Open: An Autobiography

The subject of Brad, naturally, comes up. I tell her about his tremendous coaching skills, his odd people skills. We laugh about his efforts to make tonight happen. I don’t tell her about his prediction. I don’t ask about her boyfriend. I ask what she likes to do in her free time. She says she loves the ocean.

Would you like to go to the beach tomorrow?

I thought you were supposed to go to Canada.

I could take a red-eye tomorrow night.

She thinks.

OK.

After dinner I drop her at the resort. She gives me the double-cheek kiss, which is starting to feel like a karate self-defense move. She runs inside.

Driving away, I phone Brad. He’s already in Canada, and it’s hours later there. I woke him.

But he rouses himself when I tell him the date went well.

Come on, he says groggily, stifling a yawn. Let’s go!

SHE SPREADS A TOWEL ON THE SAND and pulls off her jeans. Underneath she’s wearing a white one-piece bathing suit. She walks out into the water, up to her knees. She stands with one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the sun, scanning the horizon.

She asks, You coming in?

I don’t know.

I’m wearing white tennis shorts. I didn’t think to bring a bathing suit, because I’m a desert kid. I don’t do well in the water. But I’ll swim to China right now if that’s what it takes. In just my tennis shorts I walk out to where Stefanie’s standing. She laughs at my swimwear, and pretends to be shocked that I’m going commando. I tell her I’ve been like this since the French Open, and I’m never going back.

We talk for the first time about tennis. When I tell her that I hate it, she turns to me with a look that says, Of course. Doesn’t everybody?

I talk about Gil. I ask about her conditioning. She mentions that she used to train with Germany’s Olympic track team.

What’s your best race?

Eight hundred meters.

Whoa. That’s a gut check. How fast can you run it?

She smiles shyly.

You don’t want to tell me?

No answer.

Come on. How fast are you?

She points down the beach, at a red balloon in the distance.

See that red dot down there?

Yeah.

You’d never beat me to that.

Really.

Really.

She smiles. Off she goes. I go tearing after her. It feels as if I’ve been chasing her all my life, and now I’m literally chasing her. At first it’s all I can do to keep pace, but near the finish line I close the gap. She reaches the red balloon two lengths ahead of me. She turns, and peals of her laughter carry back to me like streamers on the wind.

I’ve never been so happy to lose.

24

I’M IN CANADA, she’s in New York. I’m in Vegas, she’s in Los Angeles. We stay connected by phone. One night she asks for a rundown of my favorites. Song. Book. Food. Movie.

You’ve probably never heard of my favorite movie.

Tell me, she says.

It came out several years ago. It’s called Shadowlands. It’s about C. S. Lewis, the writer.

I hear a sound like the phone dropping.

That’s impossible, she says. That’s simply not possible. That’s my favorite movie.

It’s about committing, opening yourself to love.

Yes, she says. Yes, it is, I know.

We are like blocks of stone … blows of His chisel which hurt us so much are what make us perfect.

Yes. Yes. Perfect.

PLAYING IN MONTREAL, in the semis against Kafelnikov, I can’t win a single point. He’s number two in the world and he puts a beating on me that causes people in the stands to cover their eyes. I tell myself: I have no say in the outcome of this match. I have no vote about what’s happening to me today. I’m not just being defeated, I’m being disenfranchised. But I’m OK. In the locker room I see Kafelnikov’s coach, Larry, leaning against the wall, smiling.

Larry, that was the sickest display of tennis I’ve ever seen. I’m going to make you a promise. Tell your boy he has a couple of beatings coming from me.

Later in the day I get a call from Stefanie. She’s at LAX.

I ask, How’d you do in your tournament?

I hurt myself.

Agh. I’m sorry.

Yes. That’s it. I’m done.

Where are you headed?

Back to Germany. I have some - some unfinished business.

I know what this means. She’s going to talk to her boyfriend, tell him about me, break things off. I feel a goofy smile spread across my face.

When she returns from Germany, she says, she’ll meet me in New York. We can spend time together before the 1999 U.S. Open. She mentions that she’ll need to call a news conference.

A news conference? For what?

My retirement.

Your - you’re retiring?

That’s what I just said. I’m done.

When you said done, I thought you meant done for the tournament! I didn’t know you meant - done.

I feel bereft, thinking of tennis without Stefanie Graf, the greatest women’s player of all time. I ask how it feels knowing she’ll never swing a racket in competition again. It’s the kind of question reporters ask me every day, but I can’t help myself. I want to know. I ask with a mixture of curiosity and envy.

She says it feels fine. She’s at peace, more than ready to be done.