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Gil, why go on?

Maybe you shouldn’t.

Why do I feel
—this
way—the old way—again?

It’s a rhetorical question. Kacey is fully recovered, thriving, talking about college, but Gil never forgets what it’s like to have someone you love lying in a hospital bed. He knows what I’m saying without my saying it: Why must the people we love suffer? Why can’t life be perfect? Why, every day, somewhere on this earth, does someone have to lose?

You can’t play, Gil says, unless you feel inspired. That’s your nature. That’s always been your nature, since you were nineteen years old. But you can’t feel inspired unless the people around you are OK. I love you for that.

I’m letting people down if I don’t play. I’m letting my family down if I do.

He nods.

Why do tennis and life always seem opposed?

He says nothing.

We’ve done it, haven’t we? I mean, we’ve run the race—right? We’re at the end of this bullshit, no?

I can’t answer that, he says. I only know that there is still more inside you, and there is more inside me. If we walk away, fine. But we still have
something left, and I think you promised yourself that you were going to see your game to the finish line.

On the first day of practice, hitting with Brad, I can’t make a serve to save my life. I walk off the court, and Brad knows not to ask. I go back to the hotel and lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling for two hours, knowing I’m not going to be in New York for long.

In the first round I play a Stanford student, Alex Kim, who’s sick with anxiety. I feel for him, but take him out in straight sets. In the second round I meet Clément. It’s a hot day and we both have a full sweat going before the first point. I start fine, break him, go ahead 3–1. All’s well. Then, suddenly, I’ve never played tennis before. In front of a packed house I disintegrate.

Again the sportswriters sound the old dirge. The end nears for Agassi. Gil tries to tell them what I’m going through. He says: Andre is fueled by his heart, emotions, and beliefs, and those he holds dearest to him. When all is not well you can see it in his actions.

On the way out of Arthur Ashe Stadium, a young girl says, I’m sorry you lost.

Oh honey, don’t be too sorry.

She smiles.

I
HURRY HOME TO
V
EGAS
, to spend time with my mother. But she’s untroubled, absorbed in her books and jigsaw puzzles, putting the rest of us to shame with her unshakable calm. I see that I’ve underestimated her through the years. I’ve mistaken her silence for weakness, acquiescence. I see that she is what my father made her, as we all are, and yet, beneath the surface, she’s so much more.

I also see that, in this perilous moment of her life, she’d like a little credit. I’ve always taken it for granted that my mother
wanted
to be taken for granted, that she wanted to blend into the woodwork. But what she wants right now is to be noticed, appreciated. She wants me to know that she’s stronger than I suspected. She’s getting her treatments, not complaining, and if she takes pride in this, if she wants me to be proud, she also wants me to know I’m made of the same stuff. She survived my father, as did I. She’ll survive this, and I will too.

Tami, getting treatment in Seattle, is also doing better. She’s had surgery, and before she starts chemotherapy she comes to Vegas to spend time with the family. She tells me she’s dreading the loss of her hair. I tell
her I don’t know why. Losing my hair was the best thing that ever happened to me. She laughs.

She says maybe it would be a good idea to get rid of her hair before the cancer takes it. An act of defiance, a seizing of control.

I like the sound of that, I say. I’ll help.

We arrange a barbecue at my house, and before everyone arrives we shut ourselves into a bathroom. With only Philly and Stefanie as witnesses, we hold a formal head-shaving ceremony. Tami wants me to do the honors. She hands me the electric shearer. I set the blade at 000, the tightest setting, and ask if she wants a mohawk first.

This might be your last chance to see how you look with one.

No, she says. Let’s just go for broke.

I shave her fast and close. She smiles like Elvis on the day he went into the Army. As her hair cascades to the floor, I tell her everything’s going to be great. You’re free now, Tami. Free. Also, I tell her, at least
your
hair will grow back. With me and Philly—it’s gone forever, baby. She laughs and laughs, and it feels good to make my sister laugh when every day does its best to make her cry.

B
Y
N
OVEMBER 2000 MY FAMILY
is sufficiently on the mend that I’m ready to train again. In January we fly to Australia. I feel good when we land. I do love this place. I must have been an aborigine in another life. I always feel at home here. I always enjoy walking into Rod Laver Arena, playing under Laver’s name.

