I open my eyes and I don't know where I am or who I am. Not all that unusual. I've spent half my life not knowing.

Still, this feels different. This confusion is more frightening, more total. I look up. I'm lying on the

floor beside the bed. I remember now. I moved from the bed to the floor in the middle of the night.

I do that most nights, better for my back.

I count to three, then start the long, difficult process of standing.

With a cough, a groan, I roll onto my side, then curl into the fetal position, then flip over

onto my stomach.

I'm a young man, relatively speaking, 36.

But I wake as if I'm 96.

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.

Consequently, my mind doesn't feel like my mind. Upon opening my

eyes, I'm a stranger to myself. I run quickly through the basic facts. My name is Andre Agassi.

My wife's name is Steffie Graff. We have two children, a son and a daughter, five and three.

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. Open, my last U.S. Open.

In fact, my last tournament ever.

I play tennis for a living, even though I hate tennis.

Hate it with a dark and secret passion,

and always have. As this last piece of identity falls into place, I slide to my knees and in a

...