Open: An Autobiography

Becker is still at the net. I don’t care. I leave him standing there like a Jehovah’s Witness on my doorstep. Finally, finally, I strip off my wristbands and go to the net and stick my hand in his general vicinity, without looking. He gives my hand a shake, and I snatch it away.

A TV reporter rushes onto the court and asks me a few questions. I answer without thinking. Then I look into the camera with a smile and say, Pete! I’m coming!

I run into the tunnel, into the training room. Gil is there, worried. He knows what that victory must have cost me physically.

I’m in bad shape, Gil.

Lie down, man.

My head is ringing. I’m sopping wet. It’s ten at night, and I’ve got to play in the final in less than eighteen hours. Between now and tomorrow I’ve got to come down from this near-psychotic state, get home, eat a good hot meal, drink a gallon of Gil Water until I piss a kid-ney, and then get some sleep.

Gil drives me back to Brooke’s brownstone. We eat dinner, and then I sit in the shower for an hour. It’s one of those showers that makes you think you should write a check to several environmental groups and maybe plant a tree. At two in the morning I lie down beside Brooke and black out.

I OPEN MY EYES FIVE HOURS LATER, no idea where I am. I sit up and let out a scream, a compacted version of my final scream against Becker. I can’t move.

At first I think it’s a stomach cramp. Then I realize it’s much more serious. I roll off the bed, onto my hands and knees. I know what this is. I’ve had this before. Torn cartilage between the ribs. I have a pretty good idea which shot tore it. But this tear must be particularly severe, because I can’t expand my rib cage. I can barely breathe.

I remember vaguely that it takes three weeks for this injury to heal. But I’ve got nine hours before I face Pete. It’s seven in the morning, the match is at four. I call for Brooke. She must be out. I’m lying on my side, saying aloud, This can’t be happening. Please don’t let this be happening.

I close my eyes and pray that I’ll be able to walk onto the court. Even asking for this much seems ridiculous, because I can’t stand. Hard as I try, I can’t get to my feet.

God, please. I can’t not show up for the final of the U.S. Open.

I crawl to the phone and dial Gil.

Gilly, I can’t stand up. I literally can’t stand up.

I’ll be right over.

By the time he arrives, I’m standing, but still having trouble breathing. I tell him what I think it must be, and he concurs. He watches me drink a cup of coffee, then says: It’s time. We need to go.

We look at the clock and both do the only thing we can do in such a moment - we laugh.

Gil drives me to the stadium. On the practice court I hit one ball and the ribs grab me. I hit another. I yell in pain. I hit a third. It still hurts, but I can put some mustard on it. I can breathe.

How do you feel?

Better. I’m about thirty-eight percent.

We stare at each other. Maybe that will be enough.

But Pete is pushing 100 percent. He comes out prepared, braced for a dose of what he saw me give Becker. I lose the first set, 6:4. I lose the second set, 6:3.

I win the third set, however. I’m learning what I can get away with. I’m finding shortcuts, compromises, back doors. I see a few chances to turn this thing into a miracle. I just can’t exploit them. I lose the fourth set, 7:5.

Reporters ask how it feels to win twenty-six matches in a row, to win all summer long, only to run into the giant net that is Pete. I think: How do you think it feels? I say: Next summer I’m going to lose a little bit. I’m 26:1, and I’d give up all those wins for this one.

On the drive back to the brownstone, I’m holding my ribs, staring out the window, reliving every shot of the Summer of Revenge. All that work and anger and winning and training and hoping and sweating, and it leads to the same empty disappointed feeling. No matter how much you win, if you’re not the last one to win, you’re a loser. And in the end I always lose, because there is always Pete. As always, Pete.

Brooke steers clear. She gives me kind looks and sympathetic frowns, but it doesn’t feel real, because she doesn’t understand. She’s waiting for me to feel better, for this to pass, for things to get back to normal. Losing is abnormal.

Brooke has told me that she has a ritual when I lose, a way of killing time until normalcy is restored. While I’m mutely grieving, she goes through her closets and pulls out everything she hasn’t worn in months. She folds sweaters and T-shirts, reorganizes socks and stockings and shoes into drawers and boxes. The night I lose to Pete, I peer into Brooke’s closet.

Neat as a pin.

In our brief relationship, she’s had lots of time to kill.

18

WHILE FACING WILANDER IN DAVIS CUP, I alter my movements to protect my torn rib cartilage, but when you protect one thing you often damage another. I hit an odd forehand and feel a chest muscle pull. It stays warm during the match, but when I wake the next morning I can’t move.

The doctors shut me down for weeks. Brad is suicidal.