Open: An Autobiography

My game plan for Gomez reflects my jangled nerves, my timidity. Knowing he doesn’t have young legs, knowing he’ll fold in a fifth set, I plan to stretch out the match, orchestrate long rallies, grind him down. As the match begins, however, it’s clear that Gomez also knows his age, and thus he’s trying to speed everything up. He’s playing quick, risky tennis. He wins the first set in a hurry. He loses the second set, but also in a hurry. Now I know that the longest we’ll be out here is three hours, rather than four, which means conditioning won’t play a role. This is now a shotmaking match, the kind Gomez can win. With two sets completed, and not much time off the clock, I’m facing a guy who’s going to be fresh throughout, even if we go five.

Of course my game plan was fatally flawed from the start. Pathetic, really. It couldn’t work, no matter how long the match, because you can’t win the final of a slam by playing not to lose, or waiting for your opponent to lose. My attempt to orchestrate long rallies merely em-boldens Gomez. He’s a veteran who knows this might be his last shot at a slam. The only way to beat him is to take away his belief and his desire, by being aggressive. When he sees me playing conservative, orchestrating instead of dominating, it gives him heart.

He wins the third set. As the fourth set begins I realize I’ve made yet another miscalcula-tion. Most players, when they tire late in a match, lose some zip on their serve. They have trouble getting up high on tired legs. But Gomez has a slingshot serve. He never gets up high on his legs. He leans into the ball. When he tires, therefore, he leans that much more, and his natural slingshot action becomes more pronounced. I’ve been waiting for his serve to weaken, and instead it’s getting sharper.

Upon winning the match, Gomez is exceedingly gracious and charming. He weeps. He waves to the cameras. He knows he’ll be a national hero in his native Ecuador. I wonder what it’s like in Ecuador. Maybe I’ll move there. Maybe that’s the only place I’ll be able to hide from the shame I feel at this moment. I sit in the locker room, head bowed, imagining what the hundreds of columnists and headline writers will say, not to mention my peers. I can hear them now. Image Is Everything, Agassi Is Nothing. Mr. Hot Lava Is a Hot Mess.

Philly walks in. I see in his eyes that he doesn’t just sympathize - he lives it. This was his defeat too. He aches. Then he says the right thing, striking the right tone, and I know I’ll always love him for it.

Let’s get the fuck outta this town.

GIL PUSHES THE BIG TROLLEY with our bags through Charles de Gaulle Airport. I’m walking a step ahead. I stop to look at the Arrivals and Departures. Gil keeps going. The trol-ley has a sharp metal edge, and it pushes into my soft, exposed Achilles - I’m wearing loafers with no socks. A jet of my blood spurts onto the glassy floor. Then another. The Achilles is gushing. Gil hurries to get a bandage out of his bag, but I tell him to relax, take his time. It’s good, I say. It’s fitting. There should be a pint of my blood from my Achilles’ heel on the floor before we leave Paris.

I SKIP WIMBLEDON AGAIN, train hard with Gil all summer. His home garage is finished, filled with a dozen handmade machines and many other unique touches. In the window he’s mounted a massive air-conditioner. On the floor he’s nailed a spongy Astroturf. And in the corner he’s put an old pool table. We shoot nine-ball between reps and sets. Many nights we’re in the gym until four in the morning, Gil searching for new ways to build up my mind, my confidence, along with my body. He’s shaken by the French Open, as am I. One morning, before the sun comes up, he passes along some words his mother always tells him.

Qué lindo es soñar despierto, he says. How lovely it is to dream while you are awake.

Dream while you’re awake, Andre. Anybody can dream while they’re asleep, but you need to dream all the time, and say your dreams out loud, and believe in them.

In other words, when in the final of a slam, I must dream. I must play to win.

I thank him. I give him a gift. It’s a necklace with a gold pyramid, and inside the pyramid are three hoops. It represents the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I designed it, had a jeweler in Florida make it for me, and I have an earring that matches.

He puts it around his neck, and I can tell it will be a cold day in hell before he takes it off.

With Gil in the desert outside Las Vegas, not long after we started working together full-time in 1990