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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.

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.