Open: An Autobiography

PLAYING IN THE U.S. MEN’S CLAY COURT CHAMPIONSHIPS, in Houston, I just need to reach the finals and I’ll be ranked number one again. And I do. I beat Jürgen Melzer, 6:4, 6:1, and go out with Darren and Gil to celebrate. I throw down several vodka-cranberries. I don’t care that I’m playing in the final against Roddick tomorrow - I’m already ranked number one.

Which is why I beat him. That perfect blend of caring and not caring, the best preparation.

Days before my thirty-third birthday, I’m the oldest player ever ranked number one. I fly to Rome, feeling like Ponce de Leon, and get off the plane feeling a geriatric twinge in my shoulder. In the first round I play poorly, but don’t dwell on it, put it out of my mind. Weeks later, at the 2003 French Open, my shoulder is still sore, but my practices are crisp. Darren says I’m a force.

In the second round, I’m on the Suzanne Lenglen Court, a court filled with bad memories.

Losing to Woodruff in 1996. Losing to Safin in 1998. I’m playing a kid from Croatia, Mario Ancic. I lose the first two sets and trail in the third. He’s nineteen years old, six foot five, a serve-and-volleyer with no fear of me. The Lenglen court is supposed to be denser, slower, but today the ball is moving fast. I’m having an unusually hard time controlling it. I gather myself, however, and win the next two sets. In the fifth, exhausted, my shoulder falling off, I have match point four times, and lose them all. I double fault three of them. I beat the kid, at last, but only because he’s slightly more afraid of losing than I am.

I’m in the quarters against Guillermo Coria, from Argentina, another youngster. He says publicly I’m his idol. Listen, I tell reporters, I’d rather not be his idol and play him on hard court than be his idol and play him on clay. How I hate this dirt. I lose four of the first five games.

Then I win the set. How I love this dirt.

Coria shows no emotion, however. In the second set he jumps out to a 5:1 lead. He misses nothing. He’s fast and getting faster. Was I ever that fast? I try to confuse him, rush the net - to no avail. He’s just better than me today. He knocks me out of the tournament, and out of the number one slot.

In England, at a warm-up tournament before Wimbledon, I beat Peter Luczak, from Australia. It’s the one thousandth match of my career. When someone tells me this, I feel an overpowering need to sit down. I have a glass of wine with Stefanie and try to run my mind over all one thousand matches. I remember every one of them, I tell her.

Of course, she says.

For Stefanie’s birthday I take her to see Annie Lennox in London. She’s one of Stefanie’s favorites, but tonight she’s my muse. Tonight she’s singing, speaking, directly to me. In fact I make a point to tell Gil that we’ll need to include some Lennox on Belly Cramps 2. I might listen to her before every match.

My two greatest sources of strength, Gil and Stefanie, sitting in my box at the 2003 Australian Open

Shortly after winning the 2003 Australian Open

This is the path I’ll never tread

These are the dreams I’ll dream instead …

I’M ONE OF THE FAVORITES at the 2003 Wimbledon. How? No father has won Wimbledon since the 1980s. Fathers don’t win slams. In the third round I play Younes El Aynaoui, from Morocco. He’s a new father too. I joke with reporters that I look forward to playing a man who gets as little sleep as I.

In his pre-match instructions Darren says: When you get this guy bled out to the backhand, early in the match, when you see him hit his slice, be sure to take it out of the air. That way you’ll put him on notice that he can’t get away with safe shots from a defensive position.

He needs to hit something special. That’s how you’ll send him a message early and force him into errors later in the match.

Good advice. I quickly grab a lead, two sets to one, but El Aynaoui won’t cave. He pours it on in the fourth, gets three set points. I don’t want this thing going five. I refuse to let it go five.

The final points of the fourth set are grueling, and I do everything required, everything Darren advised. When it’s over, when I’ve won the set and match, I’m wiped out. I have a day off, but I know it’s not nearly enough.

In the fourth round I face Mark Philippoussis, an Australian kid with tons of talent and a reputation for squandering it. His serve is big, infamously big, and never bigger than today.

He’s topping out at 140 miles an hour. He aces me forty-six times. Still, the match goes where we both know it’s going, a fifth set. At 3:4, he’s serving, and somehow I have break point. He misses the first serve. I taste the victory. He unloads a 138-mile-per-hour second serve, straight up the middle. Obscene speed, but that’s right where I thought he’d hit it. I put the racket out, reflex the ball back to him, and he can only stand and watch. He almost gets whip-lash. And yet it lands a half inch behind the baseline. Out.

Had it fallen in, I’d have had the break, the momentum, and I’d be serving for the match.