Andre Agassi et al.

I usually would not read a sport’s biography. The best sportspeople tend to be the least interesting people, since they’re usually uneducated and so focused on winning that a certain humanity is lost in this fervent pursuit. Listening to an interview with Tiger Woods, Pete Sampras, David Beckham, Chris Evert or many other people who have excelled at their sport is about as interesting as analyzing the movement of a sea cucumber. Filled with clichés and bad grammar, at the end of these ordeals you sometimes wish you had a regime like the North Korean one so you could simply ban interviews with most athletes.

But I was given this book called ‘Open’ the autobiography of Andre Agassi. Having a passion for tennis, I was immediately hooked as Agassi described his last tournament and how his body was wracked by pain but he still managed to win a couple of matches. What I hoped for was an insight into the tennis world, how it works, the personalities that I have followed over the years. What was John McEnroe like? Was Serena Williams really as awful as she sounds? Who were Agassi’s heroes and tennis role models?

Instead I was subject to something that mostly consisted of Andre Agassi so far up his own behind that, so self absorbed, so prone to view the world in terms of heroes and villains, frankly someone you hope never have to chat with at a party.

He claims to hate tennis. This is mostly due to his tyrannical father who is described as heartless, calculating and spiteful. In the book there is not one positive thing said about him. It seems improbable the son could harbor any love at all for this fiend. Tennis is murder for young Andre, a relentless pursuit mostly fueled by his ranting father and Agassi trying to satisfy him. He knew of course that he was better than nearly everyone, indeed for most of his losses Agassi never credits his opponents and blames something that he lacked that day. In other words if he’d been mentally and physically intact, then he could demolish anyone.

I admit another reason that spurred me to read the book was a commonality between Agassi and me, though obviously not in terms of tennis ability, but our destiny in being among the bald tribe. This consternating process for Agassi results in his loss of the French Open final because the night before his hair weave fell apart. He develops eternal hatred for Thomas Muster because he patted his head (and fragile fake hair) after beating him. Finally he faces the truth and shaves off all his hair in an almost ritualistic ceremony with his new wife Brooke Shields. I would have loved to be a fly in the wall for that one.

Of course part of the reason we read books by famous people is to titillate our pathetically prurient minds with information about other celebrities. Agassi was married to Brooke Shields for a few years. According to his descriptions of her general interests in life, like George Bush, she serves as an indictment to the Ivy League universities.

She could muster no interest for his tennis, and he found her acting milieu frivolous and uninteresting. He walked off the set of Friends where Brooke was making a guest appearance (and who repeatedly told him that Friends was the most popular sitcom in the world) because he was disgusted at what his wife had to do. I have to say I agree with Andre on that one. Shields plays a stalker and part of this entails putting the entire the hands and parts of the arms of her victim in her mouth. Who thought that one up?

He also became friends with Barbara Streisand and the two of them get on with each other like a ball on fire. He loves her music and that of the likes of Celine Dionne, artists who when a song of theirs comes on the radio, you curse and immediately switch the channel. His constant referral to Barry Manilow and even citing lines of songs as if it was deep poetry, causes one to grimace a bit. But if you’re looking to get behind the stories of those people who appear in Hello magazine, don’t bother to read this book.

There is also precious little about the world around which Agassi traveled extensively for nearly twenty years. Actually, there is nothing. Andre did manage to go to the Louvre once, but in his next visit to Paris, he holed up in his hotel room and ordered McDonalds and Burger King for food, only going to his matches and then seeking refuge in the hotel so as not to have to confront people whose language he couldn’t understand. Agassi’s curiosity about global culture is impressively shallow.

Of course it was primarily for the tennis that the book interested me. I can’t say Agassi has the most generous comments for some of his piers nor the system that made him millions of dollars. Pete Sampras always came across as a lugubrious yet glib troglodyte despite the glorious tennis he played. Agassi adds to this by saying he’s cheap as shit, giving a parking valet a one dollar tip.

“I mean that guy has earned over 40 mil.”

This tight wadness is in contrast of course to Andre’s generosity, who gives the guy a ten dollar tip. He berates Michael Chang for invoking Jesus after every win, well done on that one, but gives Chang absolutely no credit for the numerous times he lost to him. Similar professional disrespect, by basically ignoring him even though they had multiple contact in their youth, was Jim Courier. He resents the fact that after getting his ass whipped by Courier, in the locker room after the match Courier put on running shoes and started jogging in place to show his exertion on the court was insignificant. Talk about rubbing it in!

He hates Becker and the image we get of Jimmy Connors, one of the idols of my youth, is as the embodiment of an asshole. It’s probably true though. John McEnroe comes out smelling okay and Agassi seems to like Aussies and Eastern Europeans.

The problem is the paucity of information on this world. We learn almost nothing about what the people are really like, only how they affected Agassi, the classic path of analysis taken by those unable to see past their own nose. And our most base curiosity, what it’s like to have so much money, is barely addressed. He acts like it’s normal to buy a case of some wine that costs $500 a bottle or rent out an island all to himself. What does that feel like, I wondered? But in vain.

In place of this, we are treated to the thrilling existential subjects that are written about extensively in self-help books. He talks about this psychobabble bullshit for many hours with members of his team, some of whom have a special deistic link (represented partly by having to listen to this crap). It is this team that protects and harbors Andre, and his physical trainer/bodyguard seems a direct descendent of Buddha or Gandhi but who could kick people’s asses. He eventually finds true love in Steffi Graf, about whom we learn little except that she’s ‘the greatest person I’ve ever known.’

I should be more generous, I suppose. After all, here is this kid who grew up in Las Vegas of all weird places, had a crazy Armenian father, dropped out in eighth grade and has done nothing but play tennis all his life. And let’s give him credit, he has set up a charter school and seems genuinely interested in boosting the fortunes of those less fortunate. It’s probably a lot more than Pete Sampras or Jim Courier or even Jesus lover Michael Chang is doing.

What I’m angry about is the fact that I was sucked in and wasted precious hours that could otherwise have been employed in my usual pursuit of erudition. I ploughed through nearly 400 pages of self-analysis by someone who is, quite frankly, boring as hell. I got aced on this one.