and officials of the U.S. Open. They’re busy. They don’t have time to talk. I step through a small door. Stefanie and the children have arrived. They’re in a little playground outside the locker room. Jaden and Jaz are taking turns on the plastic slide. Stefanie is grateful, I can tell, to have the children here for distraction. She’s more keyed up than I. She looks almost irritated. Her frown says, This thing should have started already! Come on! I love the way my wife spoils for a fight.
I talk to her and the children for a few minutes, but I can’t hear a word they’re saying. My mind is far away. Stefanie sees. She feels. You don’t win twenty-two Grand Slams without a highly developed intuition. Besides, she was the same way before her matches. She sends me back into the locker room: Go. We’ll be here. Do what you need to do.
She won’t watch the match from ground level. It’s too close for her. She’ll stay in a skybox with the children, alternately pacing, praying, and covering her eyes.
PERE, ONE OF the senior trainers, walks in. I can tell which of his trays is for me: the one with the two giant foam donuts and two dozen precut strips of tape. I lie on one of six training tables, and Pere sits at my feet. A messy business, getting these dogs ready for war, so he puts a trash can under them. I like that Pere is tidy, meticulous, the Roman of calluses. First he takes a long Q-tip and applies an inky goo that makes my skin sticky, my instep purple. There’s no washing off that ink. My instep hasn’t been ink-free since Reagan was president. Now Pere sprays on skin toughener. He lets that dry, then taps a foam donut onto each callus. Next come the strips of tape, which are like rice paper. They instantly become part of my skin. He wraps each big toe until it’s the size of a sparkplug. Finally he tapes the bottoms of my feet. He knows my pressure points, where I land, where I need extra layers of padding.
I thank him, put on my shoes, unlaced. Now, as everything begins to slow down, the volume goes up. Moments ago the stadium was quiet, now it’s beyond loud. The air is filled with a buzzing, a humming, the sound of fans rushing to their seats, hurrying to get settled, because they don’t want to miss a minute of what’s coming.
I stand, shake out my legs.
I won’t sit again.
I try a jog down the hall. Not bad. The back is holding. All systems go.
Across the locker room I see Baghdatis. He’s suited up, fussing with his hair in front of a mirror. He’s flicking it, combing it, pulling it back. Wow, he has a lot of hair. Now he’s positioning his headband, a white Cochise wrap. He gets it perfect, then gives one last tug on his ponytail. A decidedly more glamorous pre-match ritual than cushioning your toe calluses. I remember my hair issues early in my career. For a moment I feel jealous. I miss my hair. Then I run a hand over my bare scalp and feel grateful that, with all the things I’m worried about right now, hair isn’t one of them.
Baghdatis begins stretching, bending at the waist. He stands on one leg and pulls one knee to his chest. Nothing is quite so unsettling as watching your opponent do pilates, yoga, and tai chi when you can’t so much as curtsy. He now maneuvers his hips in ways I haven’t dared since I was seven.
And yet he’s doing too much. He’s antsy. I can almost hear his central nervous system, a sound like the buzz of the stadium. I watch the interaction between him and his coaches, and they’re antsy too. Their faces, their body language, their coloring, everything tells me they know they’re in for a street fight, and they’re not sure they want it. I always like my opponent and his team to show nervous energy. A good omen, but also a sign of respect.
Baghdatis sees me and smiles. I remember that he smiles when he’s happy or nervous, and you can never tell which. Again, it reminds me of someone, and I can’t think who.
I raise a hand. Good luck.
He raises a hand. We who are about to die…
I duck into the tunnel for one last word with Gil, who’s staked out a corner where he can be alone but still keep an eye on everything. He puts his arms around me, tells me he loves me, he’s proud of me. I find Stefanie and give her one last kiss. She’s bobbing, weaving, stomping her feet. She’d give anything to slip on a skirt, grab a racket, and join me out there. My pugnacious bride. She tries a smile but it ends up a wince. I see in her face everything she wants to say but will not let herself say. I hear every word she refuses to utter: Enjoy, savor, take it all in, notice each fleeting detail, because this could be it, and even though you hate tennis, you might just miss it after tonight.
This is what she wants to say, but instead she kisses me and says what she always says before I go out there, the thing I’ve come to count on like air and sleep and Gil Water.
Go kick some butt.
AN OFFICIAL OF THE U.S. OPEN, wearing a suit and carrying a walkie-talkie as long as my forearm, approaches. He seems to be in charge of network coverage and on-court security. He seems to be in charge of everything, including arrivals and departures at LaGuardia. Five minutes, he says.
I turn to someone and ask, What time is it?
Go time, they say.
No. I mean, what time? Is it seven thirty? Seven twenty? I don’t know, and it suddenly feels important. But there are no clocks.
Darren and I turn to each other. His Adam’s apple goes up and down.
Mate, he says, your homework is done. You’re ready.
I nod.
He holds out his fist for a bump. Just one bump, because that’s what we did before my first-round win earlier this week. We’re both superstitious, so however we start a tournament, that’s how we finish. I stare at Darren’s fist, give it one decisive bump, but don’t dare lift my gaze and make eye contact. I know Darren is tearing up, and I know what that sight will do to me.
Last things: I lace up my shoes. I tape my wrist. I always tape my own wrist, ever since my injury in 1993. I tie my shoes.
Please let this be over.
I’m not ready for it to be over.
Mr. Agassi, it’s time.
I’m ready.
I walk into the tunnel, three steps behind Baghdatis, James again leading the way. We stop, wait for a signal. The buzzing sound all around us becomes louder. The tunnel is meat-locker cold. I know this tunnel as well as I know the front foyer of my house, and yet tonight it feels about fifty degrees colder than usual and a football field longer. I look to the side. There along the walls are the familiar photos of former champions. Navratilova. Lendl. McEnroe. Stefanie. Me. The portraits are three feet tall and spaced evenly—too evenly. They’re like trees in a new suburban development. I tell myself: Stop noticing such things. Time to narrow your mind, the way the tunnel narrows your vision.
The head of security yells, OK, everyone, it’s showtime!
We walk.
By careful prearrangement, Baghdatis stays three paces ahead as we move toward the light. Suddenly a second light, a blinding ethereal light, is in our faces. A TV camera. A reporter asks Baghdatis how he feels. He says something I can’t hear.
Now the camera is closer to my face and the reporter is asking the same question.
Could be your last match ever, the reporter says. How does that make you feel?
I
