Open: An Autobiography

Charlie is a former player. In fact, back in 1969 he played Pancho Gonzalez in the longest men’s singles match ever at Wimbledon. Pancho is now my brother-in-law - he recently married Rita. Another sign that Philly and I are in the money. But the biggest sign of all: one of Charlie’s oldest friends is Alan King, who hosted the very same Vegas tournament where I saw Caesar and Cleopatra and the wheelbarrow full of silver dollars, where I worked as a ball boy with Wendi, where I first stepped onto a professional tennis court in an official capacity.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs. I place the list on Charlie’s desk and stand back.

Huh, Charlie says, looking over the list. Very interesting.

Sorry?

Expenses don’t usually work out so neat.

I feel a hot flash.

Your expenses, Andre, are exactly the same amount as the prize money you’d be able to collect if you were a pro.

Charlie looks at me over the top of his glasses. I feel my heart shrivel to the size of a lentil.

I consider making a run for it. I imagine Philly and me living in that guest cottage for the rest of our lives. But Charlie suppresses a smile, reaches into a strongbox, and removes a wad of bills.

Here’s two grand, kid. Don’t grind me for the other six hun.

Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.

I run outside and dive into Philly’s car. He peels out as if we’ve just held up the First Bank of La Quinta. I count out $1,000 and throw it at my brother.

Your cut of the loot.

What? No! Andre, you worked hard for this, bro.

Are you kidding? We worked. Philly, I couldn’t have done this without you! Impossible!

We’re in this together, man.

In the back of our minds we’re both thinking of the morning I woke up with $300 on my chest. We’re also thinking of all those nights, sitting in the ad court:deuce court of our bedroom, sharing everything. He leans over, while driving, and gives me a hug. Then we talk about where we’re going to eat dinner. We’re drooling as we bandy names of restaurants about. In the end we agree that this is a special occasion, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, which calls for something truly fancy.

Sizzler.

I can already taste that rib eye, Philly says.

I’m not going to bother with a plate. I’m just going to shove my head into the salad bar.

They have an all-you-can-eat shrimp special.

They’re going to be sorry they ever came up with that idea!

You said it, bro!

We gnaw through the La Quinta Sizzler, not leaving a single seed or crouton in our wake, then sit around and stare at the money we have left over. We line up the bills, stack them, stroke them. We talk about our new buddy, Benjamin Franklin. We’re so drunk on calories, we break out the steam iron and run it lightly over each bill, gently smoothing out the wrinkles in Ben’s face.

8

I CONTINUE TO LIVE AND TRAIN at the Bollettieri Academy, with Nick as my coach and sometime travel companion, though he feels more like a sounding board. And, honestly, a friend. Our makeshift truce has turned into a surprisingly harmonious working relationship.

Nick respects the way I stood up to him, and I respect him for being true to his word. We’re working hard to achieve a common goal, to conquer the tennis world. I don’t expect much from Nick in the way of Xs and Os; I look to him for cooperation, not information. Meanwhile, he looks to me for headline-generating wins which help his academy. I don’t pay him a salary, because I can’t, but it’s understood that when I turn pro I’ll give him bonuses based on what I earn. He considers this more than generous.

Early spring, 1986. I tramp all over Florida, playing a series of satellite tournaments.

Kissimmee. Miami. Sarasota. Tampa. After a year of working hard, focusing exclusively on tennis, I play well, making it to the fifth tournament of the series, the Masters. I reach the final and, though I lose, I’m entitled to a finalist check of $1,100.

I want to take it. I yearn to take it. Philly and I sure could use the money. Still, if I take that check I’m a professional tennis player, forever, no turning back.

I phone my father back in Vegas and ask him what I should do.

My father says, What the hell do you mean? Take the money.

If I take the money, there’s no turning back. I’m pro.

So?

If I cash this check, Pops, that’s it.

He acts as if we have a bad connection.

You’ve dropped out of school! You have an eighth-grade education. What are your choices? What the hell else are you going to do? Be a doctor?

None of this comes as news, but I hate the way he puts it.

I tell the tournament director I’ll take the money. As the words leave my mouth I feel a shelf of possibilities fall away. I don’t know what those possibilities might be, but that’s the point - I never will know. The man hands me a check, and as I walk out of his office I feel as if I’m starting down a long, long road, one that seems to lead into a dark, ominous forest.

It’s April 29, 1986. My sixteenth birthday.