Many years ago on a bright, early fall afternoon, I was walking down a street in Manhattan. I can’t remember who was with me or where we were headed, but as we approached the steps leading down to a subway, a young man came up the stairs and emerged into the sunshine.
It was Andre Agassi, in full ragamuffin glory–his hair (or hairpiece, as we now know) blond and shaggy, his clothes so very late-’80s. His face lit up as his eyes met mine. He could see I recognized him, and he was expecting me to approach. Not only expecting it, but wanting it. At this moment in time, he was clearly savoring the perks of his new stardom, not hiding beneath a baseball cap and dark glasses. Continue reading “Eight Random Thoughts about Agassi’s “Open””