Open Read Free

the wall of the shower and let go.
    I GIVE MYSELF STRICT ORDERS as I shave: Take it one point at a time. Make him work for everything. No matter what happens, hold your head up. And for God’s sake enjoy it, or at least try to enjoy moments of it, even the pain, even the losing, if that’s what’s in store.
    I think about my opponent, Marcos Baghdatis, and wonder what he’s doing at this moment. He’s new to the tour, but not your typical newcomer. He’s ranked number eight in the world. He’s a big strong Greek kid from Cyprus, in the middle of a superb year. He’s reached the final of the Australian Open and the semis of Wimbledon. I know him fairly well. During last year’s U.S. Open we played a practice set. Typically I don’t play practice sets with other players during a Grand Slam, but Baghdatis asked with disarming grace. A TV show from Cyprus was doing a pieceabout him, and he asked if it would be all right if they filmed us practicing. Sure, I said. Why not? I won the practice set, 6–2, and afterward he was all smiles. I saw that he’s the type who smiles when he’s happy or nervous, and you can’t tell which. It reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who.
    I told Baghdatis that he played a little like me, and he said it was no accident. He grew up with pictures of me on his bedroom wall, patterned his game after mine. In other words, tonight I’ll be playing my mirror image. He’ll play from the back of the court, take the ball early, swing for the fences, just like me. It’s going to be toe-to-toe tennis, each of us trying to impose our will, each of us looking for chances to smoke a backhand up the line. He doesn’t have an overwhelming serve, nor do I, which means long points, long rallies, lots of energy and time expended. I brace myself for flurries, combinations, a tennis of attrition, the most brutal form of the sport.
    Of course the one stark difference between me and Baghdatis is physical. We have different bodies. He has my former body. He’s nimble, fast, spry. I’ll have to beat the younger version of myself if I am to keep the older version going. I close my eyes and say: Control what you can control.
    I say it again, aloud. Saying it aloud makes me feel brave.
    I shut off the water and stand, shivering. How much easier it is to be brave under a stream of piping hot water. I remind myself, however, that hot-water bravery isn’t true bravery. What you feel doesn’t matter in the end; it’s what you do that makes you brave.
    S TEFANIE AND THE KIDS RETURN . Time to make the Gil Water.
    I sweat a lot, more than most players, so I need to begin hydrating many hours before a match. I down quarts of a magic elixir invented for me by Gil, my trainer for the last seventeen years. Gil Water is a blend of carbs, electrolytes, salt, vitamins, and a few other ingredients Gil keeps a closely guarded secret. (He’s been tinkering with his recipe for two decades.) He usually starts force-feeding me Gil Water the night before a match, and keeps forcing me right up to match time. Then I sip it as the match wears on. At different stages I sip different versions, each a different color. Pink for energy, red for recovery, brown for replenishment.
    The kids love helping me mix Gil Water. They fight over who gets toscoop out the powders, who gets to hold the funnel, who gets to pour it all into plastic water bottles. No one but me, however, can pack the bottles into my bag, along with my clothes and towels and books and shades and wristbands. (My rackets, as always, go in later.) No one but me touches my tennis bag, and when it’s finally packed, it stands by the door, like an assassin’s kit, a sign that the day has lurched that much closer to the witching hour.
    At five, Gil rings from the lobby.
    He says, You ready? Time to throw down. It’s on, Andre. It’s
on
.
    Nowadays everyone says
It’s on
, but Gil has been saying it for years, and no one says it the way he does. When Gil