OPEN

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

ANDRE AGASSI

…when I’m almost nine years old, he [father] finagles me a job as a ball boy for the Alan King tournament. But I don’t give a damn about silver dollars – I want a mini Cleopatra. Her name is Wendi. She’s one of the ball girls, about my age, a vision in her blue uniform. I love her instantly, with all my heart and part of my spleen. I lie awake at night, picturing her on the ceiling.
During matches, as Wendi and I dart past each other along the net, I shoot her smile, try to get her to give me a smile in return. Between matches I buy her Cokes and sit with her, trying to impress her with my knowledge of tennis.
The Alan King tournament attracts big-time players, and my father cajoles most of them into hitting a few balls with me. Some are more willing than others. Borg acts as if there is nowhere else he’d rather be. Connors clearly wants to say no, but can’t, because my father is his stringer. Ilie Nastase tries to say no, but my father pretends to be deaf. A champion of Wimbledon and French Open, ranked number one in the world, Nastase has other places he’d rather be, but he quickly discovers that refusing my father is next to impossible. The man is relentless.
As Nastase and I hit, Wendi watches from the net post. I’m nervous, Nastase is visibly bored – until he spots Wendi.
Hey, he says. Is this your girlfriend, Snoopy? Is this pretty thing over here your sweetheart?
I stop. I glare at Nastase. I want to punch this big, stupid Romanian (my emphasis) in the nose, even though he’s got two feet and 100 pounds on me. Bad enough that he calls me Snoopy, but then he dares to mention Wendi in such a disrespectful way. A crowd has gathered, two hundred people at least. Nastase begins playing to the crowd, calling me Snoopy again and again, teasing me about Wendi. And I thought my father was relentless.
At very least, I wish I had the courage to say: Mr.Nastase, you’re embarrassing me, please stop. But all I can do is keep hitting harder. Hit harder. Then Nastase makes yet onother wisecrack about Wendi, and that’s it, I can’t take any more. I drop my racket and walk off the court. Up yours, Nastase.
My father stares, openmouthed. He’s not angry, he’s not embarrassed – he’s incapable of embarrassment, and he recognizes his own genes when he sees them in action. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him prouder.

(Harper, 2010, p.48)