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This ubiquitous slogan, and the wave of hostility and criticism and sarcasm it sets off, is excruciating. I feel betrayed—by the advertising agency, the Canon execs, the sportswriters, the fans. I feel abandoned. I feel the way I did when I arrived at the Bollettieri Academy.

The ultimate indignity, however, is when people insist that I’ve called myself an empty image, that I’ve proclaimed it, simply because I spoke the line in a commercial. They treat this ridiculous throwaway slogan as if it’s my Confession, which makes as much sense as arresting Marlon Brando for murder because of a line he uttered in The Godfather.

As the ad campaign widens, as this insidious slogan creeps its way into every article about me, I change. I develop an edge, a mean streak. I stop giving interviews. I lash out at linesmen, opponents, reporters—even fans. I feel justified, because the world is against me, the world is trying to screw me. I’m becoming my father.

When crowds boo, when they yell, Image is everything, I yell back. As much as you don’t want me here, that’s how much I don’t want to be here! In Indianapolis, after a particularly bad loss, and a sonorous booing, a reporter asks me what went wrong. You didn’t seem like yourself today, he says with a smile that isn’t a smile. Something bothering you?

I tell him, in so many words, to kiss my ass.

No one counsels me that you should never snap at reporters. No one bothers to explain that snapping, baring your fangs, makes reporters more rabid. Don’t show them fear, but don’t show them your fangs, either. Even if someone were to give me this sensible advice, I don’t know that I could take it.

Instead I hide. I act like a fugitive, and my accomplices in seclusion are Philly and J.P. We go every night to an old coffee shop on the Strip, a place called the Peppermill. We drink bottomless cups of coffee and eat slabs of pie and talk and talk—and sing. J.P. has made the leap from pastor to composer-musician. He’s moved to Orange County and rededicated his life to music. Along with Philly we belt out our favorite songs until the other customers at the Peppermill turn and stare.

J.P. is also a frustrated comedian, a devotee of Jerry Lewis, and he slips in and out of slapstick routines that leave Philly and me weak from laughter. We then try to out-slapstick J.P. We dance around the waitress, crawl along the floor, and eventually the three of us are laughing so hard that we can’t breathe. I laugh more than I’ve laughed since I was a boy, and even though it’s tinged with hysteria, the laughter has healing properties. For a few hours, late at night, laughter makes me feel like the old Andre, whoever that is.

10

NOT FAR FROM MY FATHER’S HOUSE is the sprawling concrete campus of the University of Nevada–Las Vegas, which in 1989 is gaining a reputation for its sports teams. The basketball squad is a powerhouse, with NBA-ready stars, and the football team is vastly improved. The Runnin’ Rebels are known for their speed and superb conditioning. Plus, they’re the Rebels—that’s my kind of mascot. Pat says there might be someone at UNLV who can help me get in shape when he’s not in town.

We drive to the campus one day and make our way to the gym, a new building that I find as daunting as the Sistine Chapel. So many perfect bodies. So many full-grown men. I’m five foot eleven, 148 pounds, and my Nike clothes hang off me. I tell myself this was a mistake.

Apart from feeling woefully undersized, I still feel edgy in a school, any kind of school.

Pat, who am I kidding? I don’t belong here.

We’re here, he says, spitting.

We find the office of the school’s strength coach. I tell Pat to wait, I’ll go in and talk to the guy. I poke my head in the doorway, and there, across the office, in the far corner, behind a desk the size of my Corvette, I see a real-life giant. He looks like the statue of Atlas fronting Rockefeller Center, which I saw during my first U.S. Open, except this Atlas has long black hair and black eyes as large and round as the weights neatly stacked in the gym. He looks as if he’ll flatten the first person who disturbs him.

I jump back through the doorway.

You go, Pat.

He walks in. I hear him say something. I hear a deep baritone rumble in response. It sounds like a truck engine. Then Pat calls to me.

I hold my breath and again go through the doorway.

Hello, I say.

Hello, the giant says.

Um, yeah, well, my name is Andre Agassi. I play tennis, and uhh, I live here in Vegas, and—

I know who you are.

He stands. He’s six feet tall, with a chest at least fifty-six inches around. For a moment I think he might tip the desk over in anger. Instead he comes around from behind and extends his hand. The largest hand I’ve ever seen. A hand that goes with his shoulders, biceps, and legs, also record-setters in my personal experience.

Gil Reyes, he says.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Reyes.

Call me Gil.

OK. Gil. I know you must be very busy. I don’t want to take up your time. I was just wondering—that is, Pat and I were wondering—if we could talk to you about using your facilities now and then. I’m really struggling to improve my conditioning.

Sure, he says. His voice makes me think of the bottom of the ocean and the core of the earth. But it’s also a voice as soft as it is deep.

He shows us around, introduces us to several student-athletes. We talk about tennis, basketball, the differences, the similarities. Then the football team walks in.

Excuse me, Gil says. I need to speak with the fellas. Make yourself at home. Use whatever machines or weights you want to use. But please, be careful. And be discreet.

Technically speaking, you know, it’s against the rules.

Thank you.

Pat and I do a few bench presses, leg lifts, sit-ups, but I’m more interested in watching Gil.

The football players gather before him and gaze up at him with awe. He’s like a Spanish general addressing his conquistadors. He gives them their orders. You—take this bench.

You—grab that machine. You—that squat rack. While he’s speaking, no one looks away. He doesn’t demand their attention, he simply compels it. Lastly, he tells them to gather round, closer, reminds them that hard work is the answer, the only answer. Everyone bring it in.

Hands together. One two three—Rebels!

They break, then fan out and hit the weights. I’m reminded how much better off I’d be on a team.

· · ·

PAT AND I GO BACK to the gym at UNLV every day, and while doing curls and bench presses I can feel Gil keeping tabs on us. I sense that he’s noting my bad form. I sense that the other athletes are noticing too. I feel amateurish, and often want to leave, but Pat always stops me.

After a few weeks, Pat needs to fly back east. Family emergency. I knock at the door to Gil’s office and tell him that Pat is gone, but he left a regimen for me to follow. I hand Gil the piece of paper with Pat’s regimen and ask if he might be willing to help me go through it.

Sure, Gil says. But he sounds put-upon.

With each exercise, Gil arches an eyebrow. He looks over Pat’s regimen, turns the paper in his hands, frowns. I encourage him to tell me what’s on his mind, but he only frowns more deeply.

He asks, What’s the point of this exercise?

I’m not sure.

Tell me again, how long have you been doing this?

Long time.

I beg him to speak his mind.

I don’t want to step on anybody’s toes, he says. I don’t want to speak out of turn. But I can’t lie to you: if somebody can write down your routine on a piece of paper, it isn’t worth the piece of paper it’s written on. You’re asking me to put you through a workout here that leaves no room for where you are, how you’re feeling, what you need to focus on. It doesn’t allow for change.