I bet Brad that I’m going to win the whole thing. I can feel it. And when I do, he will have to jump in the Yarra River—a fetid, polluted tributary that wends through Melbourne. I batter my way to the semis and face Rafter again. We play three hours of hammer-and-tong tennis, filled with endless I-grunt-you-grunt rallies. He’s ahead, two sets to one. Then he withers. The Australian heat. We’re both drenched with sweat, but he’s cramping. I win the next two sets.

In the final I face Clément, a grudge match four months after he knocked me out of the U.S. Open. I rarely leave the baseline. I make few mistakes, and those I do make, I put quickly behind me. While Clément is muttering to himself in French, I feel a serene calm. My mother’s son. I beat him in straight sets.

It’s my seventh slam, putting me tenth on the all-time list. I’m tied with McEnroe, Wilander, and others—one ahead of Becker and Edberg.
Wilander and I are the only ones to win three Australian Opens in the open era. At the moment, however, all I care about is seeing Brad do the backstroke in the Yarra, then getting home to Stefanie.

W
E SPEND THE EARLY PART
of 2001 nesting at Bachelor Pad II, converting it from bachelor pad to proper home. We shop for furniture that we both like. We give small dinner parties. We talk late into the night about the future. She buys me a kitchen chalkboard, for honey-do lists, but I convert it into an Appreciation Board. I hang the board on the kitchen wall and promise Stefanie that every evening I’ll write something about my love for her—and the next evening I’ll wipe the board clean and write something new. I also buy a crate of 1989 Beychevelle and we promise to share a bottle every year on the anniversary of our first date.

At Indian Wells I reach the final and face Pete. I beat him, and in the locker room after the match he tells me he’s going to marry Bridgette Wilson, the actress he’s been dating.

I’m still allergic to actress, I say.

He laughs, but I’m not kidding.

He tells me he met her on the set of a movie
—Love Stinks
.

I laugh, but he’s not kidding.

There is much I want to say to Pete, about marriage, about actresses, but I can’t. Ours isn’t that kind of relationship. There is much I’d like to ask him—about how he stays so focused, about whether or not he regrets devoting so much of his life to tennis. Our different personalities, our ongoing rivalry, precludes such intimacy. I realize that despite the effect we’ve had on each other, despite our quasi-friendship, we’re strangers, and may always be. I wish him the best, and I mean it. To my mind, being with the right woman is true happiness. After all the time I’ve spent putting together my so-called team, the only thing I want now is to feel like a valued member of Stefanie’s team. I hope he feels the same way about his fiancée. I hope he cares as much about his place in her heart as he seems to care about his place in history. I wish I could tell him so.

An hour after the tournament, Stefanie and I give a tennis lesson. Wayne Gretzky bought us at a charity auction, and he wants us to teach his kids. We have fun with the Gretzkys. Then, as darkness falls, we drive slowly back to Los Angeles. Along the way we talk about how cute the kids were. I think of the Costner kids.

Stefanie squints out the window, then at me. She says: I think I’m late.

What for?

Late.

Oh. You mean
—oh!

We stop at several drugstores, buy every kind of pregnancy test on the shelves, then hole up at the Hotel Bel-Air. Stefanie goes into the bathroom, and when she comes out her expression is unreadable. She hands me the stick.

Blue.

What does blue mean?

I think it means—you know.

A boy?

I think it means I’m pregnant.

She does the test again. And again. Blue every time.

It’s what we both wanted, and she’s delighted, but frightened too. So many changes. What will happen to her body? We only have a few hours left together before I catch a red-eye to Miami and she flies to Germany. We go out to dinner, to Matsuhisa. We sit at the sushi bar, holding hands, telling each other it’s going to be fantastic. I don’t realize until later that this is the same restaurant where it all unraveled with Brooke. Just like tennis. The same court on which you suffer your bloodiest defeat can become the scene of your sweetest triumph.

After we’re done eating and crying and celebrating, I say: I guess we should get married.

Her eyes widen. I guess so.

There will be no hoopla, we decide. No church. No cake. No dress. We’ll do it on a free day during a lull in the tennis season.

