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Andre Agassi is an exceptional tennis player, an ex-meth addict and a professional asshole. What he is not is an author.
We’ve all witnessed what happens when people who are really good at one thing try to branch out and experiment on another platform. Tyra Banks is a hot model, but God help us all if she tries to make another movie. She’s a bad actress. By acting, Banks distracted people from how sexy she is and forced fans to accept the reality — she is nothing but a vacant head attached to a nice pair of boobs.
The same idea goes for Agassi and his recent bout with the written word. He should have stuck to tennis, but he didn’t and now we all know how painfully ridiculous he his.
Mind you, I’ve never been an Agassi fan. His “rebel with a tennis racket” persona has an uncanny effect on my gag reflex. However, I was satisfied with letting him disappear into the shadow of Swiss blowhard Roger Federer.
Unfortunately for literates everywhere, Agassi successfully released his autobiography, “Open” Nov. 10, once again proving people never get sick of celebrities with daddy issues, failed marriages and drug problems.
Am I on crazy pills or have we heard this story before? Poor little baby celebrity gets kicked around by an overbearing parent, ends up being famous for something he or she secretly hates, develops a drug problem, ruins at least one marriage, does something bizarre with his or her hair – Agassi wore a hideous hairpiece – and, voila, we have ourselves an American icon. Slap some bleach-blonde locks on Agassi’s “feel sorry for me” cover picture and you’d have a convincing image of pre-rehab Britney Spears.
The only thing that sets “Open” apart from the mind-numbing agglomeration of “poor me” celebrity memoirs is Agassi’s exceptionally cliche and pretentious story telling.
When famous people write about themselves, they usually tell about how alone and sad they are, how they were never afforded the opportunity of self-discovery and how unbearably painful a life on the fringe of intimacy is. Agassi adheres to this unoriginal formula, but it’s his word choice that launches him past the irritating self-importance of his fellow autobiographers, straight to mascara-streaked, drama-queen status.
“Upon opening my eyes I’m a stranger to myself, and while, again, this isn’t new, in the mornings it’s more pronounced,” Agassi wrote about his daily delusional stupor.
A stranger to himself? Really? How is it the transcript didn’t go into the shredder right there?
Oh yeah, because Agassi is a special case. He’s a brooding, defiant, white-short-short-wearing American revolutionary — in his own mind.
In case I was unaware of just how wild this racket-wielding radical was upon purchasing his book, Agassi was sure to remind me every two paragraphs or so.
He punctuates sad recollections of his debasing self-talk and his “dark and secret” hatred of tennis with self-aggrandizing explanations of how “edgy” he feels around other people and how he spent his years at the Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy “plotting rebellion.” Then, as if the storyline wasn’t schizophrenic enough, Agassi peppers in examples of how “pro” he is and how remarkable his victories are.
“I win my first tournament as a pro, in Itaparica, Brazil, all the more impressive because I do it before a crowd of initially hostile Brazilians,” he wrote about his first taste of star status.
Again, how did this make it to print? I thought this particular brand of chest puffing was reserved for reality shows about karaoke-singing trophy wives from Orange County.
The only excuse I can come up with for Agassi’s inane ramblings is it probably wasn’t all his idea.
At one point, the tennis player had to have asked someone else, “Hey, what do you think about me writing an autobiography?” That man or woman, the one who nodded supportively and told Agassi he owed the world the truth, that we wanted to hear his story, is at least partially responsible for this atrocity.
Regardless of who is at fault, the only chance for retaliation here is a purchasing strike. I know it will be hard to say no to his pouty eyes and rugged boy-beard — not to mention the 20 percent discount sticker at Barnes & Noble — but there are plenty of ways to recreate the experience of reading “Open” that don’t involve encouraging Agassi to give us a second installment. For example, you could watch 16 or so hours of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” volunteer as a crisis counselor for 15-year-old trust-fund kids or rollback some YouTube footage of Donald Trump speeches. As long as you’re subjecting yourself to pathetic, narcissistic drivel, it’ll be just like the real thing — believe me.
Elizabeth Ghiorso can be reached at
copyeditor@theorion.com
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