Shit. I slump forward. The guy can’t move, but he still crushes my serve?
Now, yet again, I’m one slender, skittish point away from falling behind 4–5, which will set up Baghdatis to serve for the match. I close my eyes. I miss my first serve again. I hit another tentative second serve just to get the point going and somehow he flubs an easy forehand.
Deuce again.
When your mind and body teeter on the verge of all-out collapse, one easy point like that feels like a pardon from the governor. And yet, I nearly squander my pardon. I miss my first serve. I make my second and he returns it wide. Another gift. Advantage Agassi.
I’m one point from a commanding 5–4 lead. Baghdatis grimaces, bears down. He won’t yield. He wins the point. Deuce number three.
I promise myself that if I gain the advantage again, I won’t lose it.
By now Baghdatis isn’t merely cramping, he’s a cripple. Awaiting my serve, he’s fully bent over. I can’t believe he’s managing to stay on the court, let alone give me such a game. The guy has as much heart as he has hair. I feel for him, and at the same time tell myself to show him no mercy. I serve, he returns, and in my eagerness to hit to the open court, I hit far wide.
Out. A choke. Clearly, a choke. Advantage Baghdatis.
He can’t capitalize, however. On the next point he hits a forehand several feet beyond the baseline. Deuce number four.
We have a long rally, ending when I drive a deep shot to his forehand that he misplays.
Advantage Agassi. Again. I promised myself I wouldn’t waste this opportunity if it came around again, and here it is. But Baghdatis won’t let me keep the promise. He quickly wins the next point. Deuce number five.
We play an absurdly long point. Every ball he hits, moaning, catches a piece of the line.
Every ball I hit, screaming, somehow clears the net. Forehand, backhand, trick shot, diving shot—then he hits a ball that nicks the baseline and takes a skittish sideways hop. I catch it on the rise and hit it twenty feet over him and the baseline. Advantage Baghdatis.