In Agassi’s Universe

I’m currently reading Open, the autobiography of Andre Agassi. When you like a book, you tend to race through it. The eyes complain. They feel like the stomach does when you eat too fast.

My left eye is good. The right isn’t. If I close my left eye, I see a blur. My vision is like a plane with only one engine working.

So, after racing to page 150 of Agassi’s 385-page, thick-as-a-steak autobiography, I do the sensible thing. I close it. No Open for a few days. When I resume, I read only a few pages at a time. This is partly to conserve my sight engines, but I also want the book to last.

Agassi himself experienced this when he was reading The Tender Bar by JR Moehringer, a Pulitzer Prize winner. He liked it so much that he didn’t want the book to end. He liked it so much that he invited Moehringer to dinner at his home in Las Vegas. He liked it so much that he asked Moehringer if he would write his book. Moehringer said ‘yes’. The result is Open.

I have yet to finish the book, but have read enough to say it is one of the best sports autobiographies ever. Perhaps it is the finest tennis book ever.
Athletes normally use biographers as typists. Biographers do not have a say. They cannot ask uncomfortable questions. Controversial chapters of the athlete’s life are glossed over. So most biographies are dishonest or boring.

Those that are candid are the unauthorised biographies. But the author gets no cooperation from the athlete and, therefore, there is sometimes a credibility problem. Open is that rare book where the star was an admirer of the biographer, where he sought out the biographer. It is no surprise that the star was Agassi. Whatever his flaws, he had a sensitive side to him. His book was always going to be engaging.

I’m currently reading Open, the autobiography of Andre Agassi. When you like a book, you tend to race through it. The eyes complain. They feel like the stomach does when you eat too fast.

My left eye is good. The right isn’t. If I close my left eye, I see a blur. My vision is like a plane with only one engine working.

So, after racing to page 150 of Agassi’s 385-page, thick-as-a-steak autobiography, I do the sensible thing. I close it. No Open for a few days. When I resume, I read only a few pages at a time. This is partly to conserve my sight engines, but I also want the book to last.

Agassi himself experienced this when he was reading The Tender Bar by JR Moehringer, a Pulitzer Prize winner. He liked it so much that he didn’t want the book to end. He liked it so much that he invited Moehringer to dinner at his home in Las Vegas. He liked it so much that he asked Moehringer if he would write his book. Moehringer said ‘yes’. The result is Open.

I have yet to finish the book, but have read enough to say it is one of the best sports autobiographies ever. Perhaps it is the finest tennis book ever.
Athletes normally use biographers as typists. Biographers do not have a say. They cannot ask uncomfortable questions. Controversial chapters of the athlete’s life are glossed over. So most biographies are dishonest or boring.

Those that are candid are the unauthorised biographies. But the author gets no cooperation from the athlete and, therefore, there is sometimes a credibility problem. Open is that rare book where the star was an admirer of the biographer, where he sought out the biographer. It is no surprise that the star was Agassi. Whatever his flaws, he had a sensitive side to him. His book was always going to be engaging.

Open has almost everything. Yes, there are revelations. These made headlines when the excerpts were released, but now, post Tiger Woods, snorting crystal meth and throwing matches seem philanthropic activities. The writing is stylish. “Every forehand was foreplay,” he writes about the first time he hit a few balls with Steffi Graf. There are anecdotes and there is humour. About being branded an enfant terrible, Agassi says, “I think you can’t be something you can’t pronounce.”

As a tennis fan, I was keen to know what Agassi had to say about his rivalry with Pete Sampras (even more than his romance with Graf. I find their public displays of affection excessive). I was interested in Agassi’s analysis of their careers. Sampras was the better player. Their head-to-head record—20-14 in Sampras’ favour—proved it. Sampras had 14 Grand Slam titles, Agassi had eight. But Agassi had the more complete career: he won all the four Grand Slams and an Olympic gold medal, while Sampras could not win the French Open.

Unfortunately, Agassi does not oblige with an in-depth analysis. But indirectly he acknowledges that Sampras was the boss, at least in the context of their matches if not their impact on the game. He first narrates how Sampras, who won $43 million in prize money, tipped a valet one dollar at an Italian restaurant in Palm Springs, California. What’s more, Sampras told the valet to give it to the kid who actually got his car out. Agassi fast-forwards to their last confrontation, also Sampras’ final match, the 2002 US Open final. Coming into the tournament, Sampras has been rusty. Agassi is fitter and sharper. It is an opportunity for him to beat his great adversary in one last big match.

But once again, Sampras wins. In a line that sums up their rivalry, Agassi writes, “Handshake at the net. Pete gives me a friendly smile, a pat on the back, but the expression on his face is unmistakable. I’ve seen it before. Here’s a buck, kid. Bring my car around.”

About The Author

Akshay Sawai