Andre Agassi • Open: An Autobiography

But I don’t feel that Wimbledon has changed me. I feel, in fact, as if I’ve been let in on a dirty little secret: winning changes nothing. Now that I’ve won a slam, I know something that very few people on earth are permitted to know. A win doesn’t feel as good as a loss feels bad, and the good feeling doesn’t last as long as the bad. Not even clos

the joy of victory isn’t nearly as strong as the despair you experience in defeat, and those happy feelings after winning are fleeting compared with how long you suffer from a crushing defeat.

I’m unnerved by how giddy I feel. It shouldn’t matter this much. It shouldn’t feel this good. Waves of emotion continue to wash over me, relief and elation and even a kind of hysterical serenity, because I’ve finally earned a brief respite from the critics, especially the internal ones.

I walk off the court a winner, wondering if there’s a lesson in this. Can I tap this sort of relaxation when the stakes are real, when it’s a slam? Should I just go into every match hungover?

Here’s what most people think: If I get my goal, I’ll be happy. If I don’t get my goal, I’ll be sad. It’s simply not true: Pain and pleasure are something we need to understand better. Is there pleasure in NOT getting my goal? Yes. Is there pain in GETTING my goal? Yes. This needs to be discussed.

Pressure is how you know everything’s working, the doctor said. Words to live by, Doc. Soon the pain felt wonderful, almost sweet, because it was the kind that you can tell precedes relief. But maybe all pain is like that.

That’s the finish line I’ve been seeking, the finish line with the inexorable pull. Can’t play, as opposed to won’t play. Unwittingly, I’ve been seeking that moment when I’d have no choice.

If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that time and practice equal achievement.