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Then he breaks me. Then he holds, then breaks me again, going on to win the second set with remarkable ease, 6–2.

In the third set, we hold serve through five games. Suddenly, inexplicably, for the first time in the match, I break him. I’m ahead, 4–2. I hear gasps and murmurs in the crowd.

But Medvedev breaks me right back. He holds and knots the set at 4–all.

The sun reappears. It’s shining brightly, and the clay begins to dry. The pace of play picks up considerably. I’m serving, and at 15–all we play a frantic point, which I win with a beautiful backhand volley. Now, at 30–15, I hear Brad telling me to see the ball, hit the ball. I let it fly. I cut loose my first serve with an extra loud grunt. Out. I hurry the second serve. Out again.

Double fault. 30–30.

So. There you have it. I’m still going to lose—Medvedev is now just six points from the championship—but I’m going to lose on Brad’s terms instead of mine.

I serve again. Out. I stubbornly refuse to take anything off the second serve. Out again.

Two double faults in a row.

Now it’s 30–40. Break point. I walk in circles, squeezing my eyes, on the verge of tears. I need to pull myself together. I toe the line, toss the ball into the air, and miss yet another serve. I’ve now missed five straight serves. I’m falling apart. I’m one missed serve away from Medvedev serving for the French Open.

He leans in, ready to obliterate this second serve. As a returner you’re always guessing about your opponent’s psyche, and Medvedev knows my psyche is in tatters after missing five serves in a row. He’s guessing, therefore, with a high degree of certainty, that I won’t have the stomach to be aggressive. He expects a nice soft kick serve. He thinks I have no other choice. He steps up, well inside the baseline, sending me a message that he anticipates a softie, and when he gets hold of it he’s going to ram it down my throat. He wears a look on his face that unmistakably says: Go ahead, bitch. Be aggressive. I dare you.

This moment is the crucial test for both of us. This is the turning point in the match, perhaps in both of our lives. It’s a test of wills, of heart, of manhood. I toss the ball in the air and refuse to back down. Contrary to Medvedev’s expectations, I serve hard and aggressive to his backhand. The ball takes a wicked skidding bounce. Medvedev stretches out and shovels the ball to the center of the court. I hit a forehand behind him. He gets there, hits a backhand at my feet. I bend, play an awkward forehand volley that lands on the line, he shovels it over the net, and then I tap it ever so lightly back over, where it dies, a huge winner for such a soft shot.

I go on to hold serve.

I have a bounce in my step as I walk to my chair. The crowd is going crazy. The momentum hasn’t shifted, but it’s twitched. That was Medvedev’s moment, and he missed it, and I think I can see on his face that he knows it.

Allez, Agassi! Allez!

One good game, I think. Play one good game, and you’ll have won a set, and then at least you can walk out of here holding your head up.

The clouds have blown away. The sun has dried the clay hard and the pace is now lightning fast. I catch Medvedev sneaking a worried look at the sky as we retake the court. He wants those rain clouds to return. He wants no part of this blazing sun. He’s starting to sweat.

His nostrils are flaring. He looks like a horse—like a dragon. You can beat the dragon. He falls behind love–40. I break him and win the third set.

Now we play on my terms. I move Medvedev side to side, hit the ball big, do everything Brad said to do. Medvedev is a step slower, notably distracted. He’s had too long to think about winning. He was five points away, five points, and it’s haunting him. He’s going over and over it in his mind. He’s telling himself, I was so close. I was there. The finish line! He’s living in the past, and I’m in the present. He’s thinking, I’m feeling. Don’t think, Andre. Hit harder.

In the fourth set, I break him again. Then we settle into a dogfight. We play good solid tennis, each of us sprinting and grunting and digging deep. The set could go either way. But I have one distinct advantage, a secret weapon I can pull out any time I need a point—my net play. Everything I do at the net is working, and it’s clearly troubling Medvedev, messing with his head. He becomes skittish, almost paranoid. If I merely pretend to rush the net, he flinches. I jump, he lunges.

I win the fourth set.

I break him early in the fifth set and go up 3–2. It’s happening. It’s turning. The thing that should have been mine in 1990 and 1991 and 1995 is coming around again. I’m up 5–3. He’s serving, 40–15. I have two match points. I need to win this thing right now, or I’m going to have to serve out the match, and I don’t want that. If I don’t win this thing right now, maybe I don’t win at all. If I don’t win this thing right now, I’ll be in Medvedev’s shoes, haunted by how close I was. If I don’t win this thing right now, I’ll have to think about the French Open in my old age, in my rocking chair, mumbling about Medvedev with a plaid blanket over my legs.

I’ve already obsessed about this tournament for the last ten years. I can’t bear the idea of obsessing about it for another eighty. After all this work and sweat, after this improbable comeback and this miraculous tournament, if I don’t win this thing right now, I’ll never be happy, truly happy, again. And Brad will have to be institutionalized. The finish line is close enough to kiss. I feel it pulling me.

Medvedev wins both match points. He staves off death. We’re back to deuce. I win the next point, however. Match point, again.

I yell at myself: Now. Now. Win this now.

But he wins the next point, then wins the game.

The changeover takes an eternity. I mop my face with a towel. I look at Brad, expecting him to be disconsolate, as I am. But his face is determined. He holds up four fingers. Four more points. Four points equals all four slams. Come on! Let’s go!

If I’m going to lose this match, if I’m doomed to live with withering regret, it won’t be because I didn’t do what Brad said. I hear his voice in my ear: Go back to the well.

Medvedev’s forehand is the well.

We walk onto the court. I’m going to hit everything to Medvedev’s forehand, and he knows I’m going to. On the first point he’s tight, tentative on a passing shot up the line. He puts the ball into the net.

He wins the next point, however, when I net my running forehand.

Suddenly I rediscover my serve. Out of nowhere I uncork a big first serve that he can’t handle. He hits a tired forehand that flies long. I hit my next first serve, even bigger, and he nets a forehand.

Championship point. Half the crowd is yelling my name, the other half is yelling, Ssssh. I hit another sizzling first serve, and when Medvedev steps to the side and takes a chicken-wing swing, I’m the second person to know that I’ve won the French Open. Brad is the first. Medvedev is third. The ball lands well beyond the baseline. Watching it fall is one of the great joys of my life.

I raise my arms and my racket falls on the clay. I’m sobbing. I’m rubbing my head. I’m terrified by how good this feels. Winning isn’t supposed to feel this good. Winning is never supposed to matter this much. But it does, it does, I can’t help it. I’m overjoyed, grateful to Brad, to Gil, to Paris—even to Brooke and Nick. Without Nick I wouldn’t be here. Without all the ups and downs with Brooke, even the misery of our final days, this wouldn’t be possible. I even reserve some gratitude for myself, for all the good and bad choices that led here.

I walk off the court, blowing kisses in all four directions, the most heartfelt gesture I can think of to express the gratitude pulsing through me, the emotion that feels like the source of all other emotions. I vow that I will do this from now on, win or lose, whenever I walk off a tennis court. I will blow kisses to the four corners of the earth, thanking everyone.