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Monday
Among the many achievements registered by champion Novak Djokovic in this year’s Australian Open, one stood out to me, even though everyone else will ignore it: he surpassed the number of consecutive games won at the tournament, originally set by Andre Agassi. And the only reason I notice it is because I’ve just finished reading Agassi’s Open (2009), lauded as one of the greatest sports autobiographies. While it’s a genre that I don’t normally care for, I couldn’t put this one down.
It didn’t hurt that Agassi managed to mention James Agee’s Death in the Family and Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Ulysses.”
Agassi in his day was my favorite tennis player, filling in the gap left by Bjorn Borg. Just I have had to suffer in recent years as first Rafael Nadal and then Djokovic surpassed my beloved Roger Federer in open titles, so in Agassi’s time I saw my heart broken time and again by Pete Sampras. When Agassi lost his final match at the U.S. Open, I stood up in front of the television set and joined the New York crowd in applauding him.
The book presents us with a riveting drama, starting with an abusive immigrant father whose shadow darkens much of Agassi’s life and including Agassi’s early success, followed by his falling to 146 in the rankings, to his clawing back up to achieving the Golden Slam (all four Open slams and the Olympic gold medal) and #1 in the world. Among the pivotal moments in Agassi’s life was a meaning with Nelson Mandela and it is within that context that the Agee passage appears.
Agee is inspired by Mandela’s powers of endurance, and a friend, hearing this, directs him to the thoughts of the recently widowed Mary. I quote a bit more of the passage than Agee does to provide context:
When grief and shock surpass endurance there occur phases of exhaustion, of anesthesia in which relatively little is felt and one has the illusion of recognizing, and understanding, a good deal. Throughout these days Mary had, during these breathing spells, drawn a kind of solace from the recurrent thought: at least 1 am enduring it. I am aware of what has happened, 1 am meeting it face to face, I am living through it. There had been,, even, a kind of pride, a desolate kind of pleasure, in the feeling: I am carrying a heavier weight than I could have dreamed it possible for a human being to carry, yet I am living through it. It had of course occurred to her that this happens to many people, that it is very common, and she humbled and comforted herself in this thought. She thought: this is simply what living is; I never realized before what it is…She thought that she had never before had a chance to realize the strength that human beings have, to endure; she loved and revered all those who had ever suffered, even those who had failed to endure.
Agassi’s burden, of course, is far less than Mandela’s years in prison. Yet his inner demons exact a tremendous toll, and the lure of the book is watching him overcome them.
Tennyson’s famous poem makes an appearance the night before the French Open final, when the aging Agassi finds himself tormented with self-doubt. After all, he is aging (he’s 29) and hasn’t won for a while. Unable to sleep, he calls a friend in the middle of the night and asks him to “please, please, talk to me for a few minutes about anything but tennis.” The friend figures Agassi needs a poem about another aging warrior. Their interchange is fun because Agassi initially thinks that poetry can’t do him any good.
[Friend:] Are you OK?
Anything but tennis.
OK. Well. Let’s see. How about I read you a poem? I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately.
Yeah. Good. Whatever.
He goes to his bookshelf, takes down a book. He reads softly.Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.I fall asleep without hanging up the phone.
Agassi goes on to win the French Open, becoming the first man to win the grand slam on three different surfaces. In citing Agee and Tennyson, he implies that literature deserves some credit in the accomplishment.