It’s Agassi’s Party in Five

They came here looking for an easy waltz, a 6-2, 6-3, 6-2 dance by Andre Agassi past an overmatched, plodding nice guy named Todd Martin.

They got into the cabs and onto the subways and parkways and, like real New York sports fans, came ready for a bloodletting, a mercy-killing. They were not looking for drama. The Yankees and the Mets were enough intrigue. Nor were they looking for anything special, anything that would, in any way, justify the outrageous ticket and food prices charged at the 1999 U.S. Open.

They were there because it was there, or because their company or rich Uncle Charlie bought tickets. There were there because, even though the Williams sisters had pretty much squeezed every drop of magic out of this 14-day emotional roller coaster, it is fashionable to see, and be seen, at the men’s singles final.

So, they showed up and shopped and wandered around in the wonderful warm sun of a mid-September afternoon. They ate $8 hamburgers and $5 hot dogs with buns that crumbled at first touch, and they eventually drifted toward Arthur Ashe Stadium to see Agassi beat up on Martin. No matter if they missed a game or two at the start. It was preordained. Agassi would run all over Martin. The Post said it, so it had to be true.

But an hour and a half after it started, some of them started to realize, to get an inkling.

Martin hit a first serve 120 mph. Agassi--as only Agassi can do--cracked it back almost as fast, and Martin followed with a deep volley that forced Agassi to miss on his next shot. Martin had won the second set in a 7-5 tiebreaker. He was playing more like Pancho Gonzalez than Todd Martin.

Most of them started to get it, to really sit up and take note about then. They had gone to a tennis match and a classic was breaking out.

There was so much going on out there, so many subplots. But could those add up to a great final? Well, maybe . . .

Agassi had won the French, got blasted off the grass in the Wimbledon final by Pete Sampras, the only player currently alive who can play on the same planet as Agassi, and had come here in the nice, cozy shadow of Sampras and Sampras’ attempt to win a record 13th Grand Slam title. For the No. 2-seeded player a sneak attack from the bottom bracket was the smart approach.

Then, of course, Sampras hurt his back in practice and all the bright lights they could spare from Times Square shifted to Agassi. He was the overwhelming favorite, the sudden toast of a town that loves you, win or win big. He was now going to be No. 1, going to take home the $750,000 first prize. It was on him to bring back the huge crowds and big TV ratings. It was one of the quickest musical chairs of all-time. Sampras left, Agassi sat down, and there were no ifs or maybes.

Martin’s subplot was much less sexy. He was a 29-year-old with a journeyman’s reputation and a surprising No. 7 world ranking. He was having one of the better years of his career, a career that started at this very tournament in 1990, when, as a sophomore at Northwestern, he was ranked No. 1 in college tennis and decided he better get at a pro career.

Over time, Martin had become known as one of the genuinely nice people on the tour, so much so that his image probably has detracted somewhat from his big talent as a player. He got to the final of the 1994 Australian, but the guy on the other side of the net was Sampras. He got to No. 5 in the world in ‘94, but he also got injured a lot. In 1996, he had what most people considered his best shot at the bright lights, taking a 5-1 lead in the fifth set of a Wimbledon semifinal against MaliVai Washington. But he lost that one, then walked into the news conference afterward and acknowledged he had choked.

Most of the stories after that one stressed his courage in the face of such adversity, and the nice-guy image was fueled some more.

Here, in his 10th U.S. Open, he turned in some incredible heroics, especially the memorable late-night escape against Greg Rusedski of Great Britain after being down two sets, one service break and 15-40. Soon, his press clippings read like Mother Teresa with a racket.

At the recent Washington tournament, when he got a ride to do a radio show to help promote the event--something few other players would bother with--he tried to tip the courtesy car driver. Here, he sent gifts to medical personnel who had attended to him with intravenous fluids and other procedures after his draining match against Rusedski.

No matter how you spun it, being a swell guy wasn’t enough to beat Agassi. Martin’s agent, Tom Ross, who is, fittingly, the ranking nice-guy agent in sports, said before the final, “In many ways, Todd has nothing to lose, because Andre is such a huge favorite. But then, this also might be his last chance.”

So, as they watched this gentle giant, 6 feet 6, gray around the ears, huge elastic wrap on his right knee, taking one plodding step for each three of Agassi’s, the fans in the stands had to scratch their heads a bit as Martin won a second tiebreaker and went up, two sets to one.

Was this really as compelling as it looked? Was it, indeed, time to get on the cell phones and call off the dinner plans?

Agassi had won the first set when he somehow broke Martin in the first game of the match despite Martin cranking in six first serves.

“There was luck involved with that,” Agassi said.

And then Agassi managed to get a break in the third game of the fourth set when he returned a 120-mph Martin first serve at Martin’s feet and Martin volleyed it three inches long.

By the fifth set, there was no doubt. It was suddenly the U.S. Open at night: noisy, cranky, a place with an edge, an attitude. In the upper decks, so far away that even Martin looked small, Vinny and Joey from the Bronx were yelling “Go Andre” and “Stuff him, Todd.”

It was New York at its best. Get outta my way, creep! Kill the ump! The song was right. If you can make it here, in front of these fans, on this incredible stage, you can make it anywhere.

And Andre Agassi did just that, with Martin a key supporting actor.

Agassi ran off nine consecutive points early in the fifth set, including the crucial service break in the second game in which, on the first break point, he lunged like a tiger at Martin’s 117-mph first serve into the deep backhand corner of the ad side and somehow uncoiled just in time to slap it past Martin’s right and into the deep corner.

The match was effectively over. Agassi had risen to yet another level, this one so lofty that even Martin at his best could not go there.

The rest of the set was a formality, a 6-2 clincher that took 28 minutes. Match point came at 8 p.m. EDT, and Agassi and Martin turned the feel-good moment into extra warm-and-fuzzy with kind and appropriate postmatch speeches about each other and the All-American final.

In the end, Agassi had withstood the pressure, had done the amazing things that were expected of him. And Martin had made it even better, had validated Agassi’s title by making it so very hard to achieve.

“The way he played,” Agassi said, “it was just disappointing that somebody had to lose.”

Eventually, they filed out. The down escalators buzzed. Rich Uncle Charlie was a hero for getting them the tickets. The lousy, overpriced hamburgers were no longer giving them heartburn.

Vinny and Joey were hoarse, and they were thrilled about it.