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In the first set, it’s me feeling Moyá. I lose the set fast. In the second set I fall down two breaks. I’m not playing my game. I’m not doing anything Brad said to do. I look up at my box and Brad screams: Come on! Let’s go!

Back to basics. I make Moyá run. And run. I establish a sadistic rhythm, chanting to myself: Run, Moyá, run. I make him run laps. I make him run the Boston Marathon. I win the second set, and the crowd is cheering. In the third set I run Moyá more than I’ve run the last three opponents combined, and suddenly, all at once, he’s cooked. He wants no part of this.

He didn’t sign on for anything like this.

As the fourth set opens, I’m oozing confidence. I hop up and down. I want Moyá to see how much energy I’ve got left. He sees, and he sighs. I put him away and sprint to the locker room. Brad gives me a fist bump that almost breaks my fist.

In the hotel elevator, I feel Gil staring again.

Gil, what is it?

I have a feeling.

What feeling?

I feel like you’re on a collision course.

With what?

Destiny.

I’m not sure I believe in destiny.

We’ll see. We can’t build a fire in the rain …

WE HAVE TWO DAYS OFF. Two days to relax and think about something besides tennis.

Brad discovers that Springsteen is in our hotel. He’s playing a concert in Paris. Brad suggests we attend. He scores us three seats, down front.

At first I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to go out and paint Paris red. But the TV has mostly news about the tournament, which isn’t good for my mood either. I remember the tennis official who mocked my playing a challenger, comparing it to Springsteen playing a corner bar. Yes, I say. Let’s take the night off. Let’s go see the Boss.

Brad, Gil, and I enter the arena a few seconds before Springsteen comes onstage. As we run down the aisle, several people spot me and point. A man yells my name. Andre! Allez, Andre! A few more men take up the cry. We slip into our seats. A spotlight scans the crowd—and suddenly lands on us. Our faces appear on the giant video screen above the stage. The crowd roars. They begin to chant: Allez, Agassi! Allez, Agassi! Some sixteen thousand people—about the same number as the crowd at Roland Garros—are chanting, cheering, stomping their feet. Allez, Agassi! It has a lilt the way they chant it, a bouncing rhythm like a children’s nursery rhyme. Deet-deet, da da da. It’s contagious. Brad chants too. I stand, wave. I’m honored. Inspired. I wish I could play the next match right now. Here. Allez, Agassi!

I stand once more, my heart in my throat. Then, at last, the Boss comes on.

IN THE QUARTERS I face Marcelo Filippini, from Uruguay. The first set is easy. The second set is easy. I run him, he crumbles. Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run. I enjoy this as much as winning—cutting the legs out from under my opponents, seeing the many years with Gil pay dividends in one concentrated two-week span. I win the third set without any resistance from Filippini, 6–0.

You’re maiming guys! Brad shouts. Oh my God, Andre, you’re freaking maiming them.

I’m in the semis. My opponent is Hrbaty, who just whooped me in Key Biscayne, when I was in a stupor over Steffi. I win the first set, 6–4. I win the next set, 7–6. Clouds roll in. A light drizzle starts to fall. The ball is getting heavier, which keeps me from playing offense. Hrbaty takes advantage and wins the third set, 6–3. In the fourth he goes up 2–1, and a match that I had won is slipping, slipping away. He’s down a set, but clearly he’s seized the momentum. I feel as if I’m just hanging on.

I look to Brad. He points to the skies. Stop the match.

I signal the supervisor and umpire. I point to the clay, which is mud. I tell them I’m not playing under these conditions. It’s dangerous. They examine the mud like miners panning for gold. They confer. They halt play.

At dinner with Gil and Brad, I’m in a foul mood because I know the match was turning against me. Only the rain saved me. Otherwise we’d be at the airport right now. And now I can’t believe I have all night to stew over the match, to worry about tomorrow.

I stare at my food, silent.

Brad and Gil discuss me as if I’m not at the table.

He’s OK physically, Gil says. He’s in fine condition. So give him a good speech, Brad.

Coach him up.

What do you want me to say?

Think of something.

Brad takes a swig of beer and turns to me. OK, Andre. Look. Here’s the deal. I need twenty-eight minutes from you tomorrow.

What?

Twenty-eight minutes. It’s a sprint through the tape. You can do it. You’ve got five games to win, that’s all, and that shouldn’t take any more than twenty-eight minutes.

The weather. The ball.

The weather is going to be fine.

They’re saying rain.

No, it’s going to be fine. Just give us twenty-eight great minutes.

Brad knows my mind, the way it works. He knows that order, specificity, a clear and precise goal, are like candy to me. But does he also know the weather? For the first time it crosses my mind that Brad isn’t a coach but a prophet.

Back at the hotel, Gil and I squeeze into the elevator.

It’s going to be OK, Gil says.

Yeah.

Before bed, he forces me to drink my Gil Water.

I don’t want to.

Drink it.

When I’m so hydrated that I’m pissing pure cottony white, he lets me go to sleep.

The next day I come out tight. Down 1–2 in the fourth, serving, I fall behind two break points. No, no, no. I fight back to deuce. I hold. The set is now tied. Having averted disaster, I’m suddenly loose, happy. It’s so typical in sports. You hang by a thread above a bottomless pit. You stare death in the face. Then your opponent, or life, spares you, and you feel so blessed that you play with abandon. I win the fourth set and the match. I’m in the final.

My first look is to Brad, who’s excitedly pointing to his watch and the digital play clock on the court.

Twenty-eight minutes. On the dot.

· · ·

MY OPPONENT IN THE FINAL is Andrei Medvedev, from Ukraine, which is not possible.

It’s simply not possible. Just months ago, in Monte Carlo, Brad and I bumped into Medvedev in a nightclub. He’d suffered a heartbreaking loss that day and was drinking to numb the pain.

We invited him to join us. He threw himself into a chair at our table and announced that he was quitting tennis.

I can’t play this fucking game anymore, he said. I’m old. The game has passed me by.

I talked him out of it.

How dare you, I said. Here I am, twenty-nine, injured, divorced, and you’re bitching about being washed up at twenty-four? Your future is bright.

My game is shit.

So? Fix it.

He asked me for tips, pointers. He asked me to analyze his game, just as I’d once asked Brad to analyze mine. And I was Brad-esque. I was brutally honest. I told Medvedev he had a huge serve, a big return, and a world-class backhand. His forehand was not his best shot, of course, that was no secret, but he could hide it, because he was big enough to push opponents around.

You’re a good mover! I shouted. Get back to the basics. Keep moving, slam your first serve, and rip the backhand up the line.

Ever since that night he’s followed my advice to the letter and he’s been on fire. He’s been winning consistently on the tour and dominating guys in this tournament. Each time we’ve bumped into each other in the locker room, or around Roland Garros, we’ve exchanged sly winks and waves.

I never once dreamed we were on a collision course.

So Gil was wrong. I haven’t been on a collision course with destiny, but with a fire-breathing dragon that I helped to build.