Open: An Autobiography by Andre Agassi

Hit harder. HIT HARDER.

There are not many people who could lay claim to knowing me who would look at this post and not wonder bemusedly what on earth possessed me to read the biography of a tennis player. Tennis, as anyone (i.e. everyone) knows, is a big bag of shite. Sure, it's one-on-one, mano-a-mano, an honourable battle. Sure, it's chuffing hard to play. Sure, it's hard, physical and mental exercise, pushing players' bodies to the very limit. But damn, is it ever boring as hell. And tennis players? Well, don't get me started.

In truth, I was caught out in a lie, by my boss, who told me it was great and I should read it. I paid lip service to the fact I thought he was interesting, given he hates tennis too (yeah, but he doesn't really hate tennis, does he? Yup). She said, great, I'll bring it in for you. And so I was stuck with it.

And I have to eat a little humble pie. It is quite an engaging read, and I found myself enjoying it, despite thinking Agassi is a bit of a whining dick, quick to play the victim card, and not really willing to go into the full horror of having a father determined to make at least one of his children into the world's greatest tennis player. I assume it was difficult. I assume he was terrified at least part of the time. I assume he had no choice. Boo hoo. I certainly enjoyed it more that I thought I would considering some of the pretty nasty reviews* it garnered back in '09 on publication. Yes, it was hard to believe in places: there's an extended passage about his money troubles when going on the road with his brother, but from that point on he's able to buy multiple houses and cars with nary a mention of cost. Yes, I was dismayed by his admission of the use of crystal meth and his subsequent lying about it–I seemed to have missed the original controversy–but then point out a celebrity who has not found succour in odd places from time to time. He says he's honest, 'open', and in parts, he is. He admits to some particular vanity that is risible (wearing a wig, putting lifts in his shoes at his wedding, not wearing underwear on court), and to some rather unsportsman-like throwing of matches when he just couldn't be arsed, but then I wonder at his view of himself, how he sees his life through his prism of otherworldly success (eight grand slams and $31 million in prize money, before sports endorsements). I would imagine that had he not had the collaborative support of his ghostwriter, not credited in the book except in an afterword where it is explained he wants no part of the credit (ostensibly because it's not his story, but also possible he literally wanted nothing to do with it, pulling an Alan Smithee), it would have been unintelligible too. So at least it has that in its favour.

But Moehringer highlights in an interesting NY Times article, 11 November 2009 something that I only realised in retrospect. He says of Agassi;

His memory was crystalline about matches but not about relationships. He hadn’t reached any conclusions about them and couldn’t make connections. 

Absolutely. Agassi knows nothing of himself and just can't put his relationships into context. They just happen–Brooke Shields, Barbara Streisand (Barbara Streisand?!)–and even his eventual happy-ever-after with Stefanie Graf is a bit lacking in introspection. It's framed in the 'she gets me, she gets tennis' context. Soul mates!

Of course, reading this back it seems I'm trying quite hard to put you off ever opening this book. Don't let me do that. It does have its merits, and is quite an unusual sport biography, with a level of English that belies Agassi's ninth grade education. It's entertaining in parts, it was quick to read, and I did sort of want to hear what he fucked up next. He fucked up a lot of things.

*For example, this evisceration in the Guardian, Sunday 1st November 2009. Savage.

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