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I’m letting people down if I don’t play. I’m letting my family down if I do.

He nods.

Why do tennis and life always seem opposed?

He says nothing.

We’ve done it, haven’t we? I mean, we’ve run the race—right? We’re at the end of this bullshit, no?

I can’t answer that, he says. I only know that there is still more inside you, and there is more inside me. If we walk away, fine. But we still have something left, and I think you promised yourself that you were going to see your game to the finish line.

On the first day of practice, hitting with Brad, I can’t make a serve to save my life. I walk off the court, and Brad knows not to ask. I go back to the hotel and lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling for two hours, knowing I’m not going to be in New York for long.

In the first round I play a Stanford student, Alex Kim, who’s sick with anxiety. I feel for him, but take him out in straight sets. In the second round I meet Clément. It’s a hot day and we both have a full sweat going before the first point. I start fine, break him, go ahead 3–1. All’s well. Then, suddenly, I’ve never played tennis before. In front of a packed house I disintegrate.

Again the sportswriters sound the old dirge. The end nears for Agassi. Gil tries to tell them what I’m going through. He says: Andre is fueled by his heart, emotions, and beliefs, and those he holds dearest to him. When all is not well you can see it in his actions.

On the way out of Arthur Ashe Stadium, a young girl says, I’m sorry you lost.

Oh honey, don’t be too sorry.

She smiles.

I HURRY HOME TO VEGAS, to spend time with my mother. But she’s untroubled, absorbed in her books and jigsaw puzzles, putting the rest of us to shame with her unshakable calm. I see that I’ve underestimated her through the years. I’ve mistaken her silence for weakness, acquiescence. I see that she is what my father made her, as we all are, and yet, beneath the surface, she’s so much more.

I also see that, in this perilous moment of her life, she’d like a little credit. I’ve always taken it for granted that my mother wanted to be taken for granted, that she wanted to blend into the woodwork. But what she wants right now is to be noticed, appreciated. She wants me to know that she’s stronger than I suspected. She’s getting her treatments, not complaining, and if she takes pride in this, if she wants me to be proud, she also wants me to know I’m made of the same stuff. She survived my father, as did I. She’ll survive this, and I will too.

Tami, getting treatment in Seattle, is also doing better. She’s had surgery, and before she starts chemotherapy she comes to Vegas to spend time with the family. She tells me she’s dreading the loss of her hair. I tell her I don’t know why. Losing my hair was the best thing that ever happened to me. She laughs.

She says maybe it would be a good idea to get rid of her hair before the cancer takes it.

An act of defiance, a seizing of control.

I like the sound of that, I say. I’ll help.

We arrange a barbecue at my house, and before everyone arrives we shut ourselves into a bathroom. With only Philly and Stefanie as witnesses, we hold a formal head-shaving ceremony. Tami wants me to do the honors. She hands me the electric shearer. I set the blade at 000, the tightest setting, and ask if she wants a mohawk first.

This might be your last chance to see how you look with one.

No, she says. Let’s just go for broke.

I shave her fast and close. She smiles like Elvis on the day he went into the Army. As her hair cascades to the floor, I tell her everything’s going to be great. You’re free now, Tami.

Free. Also, I tell her, at least your hair will grow back. With me and Philly—it’s gone forever, baby. She laughs and laughs, and it feels good to make my sister laugh when every day does its best to make her cry.

BY NOVEMBER 2000 MY FAMILY is sufficiently on the mend that I’m ready to train again.

In January we fly to Australia. I feel good when we land. I do love this place. I must have been an aborigine in another life. I always feel at home here. I always enjoy walking into Rod Laver Arena, playing under Laver’s name.

I bet Brad that I’m going to win the whole thing. I can feel it. And when I do, he will have to jump in the Yarra River—a fetid, polluted tributary that wends through Melbourne. I batter my way to the semis and face Rafter again. We play three hours of hammer-and-tong tennis, filled with endless I-grunt-you-grunt rallies. He’s ahead, two sets to one. Then he withers. The Australian heat. We’re both drenched with sweat, but he’s cramping. I win the next two sets.

In the final I face Clément, a grudge match four months after he knocked me out of the U.S. Open. I rarely leave the baseline. I make few mistakes, and those I do make, I put quickly behind me. While Clément is muttering to himself in French, I feel a serene calm. My mother’s son. I beat him in straight sets.

It’s my seventh slam, putting me tenth on the all-time list. I’m tied with McEnroe, Wilander, and others—one ahead of Becker and Edberg. Wilander and I are the only ones to win three Australian Opens in the open era. At the moment, however, all I care about is seeing Brad do the backstroke in the Yarra, then getting home to Stefanie.

WE SPEND THE EARLY PART of 2001 nesting at Bachelor Pad II, converting it from bachelor pad to proper home. We shop for furniture that we both like. We give small dinner parties. We talk late into the night about the future. She buys me a kitchen chalkboard, for honey-do lists, but I convert it into an Appreciation Board. I hang the board on the kitchen wall and promise Stefanie that every evening I’ll write something about my love for her—and the next evening I’ll wipe the board clean and write something new. I also buy a crate of 1989

Beychevelle and we promise to share a bottle every year on the anniversary of our first date.

At Indian Wells I reach the final and face Pete. I beat him, and in the locker room after the match he tells me he’s going to marry Bridgette Wilson, the actress he’s been dating.

I’m still allergic to actress, I say.

He laughs, but I’m not kidding.

He tells me he met her on the set of a movie—Love Stinks.

I laugh, but he’s not kidding.

There is much I want to say to Pete, about marriage, about actresses, but I can’t. Ours isn’t that kind of relationship. There is much I’d like to ask him—about how he stays so focused, about whether or not he regrets devoting so much of his life to tennis. Our different personalities, our ongoing rivalry, precludes such intimacy. I realize that despite the effect we’ve had on each other, despite our quasi-friendship, we’re strangers, and may always be. I wish him the best, and I mean it. To my mind, being with the right woman is true happiness.

After all the time I’ve spent putting together my so-called team, the only thing I want now is to feel like a valued member of Stefanie’s team. I hope he feels the same way about his fiancée.

I hope he cares as much about his place in her heart as he seems to care about his place in history. I wish I could tell him so.

An hour after the tournament, Stefanie and I give a tennis lesson. Wayne Gretzky bought us at a charity auction, and he wants us to teach his kids. We have fun with the Gretzkys.

Then, as darkness falls, we drive slowly back to Los Angeles. Along the way we talk about how cute the kids were. I think of the Costner kids.

Stefanie squints out the window, then at me. She says: I think I’m late.

What for?

Late.

Oh. You mean—oh!

We stop at several drugstores, buy every kind of pregnancy test on the shelves, then hole up at the Hotel Bel-Air. Stefanie goes into the bathroom, and when she comes out her expression is unreadable. She hands me the stick.