Open: An Autobiography. Andre Agassi
here you need to beat! It never occurs to him that I’m taking a nap because I’m exhausted from a morning playing the dragon, that nine-year-olds don’t often take naps. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I’ll go outside and see some strange kid, some prodigy from Florida or California who happens to be in town. They’re always older and bigger—like that punk who’d just moved to Vegas, and heard about me, and rang our doorbell. He had a white Rossignol and a head like a pumpkin. He was at least three years older than I, and he smirked as I walked out of the house, because I was so small. Even after I beat him, even after I wiped that smirk off his face, it took hours for me to calm down, to shed the feeling that I’d just run along a tightrope stretched across Hoover Dam.
This thing with Mr. Brown, however, is different, and not just because my family’s life savings are riding on the outcome. Mr. Brown disrespected my father, and my father can’t knock him out. He needs me to do it. So this match will be about more than money. It will be about respect and manhood and honor—against the greatest football player of all time. I’d rather play in the final of Wimbledon. Against Nastase. With Wendi as the ballgirl.
Slowly I become aware that Mr. Brown is watching me. Staring. He walks over and introduces himself, shakes my hand. His hand is one big callus. He asks how long I’ve been playing, how many matches I’ve won, how many I’ve lost.
I never lose, I say quietly.
His eyes narrow.
Mr. Fong pulls Mr. Brown aside and says: Don’t do this, Jim.
Guy’s asking for it, Mr. Brown whispers. Fool and his money.
You don’t understand, Mr. Fong says. You are going to lose, Jim.
What the hell are you--? He’s a kid.
That’s not just any kid.
You must be crazy.
Look, Jim, I like having you come here. You’re a friend, and it’s good for business to have you at my club. But when you lose ten grand to this kid, you’ll be sore, and you might stop coming around.
Mr. Brown turns to look me up and down, as if he must have missed something the first time. He walks back toward me and starts firing questions.
How much do you play?
Every day.
No--how long do you play at one time? An hour? Couple of hours?
I see what he’s doing. He wants to know how fast I get tired. He’s trying to size me up, game-planning for me.
My father’s back. He’s got a fistful of hundreds. He waves it in the air. Suddenly Mr. Brown has had a change of heart.
Here’s what we’ll do, Mr. Brown tells my father. We’ll play two sets, then decide how much to bet on the third.
Whatever you say.
We play on Court 7, just inside the door. A crowd has gathered, and they cheer themselves hoarse as I win the first set, 6-3. Mr. Brown shakes his head. He talks to himself. He bangs his racket on the ground. He’s not happy, which makes two of us. Not only am I thinking, in direct violation of my father’s cardinal rule, but my mind is spinning. I feel as if I might have to stop playing at any moment, because I need to throw up.
Still, I win the second set, 6-3.
Now Mr. Brown is furious. He drops to one knee, laces his sneakers.
My father approaches him.
So? Ten grand?
Naw, Mr. Brown says. Why don’t we just bet $500.
Whatever you say.
My body relaxes. My mind grows quiet. I want to dance along the baseline, knowing I won’t have to play for $10,000. I can swing freely now, without thinking about consequences. Without thinking at all.
Mr. Brown, meanwhile, is thinking more, playing a less relaxed game. He’s suddenly junking, drop-shotting, lofting lobs, angling the ball at the corners, trying backspin and sidespin and all sorts of trickery. He’s also trying to run me, back and forth, wear me out. But I’m so relieved not to be playing for the entire contents of my father’s safe that I can’t be worn out, and I can’t miss. I beat Mr. Brown 6-2.
Sweat running down his face, he pulls a wad from his pocket and counts out five crisp hundreds. He hands them to my father, then turns to me.
Great game, son.
He shakes my hand. His calluses feel rougher—thanks to me.
He asks what my goals are, my dreams. I start to answer, but my father jumps in.
He’s going to be number one in the world.
I wouldn’t bet against him, Mr. Brown says.
NOT LONG AFTER BEATING MR. BROWN, I play a practice match against my father at Caesars. I’m up 5-2, serving for the match. I’ve never beaten my father, and he looks as if he’s about to lose much more than $10,000.
Suddenly he walks off the court. Get your stuff, he says. Let’s go.
He won’t finish. He’d rather sneak away than lose to his son. Deep down, I know it’s the last time we’ll ever play.
Packing my bag, zipping the cover on my racket, I feel a thrill greater than anything I felt after beating Mr. Brown. This is the sweetest win of my life, and it will be hard to top. I’ll take this win over a wheelbarrow full of silver dollars—and Uncle Isar’s jewels thrown on top--because this is the win that made my father finally sneak away from me.
I’M TEN, playing in the nationals. Second round. I lose badly to some kid who’s older, who’s supposed to be the best in the country. Not that this makes it easier. How can losing hurt so much? How can anything hurt so much? I walk off the court wishing I were dead. I stagger out to the parking lot. As my father gathers our stuff and says goodbye to the other parents, I sit in the car, crying.
A man’s face appears in the car window. Black guy. Smiling.
Hey there, he says. My name’s Rudy.
Same name as the man who helped my father build his backyard tennis court. Strange.
What’s your name?
Andre.
He shakes my hand.
Nice to meet you, Andre.
He says he works with the great champion Pancho Segura, who coaches kids my age. He comes to these big tournaments to scout kids for Pancho. He puts his arms through the window, leans heavily on the car door, sighs. He tells me that days like this are tough, he knows, very tough indeed, but in the end these days will make me stronger. His voice is warm, thick, like hot cocoa.
That kid who beat you, why, that kid’s two years older than you! You’ve got two years to reach that kid’s level. Two years is an eternity—especially when you’re working hard. Do you work hard?
Yes, sir.
You’ve got so much ahead of you, son.
But I don’t want to play anymore. I hate tennis.
Ha, ha! Sure you do. Right now. But deep down, you don’t really hate tennis.
Yes, I do.
You just think you hate it.
No, I hate it.
You’re saying that because you’re hurting right now, hurting like heck, but that just means you care. Means you want to win. You can use that. Remember this day. Try to use this day as motivation. If you don’t want to feel this hurt again, good, do everything you can to avoid it. Are you ready to do everything?
I nod.
Fine,