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Becker, he says.

What?

This is what he said after beating you at Wimbledon.

What do I care?

He’s talking shit.

What kind of shit?

He reads.

Becker used his post-match news conference to complain that Wimbledon promotes me over other players. He complained that Wimbledon officials unfairly bend over backward to schedule my matches on Centre Court. He complained that all major tournaments kiss my ass. Then he got personal. He called me an elitist. He said that I don’t associate with other players. He said that I’m not well liked on the tour. He said I’m not open, and if I were open, maybe other players wouldn’t fear me so much.

In short, he issued a declaration of war.

Brad has never cared for Becker. Brad has always called him B. B. Socrates, because he thinks Becker tries to come off as an intellectual, when he’s just an overgrown farmboy. But Brad is now so incensed that he can’t sit still in our booth at the Tombs.

Andre, he says, it is so fucking on. Mark my words. We’re going to run into this motherfucker again. We’re going to run into him at the U.S. Open. And until then, we’re going to prepare, train, plot revenge.

I read Becker’s quotes again. I can’t believe it. I knew the guy didn’t like me, but this. I look down and find that I’m clenching and unclenching my fist.

Brad says, Do you hear? I want you to take—this—fucker—OUT.

Consider it done.

We clink our beer bottles, swear an oath.

What’s more, I tell myself, after Becker I’m going to keep on winning. I’m simply not going to lose anymore. At least not until the frost is on the pumpkin. I’m sick of losing, sick of being disappointed, sick and tired of guys disrespecting my game as much as I do.

AND SO THE SUMMER OF 1995 becomes the Summer of Revenge. Running on pure animosity I steamroll through the D.C. tournament. In the final I face Edberg. I’m the better player, but it’s well over one hundred degrees, and such extreme heat is a great equalizer. In this heat, all men are the same. At the start of our match I can’t think, can’t find a groove.

Luckily, Edberg can’t either. I win the first set, he wins the second, and in the third set I go up 5–2. The fans cheer—those fans who aren’t suffering heatstroke. The match is stopped several times so that someone in the stands can receive medical attention.

I’m serving for the match. At least that’s what they tell me. I’m also hallucinating. I don’t know what game I’m playing. Is this Nerf ping-pong? I’m supposed to hit this fuzzy yellow ball back and forth? To whom? My teeth are chattering. I see three balls come across the net, and I hit the middle one.

My only hope is that Edberg is hallucinating too. Maybe he’ll black out before I do and I’ll win in a forfeit. I wait, watch him closely, but then I take a turn for the worse. My stomach clinches. He breaks me.

Now he’s serving. I call time, step away, and toss my breakfast onto a decorative planter at the back of the court. When I resume my position, Edberg has no trouble holding serve.

I’m serving again for the match. We rally, weakly, each of us hitting timid shots in the center of the court, like ten-year-old girls playing badminton. He breaks me—again.

Five–all. I drop my racket and stumble off the court.

There’s an unwritten rule, or maybe it’s actually written, that if you leave the court with your racket, you forfeit. So I drop the racket, to let people know I’m coming back. In my delirious state, I still care about the rules of tennis, but I also care about the rules of physics. What goes down, in this heat, must come up, and soon. I vomit several times on my way to the locker room. I run to the toilet and bring up a meal I had days ago. Maybe years ago. I feel as if I’m going into shock. At last the locker room’s air-conditioning, plus the total purge of my stomach, starts to revive me.

The referee knocks at the door.

Andre! You’re going to lose points if you don’t return to the court right now.

Stomach empty, head spinning, I return. I break Edberg. I have no idea how. Then I hold on for the match.

I stumble to the net, where Edberg is leaning, close to fainting. We both have a hard time staying on court for the ceremony. When they hand me the trophy I think about vomiting into it. They hand me a microphone, to say a few words, and I think about vomiting on it too. I apologize for my behavior, especially to the people sitting by the ill-used flowerpot. I want to publicly suggest that officials consider relocating this tournament to Iceland, but I need to vomit again. I drop the microphone and run.

Brooke asks why I didn’t just quit.

Because it’s the Summer of Revenge.

After the match Tarango publicly objects to my behavior. He demands an explanation for why I left the court. He says that he was waiting to get on to play his doubles match, and I delayed him. He’s annoyed. I’m delighted. I want to go back to the court, find the flowerpot, have it gift-wrapped and sent to Tarango, with a note that says, Call this out, cheater.

I never forget. Something Becker is about to learn the hard way.

From D.C. I go to Montreal, where it’s blessedly cooler. I beat Pete in the final. Three hard-fought sets. Beating Pete always feels good, but this time it barely registers. I want Becker. I beat Chang in the final at Cincinnati, praise God, and then go to New Haven, back into the blast furnace of the Northeast summer. I reach the final and face Krajicek. He’s big, six foot five at least, and burly, and yet surprisingly light on his feet. Two strides and he’s there at the net, snarling, ready to snack on your heart. Also, his serve is monstrous. I don’t want to spend three hours coping with that serve. After winning three tournaments in quick succession, I have very little left. Brad, however, won’t tolerate such talk.

You’re in training, remember? The grudge match to end all grudge matches? Let it fly, he says.

So I let it fly. The problem is, Krajicek does too. He beats me in the first set, 6–3. In the second set he has match point twice. But I don’t yield. I tie the set, win the tiebreak, and win the third set going away. It’s my twentieth straight match victory, my fourth straight tournament victory. I’ve won sixty-three of seventy matches this year, forty-four of forty-six on hard court. Reporters ask if I feel invincible, and I say no. They think I’m being modest, but I’m telling the truth. It’s how I feel. It’s the only way I can allow myself to feel in the Summer of Revenge. Pride is bad, stress is good. I don’t want to feel confident. I want to feel rage. Endless, all-consuming rage.

ALL THE TALK ON THE TOUR is about my rivalry with Pete, largely because of a new Nike ad campaign, including a popular TV commercial in which we hop out of a cab in the middle of San Francisco, set up a net, and go at it. The New York Times Sunday Magazine publishes a long profile about the rivalry and the chasm between our personalities. It describes Pete’s absorption in tennis, his love of the game. I wonder what the writer would have made of the chasm if he’d known my true feelings about tennis. If only I’d told him.

I set the story aside. I pick it up again. I don’t want to read it. I must. It feels odd, unnerv-ing, because Pete isn’t uppermost in my thoughts right now. Day and night, I think of Becker, only Becker. And yet, skimming the article, I wince when Pete is asked what he likes about me.

He can’t think of anything.

Finally he says: I like the way he travels.

AT LAST, AUGUST COMES. Gil and Brad and I drive to New York for the 1995 U.S.

Open. On our first morning at Louis Armstrong Stadium I see Brad in the locker room, holding the draw in his hands.