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He looks grim. After being my coach for six months, he’s made one tiny adjustment to my strings, and he may have inadvertently hastened my retirement. He promises that he’ll do everything in his power to find a combination of strings that’s just right.

Find something, I tell him, that lets me swing from my heels and get rewarded. Like Srichaphan. Make me like Srichaphan.

Done, mate.

He works night and day and comes up with a combination he likes. We go to Los Angeles, and it’s perfection. I win the Mercedes-Benz Cup.

We go to Cincinnati and I play well, just not well enough to win. Then in D.C. I beat Enqv-ist, always a tough matchup for me. I then face another kid who’s supposed to be the next big thing—twenty-two-year-old James Blake. He plays pretty, graceful tennis, and I’m not in his league, not today. He’s simply younger, faster, a better athlete. He also thinks enough of my history, my accomplishments, to bring his A game. I like that he comes out loaded for bear.

It’s flattering, even though it means I have no chance. The loss is nothing I can blame on my strings.

I go to the 2002 U.S. Open unsure what to expect from myself. I sail through the early rounds, and in the quarters I face Max Mirnyi, a Belarusian from Minsk. They call him the Beast, and it’s an understatement. He’s six foot five and hits a serve that’s among the scariest I’ve ever faced. It has a burning yellow tail, like a comet, as it arcs high above the net and then swoops down upon you. I have no answer for that serve. He wins the first set with beastly ease.

In the second set, however, Mirnyi makes several unforced errors, giving me a boost, a bit of momentum. I start to see his first serve a little better. We play high-quality tennis all the way to the finish, and when his last forehand flies long, I can’t believe it. I’m in the semis.

For my efforts I win a date with Hewitt, the number one seed, the winner of this year’s Wimbledon. More germane, he’s Darren’s former pupil. That Darren coached Hewitt for years adds an extra level of intensity and pressure. Darren wants me to beat Hewitt; I want to beat Hewitt for Darren. But in the first set I quickly fall behind, 0–3. I have all this information in my head about Hewitt, data from Darren and from past experience, but it takes a while to sort through the data and solve him. When I do, everything quickly changes. I storm back and win the first set, 6–4. I see the pilot light in Hewitt’s eyes go out. I win the second set. He rallies, wins the third. In the fourth set he suddenly can’t make a first serve, and I’m able to pounce on his second. Jesus, I’m in the final.

Which means Pete. As always, Pete. We’ve played thirty-three times in our careers, four times in slam finals. He’s got the overall edge, 19–14, and 3–1 in slam finals. He says I bring out the best in him, but I think he’s brought out the worst in me. The night before the final I can’t help but think of all the different times I thought I was going to beat Pete, knew I was going to beat Pete, needed to beat Pete, only to lose. And his success against me started right here, in New York, twelve years ago, when he stunned me in straight sets. I was the favorite then, as I am now.

Sipping Gil’s magic water before bed, I tell myself that this time will be different. Pete hasn’t won a slam in more than two years. He’s nearing the end. I’m just starting over.

I climb under the covers and remember a time in Palm Springs, several years ago. Brad and I were eating at an Italian restaurant, Mama Gina’s, and we saw Pete eating with friends on the other side of the dining room. He stopped by and said hello on his way out. Good luck tomorrow. You too. Then we watched him through the restaurant window, waiting for his car.

We said nothing, each of us thinking of the difference he’d made in our lives. As Pete drove away I asked Brad how much he thought Pete tipped the valet.

Brad hooted. Five bucks, tops.

No way, I said. The guy’s got millions. He’s earned forty mil in prize money alone. He’s got to be good for at least a ten spot.

Bet?

Bet.

We ate fast and rushed outside. Listen, I told the valet, give us the absolute truth: How much did Mr. Sampras tip you?

The kid looked at his feet. He didn’t want to tell. He was weighing, wondering if he was on a hidden-camera show.

We told the kid we had a bet riding on this, so we absolutely were insisting he tell us. Finally he whispered: You really want to know?

Shoot.

He gave me a dollar.

Brad put a hand on his heart.

But that’s not all, the kid said. He gave me a dollar—and he told me to be sure to give it to whichever kid actually brought his car around.

We could not be more different, Pete and I, and as I fall asleep the night before perhaps our final final, I vow that the world will see our differences tomorrow.

WE GET A LATE START, thanks to a New York Jets game that goes into overtime, delay-ing the TV broadcast, and this favors me. I’m in better shape, and I like that we’re going to be out on the court until midnight. But I immediately fall behind two sets. Another drubbing at the hands of Pete—I cannot believe this is happening.

Then I notice Pete looking wrung out. And old. I win the third set by a mile, and the whole stadium can feel the momentum slide my way. The crowd is crazy. They don’t care who wins, they just want to see an Agassi-Sampras five-setter. As the fourth set gets under way I know, deep in my heart, as I always know with Pete, that if I can get this thing to a fifth set, I’ll win.

I’m fresher. I’m playing better. We’re the oldest players to meet in the U.S. Open final in more than thirty years, but I’m feeling like one of the teenagers who have lately been kicking ass on tour. I feel like part of the new generation.

A private word with Pete Sampras after the final of the 2002

U.S. Open

At 3–4, Pete is serving, and I have two break points. If I win this game I’ll serve for the set. So this is it, the game of the match. He locks in, saves the first, and on the second break point I hit a scorching return at his shoes. I think the ball is well behind him—I’m already celebrating—but somehow he turns and finds it and hits a half-volley that flops and dies on my side of the net. Deuce.

I’m spooked. Pete closes out the game, then goes on to break me.

Now he’s serving for the match, and when Pete serves for a match, he’s a coldblooded killer. Everything happens very fast.

Ace. Blur. Backhand volley, no way to reach it.

Applause. Handshake at the net.

Pete gives me a friendly smile, a pat on the back, but the expression on his face is unmistakable. I’ve seen it before.

Here’s a buck, kid. Bring my car around.

27

I OPEN MY EYES SLOWLY. I’m on the floor beside my bed. I sit up to say good morning to Stefanie, then realize she’s in Vegas and I’m in St. Petersburg. No, wait—St. Petersburg was last week.

I’m in Paris.

No, Paris was after St. Petersburg.

I’m in Shanghai. Yes, that’s right, China.

I go to the window, draw back the curtains. A skyline designed by someone on mush-rooms. A skyline that looks like a sci-fi Vegas. Every building is crazily different, and all set against a hard blue sky. It doesn’t matter where I am, strictly speaking, because parts of me are still in Russia and France and the last dozen places I’ve played. And the biggest part of me, as always, is home with Stefanie and Jaden.

No matter where I am, however, the tennis court is the same, and so is the goal—I want to be number one at the end of 2002. If I can put together a win here in Shanghai, one little win, I’ll be the oldest year-end number one in men’s tennis history, breaking Connors’s record.