Some mornings ago, I received an unusual email from someone I’d been communicating with regarding the US Open: “Could we have a conversation on your mobile at 4pm? Something incredible might be within reach.” That “something,” as revealed, was an opportunity to play—for 30 minutes solo—with the two-time US Open victor (and eight-time Grand Slam winner, Olympic gold medal recipient, Hall of Fame inductee, and an all-round legendary figure) Andre Agassi on the next morning at 7, in the Arthur Ashe Stadium, at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, which is otherwise known as the most prominent venue at the Open—followed by a breakfast and a discussion in the Emirates Suite in Ashe.
Even pondering about it felt absurd: Although I’ve engaged in playing tennis for many years, I’m also several years distant from my short period of competing on the midwestern boys’ junior circuit. Nowadays, I’m an extremely average weekly player constantly on the brink of, you know, trying to get myself back into top condition. I absolutely delight in finding the rhythm on a powerful, big-finish crosscourt topspin forehand, I relish playing a few sets with companions, but I detest the idea of exposing myself to even a local club competition. Acting purely on innate instinct, everything in my being urged me to decline this (admittedly astonishing) chance.
Emotionally, I discerned I was experiencing a sort of reversal of the seven stages of grief, fixated on a peculiar kind of frustration at this unique opportunity landing on my doorstep. Not one of the numerous performers I’ve interviewed had ever suggested I step in front of the lens and recite lines, or leap through a window in a big chase sequence; none of the musicians I’ve conversed with over time have invited me to perform with them at Madison Square Garden and exchange guitar solos or assume lead-vocal roles during their sound check—so why this?
Yet here was this proposition: Engage in tennis, with one of the finest to ever play, in the largest tennis arena globally. I had 90 minutes to decide.
The initial move I made was to reach for a box laden with old snapshots on a bookshelf in my living area, where I located a photograph of Andre and myself—in 1994—at a pre-Open Nike gathering at a dining place close to Gramercy Park. I have no recollection of our conversation, and in any case, I didn’t want to inconvenience him or occupy too much of his time, as he was accompanied by Brooke Shields (they’d then been in a relationship for about a year and were to marry several years later), and it was apparent that they enjoyed each other’s presence. No—I was merely overjoyed to even be present: a devoted tennis enthusiast now, for the first time, among authentic tennis legends. (Apart from Andre, I also encountered John McEnroe, who arrived late, in a creased jean jacket and with a frown, holding a bundle of vinyl records—a.k.a. exactly the Johnny Mac from central casting that I hoped to witness.)