Open

by Andre Agassi

Still, he drops clues. He talks sometimes about the beauty of the game, its perfect balance of power and strategy.

I always thought I was the only one who noticed. But here’s a kid who not only notices, he points that stuff out.

MY FATHER ACCOSTS ME IN THE KITCHEN. He says we need to talk. I wonder if he heard about the beer. He tells me to sit at the table. He sits across from me. An unfinished Norman Rockwell separates us. He describes a story he caught recently on 60 Minutes. It was all about a tennis boarding school on the west coast of Florida, near Tampa Bay. The first school of its kind, my father says. A boot camp for young tennis players, it’s run by a former paratrooper named Nick Bollettieri. So? So—you’re going there. What!

Things got so bad with Rita that she’s recently run off with Pancho Gonzalez, the tennis legend, who’s at least thirty years her senior.

Sounds grueling. A short time later my mother tells me that the 60 Minutes report was actually an exposé on this Bollettieri character, who was in essence running a tennis sweatshop that employed child labor.

I can’t imagine all these people trying to be like Andre Agassi, since I don’t want to be Andre Agassi. Now and then I

I’m trying to figure out who I am, but in the meantime I have a pretty good idea of who I’m not.

The truth is, I was just cold and not thinking. I was being stupid, not cocky. My reputation takes a major hit.

Treat this crisis as practice for the next crisis.

You lost only once, but you’re a loser.

Somewhere up there is a star with your name on it. I might not be able to help you find it, but I’ve got pretty strong shoulders, and you can stand on my shoulders while you’re looking for that star. You hear? For as long as you want. Stand on my shoulders and reach, man. Reach.

the man for not knowing how to say what’s in his heart. It’s the family curse.

Few of us are granted the grace to know ourselves, and until we do, maybe the best we can do is be consistent. My father is nothing if not consistent.

Andre, he says, it is so fucking on. Mark my words. We’re going to run into this motherfucker again. We’re going to run into him at the U.S. Open. And until then, we’re going to prepare, train, plot

Remember this. Hold on to this. 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.

He’s so jacked up, so high-strung, he’s making me more nervous, which I didn’t think was possible.

She asks, How could you get so involved? How could I not?

This is why we’re here. To fight through the pain and, when possible, to relieve the pain of others. So simple. So hard to see.

it’s in hospital hallways that we know what life is about.

A high-ranking official says publicly that Andre Agassi playing a challenger is like Bruce Springsteen playing a corner bar. So what’s wrong with Springsteen playing a corner bar? I think it would be cool if Springsteen played a corner bar now and then.

Sportswriters say I’m humbled. They love saying this. They couldn’t be more wrong. I was humbled in the hotel room with Brad. I was humbled smoking meth with Slim. Now I’m just glad to be out here.

I can’t believe the irony. A 60 Minutes piece caused my father to send me away, to break my heart, and now a 60 Minutes piece lights the way home, gives me the map to find my life’s meaning, my mission.

No matter where you are in life, there is always more journey ahead. And I think of one of Mandela’s favorite quotes, from the poem Invictus, which sustained him during those moments when he thought his journey had been cut short: I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

I’ve been cheered by thousands, booed by thousands, but nothing feels as bad as the booing inside your own head during those ten minutes before you fall asleep.

that thing had caught the line I’d be down triple match point. Instead I’m at 15–30. What a difference. What if—?

It’s contagious. Brad chants too. I stand, wave. I’m honored. Inspired. I wish I could play the next match right now. Here. Allez, Agassi! I stand once more, my heart in my throat. Then, at last, the Boss comes on.

The ball lands well beyond the baseline. Watching it fall is one of the great joys of my life. I raise my arms and my racket falls on the clay. I’m sobbing. I’m rubbing my head. I’m terrified by how good this feels. Winning isn’t supposed to feel this good. Winning is never supposed to matter this much. But it does, it does, I can’t help it. I’m overjoyed, grateful to Brad, to Gil, to Paris—even to Brooke and Nick. Without Nick I wouldn’t be here. Without all the ups and downs with Brooke, even the misery of our final days, this wouldn’t be possible. I even reserve some gratitude for myself, for all the good and bad choices that led here.

Whatever the case, I put my hand on Pete’s shoulder and wish him well, and though it doesn’t feel like goodbye, it feels like a rehearsal for a goodbye that can’t be far off.

I wonder if the laugh had something to do with the win. It’s easier to be free and loose, to be yourself, after laughing with the ones you love. The right attachments.

He thinks it’s his day, and when you think it’s your day, it usually is.

Every man should have the chance to introduce his wife at her Hall of Fame induction ceremony.

I play and keep playing because I choose to play. Even if it’s not your ideal life, you can always choose it. No matter what your life is, choosing it changes everything.

I’m astonished, yet again, by the connection between two players on a tennis court. The net, which supposedly separates you, actually links you like a web. After two bruising hours you’re convinced that you’re locked in a cage with your opponent. You could swear that his sweat is spraying you, his breath is fogging your eyes.

It makes me laugh. I can only admire that Connors is who he is, still, that he never changes. We should all be so true to ourselves, so consistent.