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Brad shoots me an evil glare.

Relax, I tell him, Pete probably won’t get better.

The doctor gives Pete an IV, then props him on his feet. Pete wobbles, a newborn colt.

He’ll never make it.

The tournament director comes to us.

Pete’s ready, he says.

Fucking A, Brad says. So are we.

Should be a short night, I tell Brad.

But Pete does it again. He sends his evil twin onto the court. This is not the Pete who was curled in a ball on the locker-room floor. This is not the Pete who was getting an IV and wobbling in circles. This Pete is in the prime of life, serving at warp speed, barely breaking a sweat. He’s playing his best tennis, unbeatable, and he jumps out to a 5–1 lead.

Now I’m angry. I feel as if I found a wounded bird, brought it home, and nursed it back to health, only to have it try to peck my eyes out. I fight back and win the set. Surely I’ve with-stood the only attack Pete can mount. He can’t possibly have anything left.

But in the second set he’s even better. And in the third he’s a freak. He wins the best-of-three match.

I burst into the locker room. Brad is waiting for me, seething. He says again that if he’d been in my place, he’d have forced Pete to forfeit. He’d have demanded that the director fork over the winner’s check.

That’s not me, I tell Brad. I don’t want to win like that. Besides, if I can’t beat a guy who’s poisoned, lying on the ground, I don’t deserve it.

Brad abruptly stops talking. His eyes get big. He nods. He can’t argue with that. He respects my principles, he says, even though he doesn’t agree.

We walk out of the stadium together like Bogart and Claude Rains at the end of Casab-lanca. The beginning of a beautiful friendship. A vital new member of the team.

THEN THE TEAM goes on an epic losing streak.

Adopting Brad’s concepts is like learning to write with my left hand. He calls his philosophy Bradtennis. I call it Braditude. Whatever the hell it’s called, it’s hard. I feel as if I’m back in school, not comprehending, longing to be somewhere else. Again and again Brad says I need to be consistent, steady, like gravity. He says this over and over: Be like gravity. Constant pressure, weighing down your opponent. He tries to sell me on the joy of winning ugly, the virtue of winning ugly, but I only know how to lose ugly. And think ugly. I trust Brad, I know his advice is spot on, I do everything he says—so why am I not winning? I’ve given up perfectionism—so why am I not perfect?

I go to Osaka, lose again to Pete. Instead of gravity, I’m like flubber.

I go to Monte Carlo and lose to Yevgeny Kafelnikov—in the first round.

To add insult to injury, Kafelnikov is asked at the post-match news conference how it felt to beat me, since so many fans were cheering for me.

Difficult, Kafelnikov says, because Agassi is like Jesus.

I don’t know what he means, but I don’t think it’s a compliment.

I go to Duluth, Georgia, lose to MaliVai Washington. Afterward, in the locker room, I feel crushed. Brad appears, smiling. Good things, he says, are about to happen.

I stare, incredulous.

He says, You have to suffer. You have to lose a shitload of close matches. And then one day you’re going to win a close one and the skies are going to part and you’re going to break through. You just need that one breakthrough, that one opening, and after that nothing will stop you from being the best in the world.

You’re crazy.

You’re learning.

You’re nuts.

You’ll see.

I GO TO THE 1994 FRENCH OPEN and play five vicious sets with Thomas Muster. Down 1–5 in the fifth set, something happens. I always hear Brad’s philosophy in my head, but now it’s coming from inside, not outside. I’ve internalized it, the way I once did my father’s voice. I claw back and tie the set at 5. Muster breaks me. He’s serving for the match. Still, I get the game to 30–40, I have hope. I’m on my toes, ready, but he hits a backhand I can’t handle. I reach, hit it wide.

Match, Muster.

At the net he rubs my head, musses my hair. Apart from being condescending, his gesture nearly dislodges my hairpiece.

Good try, he says.

I stare at him with pure hatred. Big mistake, Muster. Don’t touch the hair. Don’t ever touch the hair. Just for that, I tell him at the net, I’ll make you a promise. I’ll never lose to you again.

In the locker room Brad congratulates me.

Good things, he says, are about to happen.

What?

He nods. Trust me—good things.

Clearly he doesn’t understand the pain that losing causes me. And when someone doesn’t understand, there’s no point trying to explain.

At the 1994 Wimbledon I reach the fourth round but lose a nail-biter to Todd Martin. I’m wounded, frightened, disappointed. In the locker room Brad smiles and says: Good things.

We go to the Canadian Open. Brad shocks me at the start of the tournament. Good things, he says, are not about to happen. On the contrary, he sees a few very bad things on the horizon.

He’s looking over my draw. NG, he says.

What the hell does NG mean?

Not Good. You got a terrible draw.

Let me see that.

I snatch the paper from his hands. He’s right. My first match is a gimme, against Jakob Hlasek, from Switzerland, but in the second round I’ll get David Wheaton, who always gives me a host of problems. Still, I love few things more than low expectations. Just tell me I can’t do something. I inform Brad that I’m going to win the whole thing.

And when I do, I add, you have to get an earring.

I don’t like jewelry, he says.

He thinks about it.

OK, he says. Done, and done.

THE COURT AT THE CANADIAN OPEN feels impossibly small, which makes the opponent look bigger.

Wheaton is a big guy, but here in Canada he looks ten feet tall. It’s an optical illusion, but still, I feel as if he’s standing two inches from my face. Distracted, I find myself down two match points in the third-set tiebreak.

Then, wholly out of character, I pull myself together. I shake off all distractions and optical illusions and fight back and win. I do what Brad said I would do. I win a close one. Later I tell Brad, That’s the match you said I’d win. That’s the match you said would change things.

He smiles as if I just sat down in a restaurant all by myself and ordered the chicken parm with the chicken breast separate from the sauce and cheese. Very good, Grasshopper. Wax on, wax off.

My game speeding up, my mind slowing down, I storm through the rest of the draw and win the Canadian Open.

Brad chooses a diamond stud.

GOING INTO THE 1994 U.S. OPEN, I’m number twenty, therefore unseeded. No unseeded player has won the U.S. Open since the 1960s.

Brad likes it. He says he wants me unseeded. He wants me to be the joker in the deck.

You’ll play someone tough in the early rounds, he says, and if you beat them, you’ll win this tournament.

He’s sure of it. So sure, he vows to shave his entire body when I do. I’m always telling Brad he’s too hairy. He makes Sasquatch look like Kojak. He needs to trim that chest, those arms—and those eyebrows. Either trim them or name them.

Trust me, I tell him, you shave that chest and you’ll feel things you’ve never felt before.

Win the U.S. Open, he says, and so will you.

Because of my low ranking, I’m under the radar at this U.S. Open. (I’d be more under the radar if Brooke weren’t on hand, setting off a photo shoot each time she turns her head.) I’m all business, and I dress the part. I wear a black hat, black shorts, black socks, black-and-white shoes. But at the start of my first-rounder, against Robert Eriksson, I feel the old brittle nerves. I feel sick to my stomach. I fight through it, thinking of Brad, refusing to entertain any thought of perfection. I concentrate on being solid, letting Eriksson lose, and he does. He sends me sailing into the second round.