Andre Agassi's "Open" is just the latest in a long, long line of literature in which an athlete comes clean.
The former tennis star admitted to using crystal meth in the 1990's, and then lied about it after failing a drug test. Aside from the obvious that Agassi's DOC was not a PED, is there anyone left in the sporting world we can trust? Do we even care? Should we care? I mean, the man wore a wig, for mullet's sake!
Surely these tell-alls are slightly more intriguing when the person telling all is someone of stature, a la Canseco, Torre, Agassi, et al; even more so when innocent bystanders are thrust under a bus in the process.
One writer wonders what other tennis players might reveal in their own autobiographies, including the story behind Sharpova's shrieking on the court:
I had a coach to hone my groundstrokes and another to fix my serve, so it made perfect sense to find someone who could perfect my grunt. To protect her identity, I'll call her Monica. Before a big tournament, I would always pay her a visit to work on my pitch range and timing. Not only did Monica improve the length and volume of my screeching, but most importantly, when to change the frequency. We developed special screeches for different situations in the match. If I was losing, I would break out the scream that sounded like I had come home to find my dog brutally murdered. We called it "Dead Dolce." Then there was the one I'd use when returning serve on a pivotal break point. It was an extended moan with a touch more bass than my standard scream. Before I met Monica, I was just a noisy teenager with some promise. She made me a Wimbledon champion.
A fond as I may be of Maria, I prefer to ponder a penning by Nico of his blogging days at Athletics Nation:
"I wanted Marquez banned from the beginning, but Blez had a soft spot for him for some reason. Gad, how many posts on the 1974 A's can someone write?"
"People never got me. No one even tried to know Cindi. They only wanted to know the Nico living inside of me. Truth is, I hated Nico."
"Most nights I'd sniff glue before a (game) thread."
Wait, that last one might be true.
I guess Andre and other athletes/artists feel that these confessions are somehow soul-cleansing, but isn't that what therapists are for? I can't imagine he needs the money.
I just don't get the point.
