Bob's Book Reviews: Agassi's 'Open'
A review of Andre Agassi's Open: An Autobiography, which was published in 2010.
Posted — UpdatedThe No. 1 bestseller takes page turners center court (and behind the Agassi dark curtain) for a read that aces the sports book genre.
Insightful and candid, this detailed account of Agassi’s life – the overbearing father, the hated Bollettieri tennis boot camp, Agassi’s teenage rebellion, the injuries, the wins and the losses, the blood, sweat and tears (muscles, tendons, etc.), the bad marriage to Brook Shields – is somehow (perception not being reality) fueled by the simple fact that all the while this Rock-Star/tennis icon, a child who eventually grew up to be the No. 1 player in the world . . . hated tennis!
Therein you’ll find Agassi’s unlikely story.
Agassi plays both sides of the net in his compelling autobiography.
One side is like eavesdropping as he talks openly as though we were his psychiatrist and on the other side of this net he’s caught in, well we feel the pain of a professional tennis player—the rigors of travel, the drugs, the incredible exercise regimen, the challenges of competition, his hate for some of the competitors, the shaved head that replaces a vanity hairpiece, and finally the pressure, in the end, to win which for Agassi comes with highs that aren’t nearly as high as the lows that follow losing.
What makes this work so well—discreetly dealing with the issues of sex, drugs and the crazy money—is simply this: Agassi ties the two sides of his life together—the mental anguish and the baggage that comes with professional tennis.
In the end he manages to get a grip on things, marries the perfect wife in Stefanie Graf, a 22-Grand Slam Winner. And through values learned he retires to a loving family (two beautiful children) and his personally funded $40 million Andre Agassi College Preparatory Academy—all with new-found appreciation for love, discipline, respect and education.
In OPEN we see Andre grow as an athlete and as a person.
Although J.R. Moehringer, a Pulitzer Prize winning writer, modestly refused to put his name on the book, calling it “Andre’s story,” Agassi credits his collaborator (with great generosity) as the two of them worked tirelessly for several years to give this well-told story a key ingredient—structure and readability.
Not just for tennis fans, readers in general will enjoy the hard-fought odyssey and all the characters who move the story along to its Grand Slam fitting conclusion:
But I can’t. Not only would my father chase me around the house with my racket, but something in my gut, some deep unseen muscle, won’t let me. I hate tennis, hate it with all my heart, and still I keep playing, keep hitting all morning, and all afternoon, because I have no choice. No matter how much I want to stop, I don’t. I keep begging myself to stop, and I keep playing, and this gap, this contradiction between what I want to do and what I actually do, feels like the core of my life.”
“My father says that if I hit 2,500 balls each day, I’ll hit 17,500 balls each week, and at the end of one year I’ll have hit nearly one million balls. He believes in math. Numbers, he says, don’t lie. A child who hits one million balls each year will be unbeatable.”
But it’s not her nature. My father disturbs the peace, my mother keeps it. Every morning she goes to the office—she works for the State of Nevada—in her sensible pantsuit, and every night she comes home at six, bone tired, and not uttering one word of complaint. With her last speck of energy she cooks dinner. Then she lies down with her pets and a book, or her favorite: jigsaw puzzle.”
You are! You feel sorry for your opponent! You don’t care about being the best!
Philly doesn’t bother to deny it. He plays well, he has talent, but he just isn’t a perfectionist, and perfection isn’t the goal in our house, it’s the law. If you’re not perfect, you’re a loser. A born loser.
My father decided Philly was a born loser when Philly was about my age, playing in the nationals. Philly didn’t just lose; he didn’t argue when his opponents cheated him, which made my father turn bright red and scream curses in Assyrian from the bleachers.”
“Within days I get my first glimpse of the warden, founder, and owner of the Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy. He’s fifty something, but looks 250 because tanning is one of his obsessions, along with tennis and getting married. (He’s got five or six ex-wives, no one is quite sure.) He’s soaked up so much sun, baked himself so deeply beneath so many ultraviolet lamps, he’s permanently altered his pigmentation. The one portion of his face that isn’t the color of beef jerky is his mustache, a black, meticulously trimmed quasi-goatee, only without the chin hairs it looks like a permanent frown. I seen Nick striding across the compound, an angry red man in wraparound shades, berating someone who jogs alongside, trying to keep pace, I pray that I never have to deal with Nick directly. I watch as he slides into a red Ferrari and zooms away, leaving a dorsal fin of dust in his wake. . . ..
A boy tells me it’s our job to keep Nick’s four sports cars washed and polished.
Our job? That’s b---.
Tell it to the Judge.
“In January 1990 I ask Gil if he would do me the great honor of working with me, traveling with me, training me. “
Gil: Leave my job here at UNLF?”
Agassi: Yes
Gil: But I don’t know anything about tennis.
Agassi: Don’t worry, I don’t either.
He laughs.
Agassi: “Gil, I think I can accomplish a lot. I think I can do—Things. But after our short time together, I’m reasonably certain that I can only do them with your help.
He doesn’t need a hard sell. Yes, he says. I would like to work with you. He doesn’t ask how much I’ll pay him. He doesn’t mention the word money. He says he’s known it almost from the day we mat (at UNLV). He says I have a destiny. He says I’m like Lancelot.
Who’s that?
Gil: Sir Lancelot. You know, King Arthur. Knights of the Round Table. Lancelot was Arthur’s greatest knight.
Agassi: Did he kill dragons?
Gil: Every knight kills dragons.
“Gil likes to yell at me when I’m working out, but it’s nothing like my father’s yelling. Gil yells love. If I’m trying to set a new personal best, if I’m preparing to lift more than I’ve even lifted, he stands in the back ground and yells, Come one Andre! Let’s go! Big Thunder! His yelling makes my heart club against my ribs. Then, for an added dash of inspiration, he’ll sometimes tell me to step aside and he’ll lift his personal best 50 pounds. It’s an awesome sight to see a man put that much iron above his chest, and it always makes me think that anything is possible. How beautiful to dream. But dreams, I tell Gil, in one of our quiet moments, are so damned tiring.
He laughs.”
For hours after Pete’s news conference I feel a sharp loneliness, I’m the last one standing. I’m the last American slam winner still playing. I tell reporters: that you sort of expect to leave the dance with the ones you came with. Then I realize this is the wrong analogy, because I’m not leaving the dance—they are, I’m still dancing.”
So open OPEN, the guess here is that you’ll be hooked until it’s game, set, and match!
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