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 Steffi Graf.