I
SIT DOWN FOR AN HOUR-LONG INTERVIEW
with Charlie Rose, the genial TV host, during which I lie through my teeth.

I don’t mean to lie, but each question Rose asks seems to come with an implied answer, an answer he’s ready and eager to hear.

Did you love tennis at an early age?

Yes.

You loved the game.

I would sleep with a racket.

You look back on what your father did for you, do you say now: I’m glad that he gave me those early things that made me tough?

I’m definitely glad that I play tennis. I’m glad my dad started me in tennis.

I sound as though I’ve been hypnotized, or brainwashed, which isn’t
new. I say the same things I’ve said before, the same things I’ve mouthed during countless news conferences and interviews and cocktail-party conversations. Are they lies if I’ve come to partially believe them? Are they lies if, through sheer repetition, they’ve taken on a veneer of truth?

This time, however, the lies sound and feel different. They hang in the air, they have a bitter aftertaste. When the interview is over I feel a vague queasiness. Not guilt so much, but regret. A sense of missed opportunity. I wonder what would have happened, what Rose might have done or said, how much more we might have enjoyed the hour, if I’d leveled with him, and with myself. Actually, Charlie, I hate tennis.

The queasiness stays with me for days. It gets worse when the interview airs. I promise myself that one day I’ll look an interviewer of Rose’s stature right in the eye and tell him the unvarnished truth.

A
T THE
2001 F
RENCH
O
PEN
, an invisible person is in my box. Stefanie is four months along, and the presence of our unborn child gives me the legs of a teenager. I reach the round of sixteen and play Squillari, with whom I have such history. It feels as we walk onto the court as if we have more history than France has with England. The sight of Squillari takes me straight back to 1999—one of the toughest matches of my career. One of the turning points. If he’d beaten me that day, two years ago, I don’t know if I’d be here. I don’t know if Stefanie would be here—and therefore our unborn child wouldn’t be here.

Inspired by these thoughts, I’m locked in. As the match wears on, I grow fresher, more focused. My concentration is unbreakable. An unruly fan yells something obscene about me. I laugh. I take a nasty fall, twisting and cutting my knee. I shrug it off. Nothing can deter me—least of all Squillari. Gradually I lose all awareness of him. I’m out here by myself, more so than usual.

In the quarters I play Sébastien Grosjean, from France. I breeze through the first set, losing only one game, then Grosjean taps into some hidden reservoir of faith that he can win. Now our self-confidence is equal, but his shot-making is superior. He breaks me to go up 2–0, then breaks me again and wins the second set as easily as I won the first.

In the third set he breaks me right away, winning the game with a pretty lob. Then he holds, then breaks me again. I’m done for.

In the fourth set I have chances to break his serve, but I can’t capitalize. I hit a backhand that’s weak, unworthy of me, and as I watch it sail wide I know I’m running out of time. He’s serving for the match, I’m
holding on by my fingernails, and then I net a forehand. Match point. He closes me out with an ace.

Afterward, reporters ask if my concentration was broken by the arrival of President Bill Clinton. Of all the reasons I’ve ever heard, and offered, for losing a match, even I couldn’t come up with one that lame. I didn’t even know Clinton was there, I tell them. I had other things on my mind. Other invisible spectators.

I
BRING
S
TEFANIE TO
G
IL’S GYM
, under the guise of a workout. She’s beaming, because she knows why we’re really here.

Gil asks Stefanie if she’s feeling all right, if she’d like something to drink, if she’d like to sit. He guides her to an exercise cycle and she mounts sidesaddle. She studies the shelf Gil has built along one wall, to hold the trophies from my slams, including those I’ve had replaced since my
post-Friends
tantrum.

I fiddle with a stretching cord and then say: So, uhh, Gil, listen. We’ve picked out a name for our son.

Aw. What is it?

Jaden.

I like that, Gil says, smiling, nodding. Yes I do. I like that.

And—we also think we’ve got the perfect middle name.

What’s that?

Gil.

He stares.

I say, Jaden Gil Agassi. If he grows up to be half the man you are, he’ll be phenomenally successful, and if I can be half the father you’ve been to me, I’ll have surpassed my own standards.