Now, from the next room, I hear Stefanie and the children. I play tennis for a living, even though I hate tennis, hate it with a dark and secret passion, and always have.Īs this last piece of identity falls into place, I slide to my knees and in a whisper I say: Please let this be over. We live in Las Vegas, Nevada, but currently reside in a suite at the Four Seasons hotel in New York City, because I'm playing in the 2006 U.S. We have two children, a son and daughter, five and three. Upon opening my eyes I'm a stranger to myself, and while, again, this isn't new, in the mornings it's more pronounced. Consequently my mind doesn't feel like my mind. After three decades of sprinting, stopping on a dime, jumping high and landing hard, my body no longer feels like my body, especially in the morning. Now I wait, and wait, for the blood to start pumping. With a cough, a groan, I roll onto my side, then curl into the fetal position, then flip over onto my stomach. I count to three, then start the long, difficult process of standing. Too many hours on a soft mattress causes agony. I moved from the bed to the floor in the middle of the night. Not all that unusual-I've spent half my life not knowing. I open my eyes and don't know where I am or who I am. Open, his final tournament before retirement. In his powerful autobiography, Open, Andre Agassirecountsthe bittersweet moments before the 2006 U.S.
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