One morning a few days ago, I received an odd email from someone I’d been writing back and forth with about the US Open: “Could we speak on your cell at 4pm? Something amazing may be possible.” That something, as it turned out, was a chance to hit—one on one—for 30 minutes with two-time US Open champion (and eight-time Grand Slam champion, Olympic gold medalist, Hall of Fame member, and all-around living legend) Andre Agassi the following morning at 7, in Arthur Ashe Stadium, at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, a.k.a. the biggest prime-time stage at the Open—followed by breakfast and a chat in the Emirates Suite in Ashe.
Even thinking about it felt ridiculous: Though I’ve been playing tennis for decades, I’m also decades removed from my brief stint competing on the midwestern boys’ junior circuit. These days, I’m a supremely average once-a-week player perpetually on the verge of, you know, getting myself back in fighting form. I absolutely love to find the groove on a big-swing, big-finish crosscourt topspin forehand, I like playing a few sets against friends, but I loathe the notion of putting myself out there for even a local club tournament. Purely going on natural instinct, every fiber of my body told me to say no to this (admittedly mind-boggling) opportunity.
Emotionally, I realized I was going through some kind of inverse of the seven stages of grief, stuck on an odd kind of anger at this once-in-a-lifetime thing landing on my lap. Not one of the many actors I’ve interviewed ever asked me to step in front of the camera and read lines, or leap through a window as part of a big chase scene; zero of the musicians I’ve talked with over the years have asked me to stand in with them at Madison Square Garden and trade guitar solos or take over lead-vocal duties at their sound check—so why this?
Yet here was the offer: Play tennis, with one of the greatest to ever do so, in the largest tennis stadium in the world. I had 90 minutes to make up my mind.
The first thing I did was reach for a box filled with old photographs on a bookshelf in my living room, where I dug up a picture of Andre and me—in 1994—at a pre-Open Nike party at a restaurant near Gramercy Park. I have no idea what we talked about, and in any case I didn’t want to bother him or take up too much of his time, as he was there with Brooke Shields (they’d then been dating for about a year and would be married a few years later), and it seemed obvious that they adored each other’s company. No—I was just over the moon to even be there: a lifelong tennis nerd now, for the first time, around real tennis legends. (Aside from Andre I also met John McEnroe, who had arrived late, wearing a rumpled jean jacket and a scowl on his face, carrying an armful of vinyl records—a.k.a. exactly the Johnny Mac out of central casting that I wanted to see.)