Open: An Autobiography

It’s simply not possible. Just months ago, in Monte Carlo, Brad and I bumped into Medvedev in a nightclub. He’d suffered a heartbreaking loss that day and was drinking to numb the pain.

We invited him to join us. He threw himself into a chair at our table and announced that he was quitting tennis.

I can’t play this fucking game anymore, he said. I’m old. The game has passed me by.

I talked him out of it.

How dare you, I said. Here I am, twenty-nine, injured, divorced, and you’re bitching about being washed up at twenty-four? Your future is bright.

My game is shit.

So? Fix it.

He asked me for tips, pointers. He asked me to analyze his game, just as I’d once asked Brad to analyze mine. And I was Brad-esque. I was brutally honest. I told Medvedev he had a huge serve, a big return, and a world-class backhand. His forehand was not his best shot, of course, that was no secret, but he could hide it, because he was big enough to push opponents around.

You’re a good mover! I shouted. Get back to the basics. Keep moving, slam your first serve, and rip the backhand up the line.

Ever since that night he’s followed my advice to the letter and he’s been on fire. He’s been winning consistently on the tour and dominating guys in this tournament. Each time we’ve bumped into each other in the locker room, or around Roland Garros, we’ve exchanged sly winks and waves.

I never once dreamed we were on a collision course.

So Gil was wrong. I haven’t been on a collision course with destiny, but with a fire-breathing dragon that I helped to build.

EVERYWHERE I GO, Parisians rush up and wish me luck. The tournament is the talk of the city. In restaurants and cafés, on the street, they yell my name, kiss my cheek, urge me onward. The story of my reception at the Springsteen concert has made the newspapers. The people, the press, are fascinated by my improbable run. Everyone can identify with it. They see something of themselves in my comeback, in my return from the dead.

It’s the night before the final and I’m sitting in my hotel room, watching TV. I shut it off. I go to the window. I feel sick. I think about this last year, these last eighteen months, these last eighteen years. Millions of balls, millions of decisions. I know this is my final chance to win the French Open, my final chance to win all four slams and complete the set, which means my final shot at redemption. The idea of losing scares me, and the thought of winning scares me nearly as much. Would I be grateful? Would I be worthy? Would I build on it - or squander it?

Also, Medvedev is never far from my thoughts. He has my game. I gave it to him. He even has my first name. Andrei. It’s going to be Andre versus Andrei. Me versus my doppelgänger.

Brad and Gil knock at the door.

Ready for dinner?

I hold the door open and tell them to come in for one second.

They stand just inside the door and watch me open the minibar. I pour myself a huge vodka. Brad’s mouth falls open as I down the drink in one gulp.

What the hell do you think - ?

I’m sick nervous, Brad. I haven’t been able to eat a bite all day. I need to eat, and the only way I can eat is if I take the edge off.

Don’t worry, Gil says to Brad. He’s fine.

At least drink a big glass of water too, Brad says.

After dinner, when I get back to my room, I take a sleeping pill and slide into bed. I phone J.P. He says it’s early afternoon where he is.

What time is it there?

It’s late. It’s so very late.

How are you feeling?

Please, please, talk to me for a few minutes about anything but tennis.

Are you OK?

Anything but tennis.

OK. Well. Let’s see. How about I read you a poem? I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately.

Yeah. Good. Whatever.

He goes to his bookshelf, takes down a book. He reads softly.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I fall asleep without hanging up the phone.

GIL KNOCKS AT MY DOOR, dressed as if he’s meeting de Gaulle. He’s got the nice black sport coat, the creased black slacks - the black hat. And he’s wearing the necklace I gave him. I’m wearing the matching earring. Father, Son, Holy Ghost.

In the elevator he says: It’s going to be OK.

Yeah.

But it’s not OK. I know it during warm-ups. I’m soaked in sweat. I’m sweating as if I’m about to get married. I’m so overcome with nerves that my teeth are clicking. The sun is bright, which should make me happy, because the ball will be drier and lighter. But the warmth of the day is also making me sweat that much more.

As the match begins, I’m a sweat-soaked wreck. I’m making stupid mistakes, rookie mistakes, every kind of error and fuck-up you can make on a tennis court. It takes just nineteen minutes to lose the first set, 6:1. Medvedev, meanwhile, couldn’t look calmer. And why not?