Open: An Autobiography

I stumble to the net, where Edberg is leaning, close to fainting. We both have a hard time staying on court for the ceremony. When they hand me the trophy I think about vomiting into it. They hand me a microphone, to say a few words, and I think about vomiting on it too. I apologize for my behavior, especially to the people sitting by the illused flowerpot. I want to publicly suggest that officials consider relocating this tournament to Iceland, but I need to vomit again. I drop the microphone and run.

Brooke asks why I didn’t just quit.

Because it’s the Summer of Revenge.

After the match Tarango publicly objects to my behavior. He demands an explanation for why I left the court. He says that he was waiting to get on to play his doubles match, and I delayed him. He’s annoyed. I’m delighted. I want to go back to the court, find the flowerpot, have it gift-wrapped and sent to Tarango, with a note that says, Call this out, cheater.

I never forget. Something Becker is about to learn the hard way.

From D.C. I go to Montreal, where it’s blessedly cooler. I beat Pete in the final. Three hard-fought sets. Beating Pete always feels good, but this time it barely registers. I want Becker. I beat Chang in the final at Cincinnati, praise God, and then go to New Haven, back into the blast furnace of the Northeast summer. I reach the final and face Krajicek. He’s big, six foot five at least, and burly, and yet surprisingly light on his feet. Two strides and he’s there at the net, snarling, ready to snack on your heart. Also, his serve is monstrous. I don’t want to spend three hours coping with that serve. After winning three tournaments in quick succession, I have very little left. Brad, however, won’t tolerate such talk.

You’re in training, remember? The grudge match to end all grudge matches? Let it fly, he says.

So I let it fly. The problem is, Krajicek does too. He beats me in the first set, 6:3. In the second set he has match point twice. But I don’t yield. I tie the set, win the tiebreak, and win the third set going away. It’s my twentieth straight match victory, my fourth straight tournament victory. I’ve won sixty-three of seventy matches this year, forty-four of forty-six on hard court. Reporters ask if I feel invincible, and I say no. They think I’m being modest, but I’m telling the truth. It’s how I feel. It’s the only way I can allow myself to feel in the Summer of Revenge. Pride is bad, stress is good. I don’t want to feel confident. I want to feel rage. Endless, all-consuming rage.

ALL THE TALK ON THE TOUR is about my rivalry with Pete, largely because of a new Nike ad campaign, including a popular TV commercial in which we hop out of a cab in the middle of San Francisco, set up a net, and go at it. The New York Times Sunday Magazine publishes a long profile about the rivalry and the chasm between our personalities. It describes Pete’s absorption in tennis, his love of the game. I wonder what the writer would have made of the chasm if he’d known my true feelings about tennis. If only I’d told him.

I set the story aside. I pick it up again. I don’t want to read it. I must. It feels odd, unnerv-ing, because Pete isn’t uppermost in my thoughts right now. Day and night, I think of Becker, only Becker. And yet, skimming the article, I wince when Pete is asked what he likes about me.

He can’t think of anything.

Finally he says: I like the way he travels.

AT LAST, AUGUST COMES. Gil and Brad and I drive to New York for the 1995 U.S.

Open. On our first morning at Louis Armstrong Stadium I see Brad in the locker room, holding the draw in his hands.

It’s good, he says, smiling. Oh it’s so good. AG. All Good.

I’m on Becker’s side of the draw. If everything goes according to Brad’s plan, I’ll face Becker in the semis. Then, Pete. I think: If only, when we’re born, we could look over our draw in life, project our path to the final.

In the early rounds I’m on autopilot. I know what I want, I see what I want, just ahead, and opponents are mere road cones. Edberg. Alex Corretja. Petr Korda. I need to get past them to reach my target, so I do. After each win Brad isn’t his typical ebullient self. He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t celebrate. He’s preoccupied by Becker. He’s monitoring Becker’s progress, chart-ing his matches. He wants Becker to win every match, every point.

As I walk off the court with another victory, Brad says drily, Another good day.

Thanks. Yeah, felt good.

No. I mean B. B. Socrates. He won.

Pete handles his business. He reaches the final on his side of the draw and now awaits the winner of Agassi-Becker. It’s Wimbledon all over again, Part II. But this time I’m not thinking of Pete. I’m not looking ahead. I’ve been gunning for Becker, and now the moment is here, and my concentration is so intense, it frightens me.