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He didn’t know where to start. I told him to start at the beginning.

My life changed a year ago, he said. My father died. He was killed. Murdered, you know.

I’m so sorry.

After that, I really lost my way. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

His eyes grew cloudy with tears.

Then I came to this school, he said. And it gave me direction. It gave me hope. It gave me a life. So I’ve been keeping an eye out for you, Mr. Agassi, and when you came by, I had to introduce myself and tell you—you know. Thanks.

I hugged him. I told him that it was I who needed to thank him.

IN THE UPPER GRADES, the focus is squarely on college. The kids are told again and again that Agassi Prep is only a stepping-stone. Don’t get comfortable, we tell them. College is the main goal. Should they happen to forget, reminders are everywhere. College banners line the walls. A main hallway is named College Street. A metal sky bridge between the two main buildings has never been used, and never will be used, until the first seniors receive their diplomas and embark for college in 2009. Walking across that bridge, the seniors will enter a secret room, sign their names in a ledger, and leave notes to the next class, and the next, and all senior classes to come. I can see myself addressing that first senior class. I’m already working with J.P. and Gil, obsessing over my speech.

My theme, I think, will be contradictions. A friend suggests I brush up on Walt Whitman.

Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself.

I never knew this was an acceptable point of view. Now I steer by it. Now it’s my North Star. And that’s what I’ll tell the students. Life is a tennis match between polar opposites. Winning and losing, love and hate, open and closed. It helps to recognize that painful fact early.

Then recognize the polar opposites within yourself, and if you can’t embrace them, or reconcile them, at least accept them and move on. The only thing you cannot do is ignore them.

Visiting with a group of students at the Andre Agassi College Preparatory Academy

What other message could I hope to deliver? What other message could they expect from a ninth-grade dropout whose proudest accomplishment is his school?

IT’S STOPPED RAINING, Stefanie says.

Come on, I say. Let’s go!

She pulls on a tennis skirt. I throw on some shorts. We drive to the public court down the street. In the little pro shop, the teenage girl behind the counter is reading a gossip magazine.

She looks up, and her chewing gum almost falls out.

Hello, I say.

Hi.

Are you open?

Yeah.

Could we rent a court for an hour?

Um. Yeah.

How much does it cost?

Fourteen dollars.

OK.

I hand her the money.

She says, You can have center court.

We walk downstairs to a mini amphitheater, where a blue tennis court is surrounded by metal bleachers. We set down our bags, side by side, then stretch and groan, teasing each other about how long it’s been.

I rummage in my bag for wristbands, tape, gum.

Stefanie says, Which side do you want?

This one.

I knew it.

She hits a forehand softly. I creak like the Tin Man as I lumber toward it, then punch it back. We have a gentle, tentative rally, and suddenly Stefanie laces a backhand up the line that sounds like a freight train going by. I shoot her a look. It’s going to be like that, is it?

She hits a Stefanie Slice to my backhand. I sit down on my legs and cane it, hard as I can.

I yell to her, That shot has paid a lot of bills for us, baby!

She smiles and blows a lock of hair from her eyes.

Our shoulders loosen, our muscles warm. The pace quickens. I strike the ball clean, hard, and my wife does the same. We shift from hitting without purpose to playing crisp points. She hits a wicked forehand. I hit a screaming backhand—into the net.

First backhand crosscourt I’ve missed in twenty years. I stare at the ball, lying against the net. For a moment it bothers me. I tell her it bothers me. I feel myself getting irritated.

Then I laugh, and Stefanie laughs, and we begin again.

With every swing she’s visibly happier. Her calf is feeling good. She thinks she’ll be fine in Tokyo. Now that she’s not worried about the injury, we can play, really play. Soon we’re having so much fun that when the rain comes, we don’t notice. When the first spectator arrives, we don’t notice him either.

One by one, more arrive. Faces appear throughout the bleachers, as one person presum-ably phones another person, who phones two more people, to tell them we’re out here, on a public court, playing for nothing but pride. Like Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed after the lights are off and the gym is locked.

The rain falls harder. But we ain’t stopping. We’re going all-out. The people who show up now have cameras. Flashes go off. They seem unusually bright, reflected and magnified by the raindrops. I don’t care, and Stefanie doesn’t notice. We’re not fully conscious of anything but the ball, the net, each other.

A long rally. Ten strokes. Fifteen. It ends with me missing. The court is strewn with balls. I scoop up three, put one in my pocket.

I yell to Stefanie, Let’s both come back! What do you say?

She doesn’t answer.

You and me, I say. We’ll announce it this week!

Still no answer. Her concentration, as usual, puts mine to shame. In the same way that she wastes no movement on the court, she never wastes words. J.P. points out that the three most influential people in my life—my father, Gil, Stefanie—aren’t native English speakers.

And with all three, their most powerful mode of communication may be physical.

She’s engrossed in each shot. Each shot is important. She never tires, never misses. It’s a joy to watch her, but also a privilege. People ask what it’s like, and I can never think of the perfect word, but that word comes close. A privilege.

I miss again. She squints, waits.

I serve. She returns, then gives the Stefanie wave, as if swatting a mosquito, meaning she’s done. Time to pick up Jaden.

She walks off the court.

Not yet, I tell her.

What? She stops, looks at me. Then she laughs.

OK, she says, backpedaling to the baseline. It makes no sense, but it’s who I am, and she understands. We have things to do, wonderful things. She can’t wait to go and get started, and neither can I. But I also can’t help it.

I want to play just a little while longer.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THIS BOOK would not exist without my friend J. R. Moehringer.

It was J.R., before we even met, who first made me think seriously about putting my story on paper. During my final U.S. Open, in 2006, I spent all my free time reading J.R.’s stagger-ing memoir, The Tender Bar. The book spoke to my heart. I loved it so much, in fact, that I found myself rationing it, limiting myself to a set number of pages each night. At first The Tender Bar was a crucial distraction from the difficult emotions at the end of my career, but gradually it added to the overall anxiety, because I feared the book would run out before the career did.

Just after my first-round match, I phoned J.R. and introduced myself. I told him how much I admired his work, and I invited him to Vegas for dinner. We hit it off right away, as I knew we would, and that first dinner led to many more. Eventually I asked J.R. if he’d consider working with me, helping me tackle my own memoir and give it shape. I asked him to show me my life through a Pulitzer Prize–winner’s lens. To my surprise, he said yes.

J.R. moved to Las Vegas and we got right to it. We have the same work ethic, the same obsessive all-or-nothing approach to big goals. We met each day and developed a strict routine—after wolfing down a couple of burritos, we’d talk for hours into J.R.’s tape recorder.