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by Andre Agassi

Every hit is expected, every miss a crisis.

I’ve internalized my father—his impatience, his perfectionism, his rage—until his voice doesn’t just feel like my own, it is my own. I no longer need my father to torture me. From this day on, I can do it all by myself.

Fine, fine. So go ahead and cry. Hurt a while longer. But then tell yourself, that’s it, time to get back to work.

My heart sinks. I know my father can’t resist anything free. My fate is sealed.

But Nick looks at Gabriel, and Gabriel looks at me, and the panda looks at all of us.

There are many ways, Gil says, of getting strong, and sometimes talking is the best way.

WARMING UP BEFORE THE MATCH, I pray. Not for a win, but for my hairpiece to stay on.

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.

A win doesn’t feel as good as a loss feels bad, and the good feeling doesn’t last as long as the bad. Not even close.

I’m struck by how fast the surreal becomes the norm.

The idea that she possessed such a devastating instrument, such a powerful talent, and couldn’t use it freely, for pleasure, was fascinating. And familiar. And depressing.

She was a tortured perfectionist who hated doing something at which she excelled.

told her that it would be dangerous to surrender to fear. Fears are like gateway drugs, I said. You give in to a small one, and soon you’re giving in to bigger ones.

My entourage is thinning faster than my hair.

Besides, he says, don’t worry about whether she likes you. Worry about whether you like her.

I’ve given up on understanding myself. I have no interest in self-analysis. In the long, losing struggle with myself, I’m tanking.

This is the only perfection there is, the perfection of helping others. This is the only thing we can do that has any lasting value

or meaning. This is why we’re here. To make each other feel safe.

Rock bottom can be very cozy, because at least you’re at rest.

I wish I could emulate his spectacular lack of inspiration, and his peculiar lack of need for inspiration.

I’d forgotten: it’s in hospital hallways that we know what life is about.

His eyes say that he’s figured something out, something essential.

Reporters ask if I feel lucky that Clément cramped. Lucky? I worked hard for those cramps.

Andre, he says, some people are thermometers, some are thermostats. You’re a thermostat. You don’t register the temperature in a room, you change it.

It’s easier to be free and loose, to be yourself, after laughing with the ones you love. The right attachments.

I think older people make this mistake all the time with younger people, treating them as finished products when in fact they’re in process.