise to share a bottle every year on the anniversary of our first date.

At Indian Wells I reach the final and face Pete. I beat him, and in the locker room after the match he tells me he’s going to marry Bridgette Wilson, the actress he’s been dating.

I’m still allergic to actress, I say.

He laughs, but I’m not kidding.

He tells me he met her on the set of a movie - Love Stinks.

I laugh, but he’s not kidding.

There is much I want to say to Pete, about marriage, about actresses, but I can’t. Ours isn’t that kind of relationship. There is much I’d like to ask him - about how he stays so focused, about whether or not he regrets devoting so much of his life to tennis. Our different personalities, our ongoing rivalry, precludes such intimacy. I realize that despite the effect we’ve had on each other, despite our quasi-friendship, we’re strangers, and may always be. I wish him the best, and I mean it. To my mind, being with the right woman is true happiness.

After all the time I’ve spent putting together my so-called team, the only thing I want now is to feel like a valued member of Stefanie’s team. I hope he feels the same way about his fiancée.

I hope he cares as much about his place in her heart as he seems to care about his place in history. I wish I could tell him so.

An hour after the tournament, Stefanie and I give a tennis lesson. Wayne Gretzky bought us at a charity auction, and he wants us to teach his kids. We have fun with the Gretzkys.

Then, as darkness falls, we drive slowly back to Los Angeles. Along the way we talk about how cute the kids were. I think of the Costner kids.

Stefanie squints out the window, then at me. She says: I think I’m late.

What for?

Late.

Oh. You mean - oh!

We stop at several drugstores, buy every kind of pregnancy test on the shelves, then hole up at the Hotel Bel-Air. Stefanie goes into the bathroom, and when she comes out her expression is unreadable. She hands me the stick.

Blue.

What does blue mean?

I think it means - you know.

A boy?

I think it means I’m pregnant.

She does the test again. And again. Blue every time.

It’s what we both wanted, and she’s delighted, but frightened too. So many changes. What will happen to her body? We only have a few hours left together before I catch a red-eye to Miami and she flies to Germany. We go out to dinner, to Matsuhisa. We sit at the sushi bar, holding hands, telling each other it’s going to be fantastic. I don’t realize until later that this is the same restaurant where it all unraveled with Brooke. Just like tennis. The same court on which you suffer your bloodiest defeat can become the scene of your sweetest triumph.

After we’re done eating and crying and celebrating, I say: I guess we should get married.

Her eyes widen. I guess so.

There will be no hoopla, we decide. No church. No cake. No dress. We’ll do it on a free day during a lull in the tennis season.

I SIT DOWN FOR AN HOUR-LONG INTERVIEW with Charlie Rose, the genial TV host, during which I lie through my teeth.

I don’t mean to lie, but each question Rose asks seems to come with an implied answer, an answer he’s ready and eager to hear.

Did you love tennis at an early age?

Yes.

You loved the game.

I would sleep with a racket.

You look back on what your father did for you, do you say now: I’m glad that he gave me those early things that made me tough?

I’m definitely glad that I play tennis. I’m glad my dad started me in tennis.

I sound as though I’ve been hypnotized, or brainwashed, which isn’t new. I say the same things I’ve said before, the same things I’ve mouthed during countless news conferences and interviews and cocktail-party conversations. Are they lies if I’ve come to partially believe them? Are they lies if, through sheer repetition, they’ve taken on a veneer of truth?