For a few months, these (poor) lines have been floating on my desktop, and now I'm adding them in a post under your beautiful review.
I stopped watching tennis in 2006. Now, after six years, I’m reading "Open," Agassi's autobiography. And something beautiful and strange happens. I retrace Agassi’s life, especially his matches, and I retrace my own. It's almost absurd to read the feelings of this tennis player as he comes back from two sets down, wins the next two, and fights like an animal in the fifth. The beautiful thing is this: I remember watching him play like a madman, not understanding what the hell he was doing, while I remember myself over a university text. I'm in some afternoon, getting lost in a match, remembering and imploring myself to get back to studying. So I relive many of my memories simultaneously with this almost peer of mine who, on the other side of the cathode ray tube (oh yes…), was smashing balls and making them explode along the white lines. It all started one afternoon while I was modestly enjoying the classic tennis, now a bit polished, of Mr. Wilander, "Igor" Lendl, or the boring Muster, when suddenly a wild guy with a blonde mohawk appeared, dressed like a clown. This guy is a legend! He hit the ball with a strange force and rage. There was also the giant strudel of Becker, who attacked ferociously, the elegant Edberg, and the legendary commentary of the most pleasurable match ever seen, Lendl-Chang in Paris, and then, of course, that lazy Sampras. Great player, sure, but as energetic as a sloth. But this Agassi—first with the mohawk, then with fuchsia pants, then with matching earrings, then bald, then with a belly—and above all, his raw but fantastic way of playing made me adore him. I know, I know, I'm a damn romantic.
Tennis is a fucking sport. It drives you crazy. The one-on-one challenge. There I am, blissfully eating a slice of bread spread with Nutella, while those two are battling it out with their shots. The jerk Agassi, let’s be honest, calls me back to my younger days.
With the reading of the book, I was sucked in. Why does it feel like I'm reading the story of my best friend? Why does this book make me feel young again? It’s a text that possesses great centrifugal force. If you were born in the 70s or 80s, if you were excited about that tennis player in pink shorts, you won’t be able to pull your legs out of this splendid epic. What a pleasure to read about Agassi thinking while smashing balls at Tarango: VA-FFA-NCU-LO! Written in a divine way—direct, straightforward, clear, but also delicate, emotional, and intimate (by a great journalist). A great book about sports and life. In the end, it’s also a great love story.
