Open: An Autobiography

I watch everyone else board the bus for Bradenton Academy, and as it rumbles away, spewing black smoke, I sit on a bench, basking in the sunshine. I tell myself: You’re fourteen years old, and you never have to go to school again. From now on, every morning will feel like Christmas and the first day of summer vacation, combined. A smile spreads across my face, my first in months. No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks. You’re free, Andre. You’ll never have to learn anything again.

7

I PUT IN MY EARRING and run down to the hard courts. The morning is mine, mine, and I spend it hitting balls. Hit harder. I hit for two hours, channeling my newfound freedom into every swing. I can feel the difference. The ball explodes off my racket. Nick appears, shaking his head. I pity your next opponent, he says.

Meanwhile, back in Vegas, my mother begins correspondence school on my behalf. Her first actual correspondence is a letter to me, in which she says that her son might not go to college, but he’s damn sure going to graduate high school. I write back and thank her for doing my homework and taking my tests. But when she earns the degree, I add, she can keep it.

In March 1985, I fly to Los Angeles and stay with Philly, who’s living in someone’s guest cottage, giving tennis lessons, searching for what he wants to do with his life. He helps me train for La Quinta, one of the year’s biggest tournaments. The guest cottage is tiny, smaller than our room back in Vegas, smaller than our rented Omni, but we don’t mind, we’re thrilled to be reunited, hopeful about my new direction. There’s just one problem: We have no money.

We subsist on baked potatoes and lentil soup. Three times a day we bake two potatoes and heat a can of generic lentil soup. We then pour the soup over the potatoes and voilà - breakfast, lunch, or dinner is served. The whole meal costs eighty-nine cents and keeps hunger at bay for about three hours.

THE DAY BEFORE THE TOURNAMENT, we drive Philly’s beat-up jalopy over to La Quinta. The car produces enormous clouds of black smoke. It feels like driving in a portable summer storm.

Maybe we should stick a potato in the tailpipe, I tell Philly.

Our first stop is the grocery store. I stand before the bin of potatoes and my stomach rolls.

I can’t face another spud. I walk off, wander up and down the aisles, and find myself in the frozen-food section. My eye lands on one particularly enticing treat. Oreo ice cream sandwiches. I reach for them like a sleepwalker. I take a box of ice cream sandwiches from the case and meet my brother in the express lane. Slipping behind him I gently set the ice cream sandwiches on the conveyor belt.

He looks down, then looks at me.

We can’t afford that.

I’ll have this instead of my potato.

He picks up the box, looks at the price, lets out a low whistle. Andre, this costs as much as ten potatoes. We can’t.

I know. Fuck.

Walking back to the frozen-food case, I think: I hate Philly. I love Philly. I hate potatoes.

Woozy with hunger, I go out and beat Broderick Dyke in the first round at La Quinta, 6:4, 6:4. In the second round I beat Rill Baxter, 6:2, 6:1. In the third round I beat Russell Simpson, 6:3, 6:3. Then I win my first round in the main draw against John Austin, 6:4, 6:1.

Down a break in the first set, I come storming back. I’m fifteen years old, beating grown men, beating them senseless, churning my way through the ranks. Everywhere I walk people are pointing at me, whispering. There he is. That’s the kid I was telling you about - the prodigy.

It’s the prettiest word I’ve ever heard applied to me.

Prize money for reaching the second round at La Quinta, is $2,600. But I’m an amateur, so I get nothing. Still, Philly learns that the tournament will reimburse players for expenses.

We sit in his jalopy and make up an itemized list of imaginary expenses, including our imaginary first-class flight from Vegas, our imaginary five-star-hotel room, our imaginarily lavish restaurant meals. We think we’re shrewd, because our expenses equal exactly $2,600.

Philly and I have the balls to ask for so much because we’re from Vegas. We’ve spent our childhoods in casinos. We think we’re born bluffers. We think we’re high rollers. After all, we did learn to double down before we were potty-trained. Recently, while walking through Caesars, Philly and I passed a slot machine just as it began to play that old Depression-era song We’re in the Money. We knew the song from Pops, so we felt it was a sign. It didn’t occur to us that the slot machine played that song all day long. We sat down at the nearest blackjack table - and won. Now, with the same swagger born of naïveté, I walk our list of expenses into the office of the tournament director, Charlie Pasarell, while Philly waits in the car.