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It’s not rocket science, he says. If I were you, with your skills, your talent, your return and footwork, I’d dominate. But you’ve lost the fire you had when you were sixteen. That kid, taking the ball early, being aggressive, what the hell happened to that kid?

Brad says my overall problem, the problem that threatens to end my career prema-turely—the problem that feels like my father’s legacy—is perfectionism.

You always try to be perfect, he says, and you always fall short, and it fucks with your head. Your confidence is shot, and perfectionism is the reason. You try to hit a winner on every ball, when just being steady, consistent, meat and potatoes, would be enough to win ninety percent of the time.

He talks a mile a minute, a constant drone, not unlike a mosquito. He builds his argument with sports metaphors, from all sports, indiscriminately. He’s an avid sports fan, and an equally avid metaphor fan.

Quit going for the knockout, he says. Stop swinging for the fences. All you have to be is solid. Singles, doubles, move the chains forward. Stop thinking about yourself, and your own game, and remember that the guy on the other side of the net has weaknesses. Attack his weaknesses. You don’t have to be the best in the world every time you go out there. You just have to be better than one guy. Instead of you succeeding, make him fail. Better yet, let him fail. It’s all about odds and percentages. You’re from Vegas, you should have an appreciation of odds and percentages. The house always wins, right? Why? Because the odds are stacked in the house’s favor. So? Be the house! Get the odds in your favor. Right now, by trying for a perfect shot with every ball, you’re stacking the odds against yourself. You’re assuming too much risk. You don’t need to assume so much risk. Fuck that. Just keep the ball moving.

Back and forth. Nice and easy. Solid. Be like gravity, man, just like motherfucking gravity.

When you chase perfection, when you make perfection the ultimate goal, do you know what you’re doing? You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist. You’re making everyone around you miserable. You’re making yourself miserable. Perfection? There’s about five times a year you wake up perfect, when you can’t lose to anybody, but it’s not those five times a year that make a tennis player. Or a human being, for that matter. It’s the other times. It’s all about your head, man. With your talent, if you’re fifty percent game-wise, but ninety-five percent head-wise, you’re going to win. But if you’re ninety-five percent game-wise and fifty percent head-wise, you’re going to lose, lose, lose. Again, since you’re from Vegas, put it this way. It takes twenty-one sets to win a slam. That’s all. You need to win just twenty-one sets. Seven matches, best of five. That’s twenty-one. In tennis, like cards, twenty-one’s a winner. Blackjack! Focus on that number, and you won’t go wrong. Simplify, simplify. Every time you win a set, say to yourself, That’s one down. That’s one in my pocket. At the start of a tournament, count backward from twenty-one. That’s positive thinking, see? Of course, speaking for myself, when I’m playing blackjack, I’d rather win with sixteen, because that’s winning ugly. No need to win with twenty-one. No need to be perfect.

He’s been speaking for fifteen minutes. Perry and I haven’t interrupted, haven’t glanced at each other, haven’t sipped our wine. At last Brad drains his second beer and announces: Where’s the head in this place? I have to take a leak.

The moment he’s gone I tell Perry: That’s our guy.

Absolutely.

When Brad returns, the waiter comes for our order. Brad asks for penne arrabbiata with grilled chicken and mozzarella.

Perry orders chicken parmesan. Brad looks at Perry with disgust. Bad call, he says.

The waiter stops writing.

What you want to do, Brad says, is order a chicken breast, separate, then order all your mozzarella and sauce on the side. See, that way the chicken breast is fresh, not soggy, plus you can control your chicken-to-cheese-and-sauce ratio.

Perry thanks Brad for the menu coaching, but says he’ll stick with his order. The waiter looks to me. I point at Brad and say: I’ll have whatever he’s having.

Brad smiles.

Perry clears his throat and says, So Brad. Would you have any interest in maybe becoming Andre’s coach?

Brad thinks it over. For three seconds. Yeah, he says. I think I’d like that. I think I can help you.

I ask, When can we start?

Tomorrow, Brad says. I’ll meet you on the courts at ten in the morning.

Huh. Well. That might a problem. I never play before one.

Andre, he says, we start at ten.

I’M LATE, OF COURSE. Brad looks at his watch.

Thought we said ten?

Man, I don’t even know what ten a.m. means.

We start hitting, and Brad starts talking. He doesn’t stop, as though the hours between last night’s monologue and this morning’s workout have been a mere intermission. He’s picking apart my game, anticipating and analyzing my shots as I make them. The main point he stresses is the backhand up the line.

The second you get a chance to take a backhand up the line, he says, you’ve got to do it.

That’s your money shot. That’s your equity shot. You can pay a lot of bills with that shot.

We play a few games, and he stops every other point to come to the net and tell me why I just did the dumbest possible thing.

What’d you do that for? I know it’s a killer shot, but every shot doesn’t have to be killer.

Sometimes the best shot is a holding shot, an OK shot, a shot that gives the other guy a chance to miss. Let the other guy play.

I like the way this feels. I respond to Brad’s ideas, his enthusiasm, his energy. I find peace in his claim that perfectionism is voluntary. Perfectionism is something I chose, and it’s ruining me, and I can choose something else. I must choose something else. No one has ever said this to me. I’ve always assumed perfectionism was like my thinning hair or my thickened spinal cord. An inborn part of me.

After a light midday meal I put my feet up, watch TV, read the papers, sit under a shade tree—then go out and win my match against Mark Petchey, a British kid my age. My next match is against Becker, who’s now being coached by Nick. After saying publicly that he couldn’t imagine coaching any of my rivals, Nick is now coaching one of my archrivals. In fact, Nick’s sitting in Becker’s box. Becker is serving big, as always, 135 miles an hour, but with Nick in his corner, I’m juiced with adrenaline and able to handle anything he dishes up. And Becker knows it. He stops competing and plays to the crowd. Down a set and a break, he hands his racket to the ballgirl as if to say: Here, you can do as well as I’m doing.

I’m thinking: Yes, let her play, I’ll beat the both of you.

After dispatching Becker, I’m in the final. My opponent? Pete. As always, Pete.

The match is slated for national TV. Brad and I are both keyed up as we walk into the locker room, only to find Pete lying on the ground. A doctor and a trainer are leaning over him.

The tournament director hovers in the background. Pete brings his knees up to his chest and groans.

Food poisoning, the doctor says.

Brad whispers to me, Guess you just won Key Biscayne.

The director takes Brad and me aside and asks if we’d be willing to give Pete time to recover. I feel Brad stiffen. I know what he wants me to say. But I tell the director, Give Pete all the time he needs.

The director sighs and puts his hand on my arm. Thank you, he says. We’ve got fourteen thousand people out there. Plus the network.

Brad and I lounge around the locker room, flipping channels on the TV, making phone calls. I dial Brooke, who’s auditioning for Grease on Broadway. Otherwise, she’d be here.