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In the quarters I face Kafelnikov, the Russian who likened me to Jesus. I sneer at him across the net as the match begins: Jesus is about to whip you with a car antenna. I know I can beat Kafelnikov. He knows it too. It’s written all over his face. But early in the first set, I lunge for a ball and feel something snap. My hip flexor. I ignore it, pretend it didn’t happen, pretend I don’t have a hip, but the hip sends lines of pain up and down my leg.

I can’t bend. I can’t move. I ask for the trainer, who gives me two aspirin and tells me there’s nothing he can do. His eyes are the size of poker chips when he tells me.

I lose the first set. Then the second. In the third I rally. I’m up 4–1, the crowd urging me onward. Allez, Agassi! But I grow less mobile with every minute. Kafelnikov, moving well, ties the set, and I feel my limbs go slack. It’s another Russian crucifixion. Au revoir, Grail. I walk off the court without collecting my rackets.

The real test wasn’t supposed to be Kafelnikov. It was supposed to be Muster, the hair-musser who’s been dominating on clay. So even if I’d gotten by Kafelnikov I don’t know how hobbled I would have been against Muster. But I promised Muster I’d never lose to him again, and I meant it, and I liked my chances. I think no matter who was on the other side of that net, I could have done something great. As I leave Paris I don’t feel defeated; I feel cheated. This was it, I just know. My last chance. Never again will I be in Paris feeling so strong, so young.

Never again will I inspire such fear in the locker room.

My golden opportunity to win all four slams is gone.

Brooke has already flown home ahead of me, so it’s just Gil and me on the flight, Gil talking softly about how we’re going to treat the flexor, how we’re going to adjust after what we’ve just put ourselves through, and get ready for what’s coming—grass. We spend a week in Vegas, doing nothing but watching movies and waiting for my hip to mend. An MRI tells us the damage isn’t permanent. Cold comfort.

We fly to England. I’m the number one seed at the 1995 Wimbledon, because I’m still ranked number one in the world. Fans greet me with an enthusiasm and glee that clash sharply with my mood. Nike has been here ahead of time, priming the pump, handing out Agassi Kits—adhesive sideburns, Fu Manchu mustaches, and bandanas. This is my new look. I’ve morphed from pirate to bandit. It’s surreal, as always, to see guys trying to look like me, and as always it’s even a bit more surreal to see girls trying. Girls with Fu Manchus and sideburns—it almost makes me crack a smile. Almost.

It rains every day, but still the fans mob Wimbledon. They brave the rain, the cold, they line up all the way down Church Road, for the love of tennis. I want to go out there and stand with them, question them, find out what makes them love it so much. I wonder what it would be like to feel such passion for the game. I wonder if the fake Fu Manchus stay on in the rain, or if they disintegrate like my old hairpieces.

I win my first two matches easily, and then beat Wheaton in four sets. The big news of that day, however, is Tarango, who lost, then fought with an umpire before leaving the court. Then Tarango’s wife slapped the umpire. One of the great scandals in Wimbledon history. Instead of facing Tarango, therefore, I’ll face Alexander Mronz, from Germany. Reporters ask me which opponent I would have preferred, and I badly want to tell the story of Tarango cheating when I was eight. I don’t, however. I don’t want to get in a public spat with Tarango, and I fear making an enemy of his wife. I say the diplomatic thing, that it doesn’t matter whom I play, even though Tarango was the more dangerous threat.

I beat Mronz in three easy sets.

In the semis I face Becker. I’ve beaten him the last eight times we’ve played. Pete has already moved on to the final and he’s awaiting the winner of Agassi-Becker, which is to say he’s awaiting me, because every slam final is beginning to feel like a standing date between me and Pete.

I take the first set from Becker, no problem. In the second set I jump out to a 4–1 lead.

Here I come, Pete. Get ready, Pete. Then, just like that, Becker begins to play a rougher, brawnier game. He wins several scrappy points. After chipping at my confidence with a tiny nail he now pulls out a sledgehammer. He plays from the baseline, an unusual tactic for him, and flat outmuscles me. He breaks me, and though I’m still up 4–2, I feel something snap. Not my hip—my mind. I’m suddenly unable to control my thoughts. I’m thinking of Pete, waiting.

I’m thinking of my sister Rita, whose husband, Pancho, just lost a long bout with stomach cancer. I’m thinking of Becker, still working with Nick, who, tanner than ever, the color of prime rib, sits above us in Becker’s box. I wonder if Nick has told Becker my secrets—for instance, the way I’ve figured out Becker’s serve. (Just before he tosses the ball, Becker sticks out his tongue and it points like a tiny red arrow to where he’s aiming.) I’m thinking of Brooke, who’s been shopping at Harrods this week with Pete’s girlfriend, a law student named DeLaina Mul-cahy. All these thoughts go crashing through my mind, making me feel scattered, fractured, and this allows Becker to capture the momentum. He never gives it back. He wins in four sets.

The loss is one of the most devastating of my life. Afterward, I don’t say a word to anyone.

Gil, Brad, Brooke—I don’t speak to them because I can’t. I am broken, gut-shot.

BROOKE AND I ARE DUE TO FLY AWAY on a vacation. We’ve been planning it for weeks. We wanted someplace remote, with no phones, no other people, so we booked Indigo Island, 150 miles from Nassau. After the Wimbledon debacle, I want to cancel, but Brooke reminds me we’ve secured the entire island, our deposit is nonrefundable.

Besides, it’s supposed to be paradise, she says. It will be good for us.

I frown.

Just as I feared, from the moment we arrive, paradise feels like Super-max. On the entire island there is one house, and it’s not big enough for the three of us—Brooke, me, and my black mood.

Brooke lies in the sun and waits for me to speak. She’s not frightened by my silence, but she doesn’t understand it, either. In her world, everyone pretends, whereas in mine some things can’t be pretended away.

After two days of silence I thank her for being so patient, and tell her I’m back.

I’m going to go for a jog on the beach, I say.

I start at a leisurely pace, then find myself running hundred-meter sprints. I’m already thinking about getting in shape, reloading for the hard courts of summer.

I GO TO WASHINGTON, D.C. The Legg Mason Tennis Classic. The weather is obscenely hot. Brad and I try to get acclimated to the heat by practicing in the middle of the afternoon.

When we’re done, fans gather and shout questions. Few of the other players hang around talking to fans, but I do. I like it. For me, fans are always preferable to reporters.

After we’ve signed the last autograph and answered the last question, Brad says he needs a beer. He looks sly. Something’s up. I take him to the Tombs, the place Perry and I frequented when I visited him during his Georgetown days. The bar has a miniature street door, then a narrow staircase down into damp darkness and a smell of unclean bathrooms. It also has one of those open kitchens, so you can watch the cooks, and while that’s a good thing at some places, it’s not a plus at the Tombs. We find a booth and order drinks. Brad is put out because they don’t have Bud Ice. He settles for Bud. I feel tremendous after the workout, relaxed, fit. I haven’t thought of Becker in almost twenty minutes. Brad puts a stop to that. From the inside pocket of his black cashmere pullover he removes a wad of papers, and in an agit-ated way he drops them on the table.