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EVERYWHERE I GO, Parisians rush up and wish me luck. The tournament is the talk of the city. In restaurants and cafés, on the street, they yell my name, kiss my cheek, urge me onward. The story of my reception at the Springsteen concert has made the newspapers. The people, the press, are fascinated by my improbable run. Everyone can identify with it. They see something of themselves in my comeback, in my return from the dead.

It’s the night before the final and I’m sitting in my hotel room, watching TV. I shut it off. I go to the window. I feel sick. I think about this last year, these last eighteen months, these last eighteen years. Millions of balls, millions of decisions. I know this is my final chance to win the French Open, my final chance to win all four slams and complete the set, which means my final shot at redemption. The idea of losing scares me, and the thought of winning scares me nearly as much. Would I be grateful? Would I be worthy? Would I build on it—or squander it?

Also, Medvedev is never far from my thoughts. He has my game. I gave it to him. He even has my first name. Andrei. It’s going to be Andre versus Andrei. Me versus my doppelgänger.

Brad and Gil knock at the door.

Ready for dinner?

I hold the door open and tell them to come in for one second.

They stand just inside the door and watch me open the minibar. I pour myself a huge vodka. Brad’s mouth falls open as I down the drink in one gulp.

What the hell do you think—?

I’m sick nervous, Brad. I haven’t been able to eat a bite all day. I need to eat, and the only way I can eat is if I take the edge off.

Don’t worry, Gil says to Brad. He’s fine.

At least drink a big glass of water too, Brad says.

After dinner, when I get back to my room, I take a sleeping pill and slide into bed. I phone J.P. He says it’s early afternoon where he is.

What time is it there?

It’s late. It’s so very late.

How are you feeling?

Please, please, talk to me for a few minutes about anything but tennis.

Are you OK?

Anything but tennis.

OK. Well. Let’s see. How about I read you a poem? I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately.

Yeah. Good. Whatever.

He goes to his bookshelf, takes down a book. He reads softly.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I fall asleep without hanging up the phone.

GIL KNOCKS AT MY DOOR, dressed as if he’s meeting de Gaulle. He’s got the nice black sport coat, the creased black slacks—the black hat. And he’s wearing the necklace I gave him. I’m wearing the matching earring. Father, Son, Holy Ghost.

In the elevator he says: It’s going to be OK.

Yeah.

But it’s not OK. I know it during warm-ups. I’m soaked in sweat. I’m sweating as if I’m about to get married. I’m so overcome with nerves that my teeth are clicking. The sun is bright, which should make me happy, because the ball will be drier and lighter. But the warmth of the day is also making me sweat that much more.

As the match begins, I’m a sweat-soaked wreck. I’m making stupid mistakes, rookie mistakes, every kind of error and fuck-up you can make on a tennis court. It takes just nineteen minutes to lose the first set, 6–1. Medvedev, meanwhile, couldn’t look calmer. And why not?

He’s doing everything he’s supposed to do, everything I told him to do in Monte Carlo. He’s directing the pace, moving nimbly, ripping the backhand up the line whenever he chooses.

His game is cool, precise, pitiless. If I move in, if I try to take over a point by creeping forward, he hits a crushing backhand past me.

He’s wearing plaid shorts, as if we’re at the beach, and in fact he looks as if he’s frolicking on the Riviera. He’s fresh, vigorous, having a holiday. He could be out here for days and days and not get tired of this.

As the second set starts, dark clouds appear. Suddenly a light rain falls. Hundreds of umbrellas appear in the stands. Play is halted. Medvedev runs into the locker room, and I follow.

No one is in there. I walk up and down. Water drips from a faucet. The sound pings off the metal lockers. I sit on a bench, sweating, staring into an open locker.

In come Brad and Gil. Brad, wearing a white jacket and white hat, a stark contrast against Gil’s all-black ensemble, slams the door as hard as he can and yells, What’s going on?

He’s too good, Brad. He’s just too good. I can’t beat him. This fucker is six-five, serving bombs, never missing. He’s hurting me with his serve, he’s hurting me with his backhand, I can’t get back in the point on his serve. I don’t have this.

Brad says nothing. I think of Nick, standing in about the same spot, saying nothing to me during the rain delay when I lost to Courier eight years ago. Some things never change. Same elusive tournament, same queasy feeling, same callous reaction from my coach.

I yell at Brad: Are you kidding me? You’re going to pick this moment, of all moments, to decide not to talk? Of all times, this is the moment you’re finally going to shut the hell up?

He stares. Then starts screaming. Brad, who never raises his voice to anybody, comes apart.

What do you want me to say, Andre? What is it that you want me to say? You tell me he’s too good. How the fuck would you know? You can’t judge how he’s playing! You’re so confused out there, so blind with panic, I’m surprised you can even see him. Too good? You’re making him look good.

But—

Just start letting go. If you’re going to lose, at least lose on your own terms. Hit the fucking ball.

But—

And if you’re not sure where to hit it, here’s an idea. Just hit it to the same place he hits it.

If he hits a backhand crosscourt, you hit a backhand crosscourt. Just hit yours a little better.

You don’t have to be better than the whole fucking world, remember? You just have to be better than one guy. There isn’t one shot he has that you don’t have. Fuck his serve. His serve will break down when you start making your shots. Just hit. Just fucking hit. If we’re going to lose today, fine, I can live with it, but let’s lose on our terms. The last thirteen days, I’ve seen you lay it on the line. I’ve seen you rip it, under pressure, maim guys. So please stop feeling sorry for yourself, and stop telling me he’s too good, and for the love of God stop trying to be perfect! Just see the ball, hit the ball. Do you hear me, Andre? See the ball. Hit the ball. Make this guy deal with you. Make him feel you out there. You’re not moving. You’re not hitting. You may think you are, but trust me, you’re just standing there. If you’re going down, OK, go down, but go down with guns blazing. Always, always, always, go down with both guns blaaazing.

He opens a locker and slams it shut. The door flaps and clangs.

The referee appears.

We’re back on court, gentlemen.

Brad and Gil walk out of the locker room. I notice that as they slip through the door Gil gives Brad’s back a furtive pat.

I walk slowly onto the court. We have a brief warm-up, then resume play. I’ve forgotten the score. I have to look at the scoreboard to remind myself. Oh yes. I lead, 1–0, in the second set. But Medvedev is serving. I think again of the final against Courier in 1991, the rain delay that disrupted my rhythm. Maybe this will be payback. Tennis karma. Maybe, as that rain delay befuddled me, this rain delay will help me right myself.

But Medvedev is counting on his own Ukrainian karma. He picks up right where he left off, keeps the pressure on, forces me continually to retreat and play defense, which is not my game. The day is now heavily overcast, and damp, which seems to further strengthen Medvedev. He likes the pace slow. He’s an angry elephant, taking his sweet time, crushing me un-derfoot. In the first game after the delay, he serves the ball 120 miles an hour. Within seconds the score is even at 1–1.