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The next morning, sportswriters trash me. I quit. I tanked. I didn’t care. It almost seems as if they’re angry with me. And I know why. As a result of my loss, they now have to deal with Chang for one more day.

I don’t watch the final on TV when Pete beats Chang in straight sets. But I do read about it. Every article says matter-of-factly that Pete is the best player of his generation.

AS THE YEAR WINDS DOWN I go to Munich, where the boos are deafening. I lose to Mark Woodforde, whom I beat 6–0, 6–0, two short years ago. Brad is apoplectic. He begs me to tell him what’s wrong.

I don’t know.

Tell me, man. Tell me.

I would if I could.

We agree that I should rest, pull out of the Australian Open.

Go home, he says. Get some rest. Spend some time with your fiancée. That’ll cure whatever ails you.

20

BROOKE AND I BUY A HOUSE in Pacific Palisades. It’s not the house I wanted. I had my heart set on a big rambling farmhouse with a family room off the kitchen. But she loved this one, so here we are, living in a multilevel, French Country knockoff set against the side of a cliff. It has no flow, and it feels sterile, the ideal house for a childless couple who plan to spend lots of time in different rooms.

The real estate agent gushed about the breathtaking views of the skyline. In the fore-ground is Sunset Boulevard. At night I can see the Holiday Inn where I stayed after our first date. Many nights I stare at the hotel and wonder what would have happened if I’d kept driving, if I’d never phoned Brooke again. I decide that the view from our new house is better when fog or smog prevents me from seeing that Holiday Inn.

At the close of 1996 we throw a combination housewarming–New Year’s Eve party, invite the gang from Vegas and Brooke’s Hollywood friends. We confer with Gil about security. After a new batch of scary letters, we have to guard against intruders, so Gil spends most of the night standing at the foot of the driveway, screening people as they arrive. McEnroe shows up, and I kid him about getting past Gil. He sits on the deck, talking tennis, my least favorite topic these days, so I drift in and out. I spend the night mixing margaritas, watching J.P. slap his drums with a steel Buddy Rich–type brush, and sitting before the fireplace. I stoke it, feed it, stare deep into the flames. I tell myself that 1997 is going to be better than 1996. I vow that 1997 is going to be my year.

BROOKE AND I ARE AT THE GOLDEN GLOBE AWARDS when I get a call from Gil. His twelve-year-old daughter, Kacey, has been in an accident. She was snow sledding on a church trip at Mt. Charleston, an hour north of Vegas, and went straight into a frozen snow-bank. She broke her neck. I leave Brooke and fly to Vegas, arriving at the hospital in my tuxedo. I find Gil and Gaye in the hallway, looking as if they’re barely hanging on. We hug, and they tell me it’s bad, very bad. Kacey’s going to need surgery. Doctors say there’s a chance she’ll be paralyzed.

We spend days at the hospital, talking to doctors, trying to keep Kacey comfortable. Gil needs to go home, get some sleep. He’s out on his feet, but he won’t leave, he’s going to stand guard over his daughter. I get an idea. I have a big pimped-out minivan, which I bought from Perry’s father. It has a satellite dish and a foldout bed. I park it right outside the hospital, outside the front door, and I tell Gil: Now, when visiting hours are over, you don’t have to go home, you can just go downstairs and catch a few hours’ shut-eye in the back of your new van. And, since it’s all metered parking in front of the hospital, I’ve filled the van’s cup holders with quarters.

Gil gives me a strange look, and I realize it’s the first time that he and I have ever switched roles. For a few days, it’s me making him stronger.

WHEN THE HOSPITAL releases Kacey a week later the doctors say she’s out of the woods. Her surgery was a success and she’ll be up and around in no time. Still, I want to follow her home, stick around Vegas, see how she recovers.

Gil won’t hear of it. He knows I’m due in San Jose.

I tell Gil I’m going to pull out of the tournament.

Absolutely not, he says. There’s nothing to do now but wait and pray. I’ll phone you with updates. Go. Play.

I’ve never had an argument with Gil, and I won’t let this be the first. Reluctantly I go to San Jose and play my first match in three months. I face Mark Knowles, one of my old roommates at the Bollettieri Academy. After a solid doubles career he’s trying to break into the singles bracket. He’s a great athlete, but I shouldn’t have any trouble with him. I know his game better than he knows it himself. And yet he takes me to a third set. Even though I win, it’s not an easy win, so it sticks in my craw. I hack my way through the tournament, seemingly on a collision course with Pete, but I falter in the semis against Greg Rusedski, from Canada. My mind hurries back to Vegas, hours ahead of my body.

I’M AT THE BACHELOR PAD, watching TV with Slim, my assistant. I’m in a bad way.

Kacey isn’t doing well, and the doctors don’t know why. Gil is on the brink. Meanwhile, my wedding looms. I think all the time about postponing it, or calling it off altogether, but I don’t know how.

Slim is stressed too. He was with his girlfriend recently, he says, and the condom broke.

Now, she’s late. During a commercial he stands up and announces that there’s only one thing to do. Get high.

He says, You want to get high with me?

High?

Yeah.

On what?

Gack.

What the hell’s gack?

Crystal meth.

Why do they call it gack?

Because that’s the sound you make when you’re high. Your mind is going so fast, all you can say is gack, gack, gack.

That’s how I feel all the time. What’s the point?

Make you feel like Superman, dude. I’m telling you.

As if they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth, someone standing directly behind me, I hear these words: You know what? Fuck it. Yeah. Let’s get high.

Slim dumps a small pile of powder on the coffee table. He cuts it, snorts it. He cuts it again. I snort some. I ease back on the couch and consider the Rubicon I’ve just crossed.

There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria that sweeps away every negative thought in my head, every negative thought I’ve ever had.

It’s a cortisone shot to the subcortex. I’ve never felt so alive, so hopeful—and above all, I’ve never felt such energy. I’m seized by an urge, a desperate desire to clean. I go tearing around my house, cleaning it from top to bottom. I dust the furniture. I scour the tub. I make the beds.

I sweep the floors. When there’s nothing left to clean, I do laundry. All the laundry. I fold every sweater and T-shirt and still I haven’t made a dent in my energy. I don’t want to sit down. If I had table silver I’d polish it. If I had leather shoes I’d shine them. If I had a giant jug of coins I’d roll them into paper wrappers. I look high and low for Slim—he’s out in the garage, taking apart the engine of his car and putting it together again. I tell him I could do anything right now, anything, man, anything, anything, any-fuckingthing. I could get in the car and drive to Palm Springs and play eighteen holes, then drive home and make lunch and go for a swim.

I don’t sleep for two days. When I finally do, it’s the sleep of the dead and the innocent.

· · ·

PLAYING WEEKS LATER, I struggle against Scott Draper. Left-handed, talented, he’s a good player, but I’ve beaten him soundly in the past. I shouldn’t have any trouble with him, and yet he’s cleaning my clock. I’m so far from being able to beat Draper, in fact, I honestly wonder if it was me who beat him the last time. How could I have been that much better such a short time ago? He’s outplaying me in every phase of the game.