By Douglas Robson, Special for USA TODAY
Andre Agassi, who won eight career Grand Slam titles and is recognized as one of the greatest players of his generation, hated tennis for much of his life. That is one of the startling revelations in Agassi's new autobiograpy, Open, which arrives in bookstores Monday.
Agassi spoke with USA TODAY's Douglas Robson about his relationship with the game that made him rich and famous.
If you secretly hated tennis, why did you continue to play?
It's a great question. It felt at an early age as the core of my life, and I felt like that reason changed throughout my life. As a youngster it was fear of my father; then it was a desire to escape the (Nick Bollettieri) academy and school. Then it became just straight fear — what else would I do with my life? Then all of a sudden it was identified to me, and then I didn't know.
But the hate for tennis started to change when I took ownership and chose tennis, which didn't happen till 1997, which didn't happen till I fell to 141 in the world, which didn't happen till that moment when I either had to walk away or choose it, and I didn't walk away, and I chose it. Once I chose my life, once I took ownership of my life, the scale started to get balanced with what it was giving me.
Tennis gave me the school; tennis then gave me my wife; tennis then gave me the time to raise my children and to live with them, and then it wasn't lost on me. … It no longer only came with a price.
How did you start to see that? I know in the book, it's really Brad Gilbert, as you describe it, who lays down the gauntlet at Stuttgart in 1997 and says, "Andre, we can't go on this way; it's going to be one thing or the other." I don't know if it was an epiphany or if it happened over the course of months or years that you made that transition.
I think it evolved over years. It was an accumulation, but then it was a commitment overnight. But the actual choice to fight this fight, and knowing that only I could make that choice, and only I was making that choice, that was an epiphany, that was a moment where I declared, "I am going to do this; millions of people in the world do something that they hate, but they found a way to attach reason and meaning to it, new meaning to old tasks."
You talked about why you played, and maybe fear of your father and getting away from Bollettieri Academy. But your story's not unique. Tennis is littered with talented kids with overbearing parents, who hate the sport, they're forced to play, or quit, or rebel. But you had phenomenal success. Why do you think that is?
I think it's because of the people that I had around me. I believe in many respects this book is a love letter to the important teachers in my life. I don't think any of us can go it alone.
How much of your legacy was in your mind when you wrote this book?
It wasn't about legacy for me; it was about tomorrow. It was about who this could help. And I know we're not on the subject now, but you'll figure out this is still an answer that needs to be said. Since I lied about that drug test in 1997, every day I've lived with a second chance that most people don't get, and every day has been an atonement for that. This book is an atonement for that. This is an attempt to say, "This is my story. I know how I've been perceived, more or less, and I know this flies in the face about what people thought about me, but it is the true me." And as a result, if the price that's paid is my legacy, if the price that's paid is a few judgments, I think that's a price that's easy to pay.
So you're not losing any sleep.
No, not over that.
It seemed to me that your best efforts seemed to be fueled by anger or revenge or perceived slights. Is it fair to say that? It was the "summer of revenge," there was (Jimmy) Connors, it was (Boris) Becker. Is that a fair reading?
No. Anger usually inhibited me. It usually hurt me, sort of across the platform of my career. The "summer of revenge" (1995) was slightly different. It was the first time I tried to really engage an awareness of my anger and not repress it, not repress how I felt about certain things, and highlighting Boris was a function of shining a light on some of my wounds that I felt along the way.
Meaning there are a lot of reasons why I resented tennis throughout that stage of my life. And this was one of them — that you could be so harshly judged by people, by media, by your peers. And that summer, I engaged that emotion, no doubt. But typically, fear was my motivator. And it was a high-wire act. … Not to mention I responded to fear sometimes by the best of me coming out, and I responded other times by not believing in myself, by self-inflicting, by being scared to win, scared not to lose. So fear was a big engine in my tennis. … I needed a reason, I needed inspirations, and it came from sources in my life. It came from people, including the fans. The fans brought out a lot of good in me at times, and they also brought out the worst. Like a friend who's going to not let you be less than you should be — there are times you'd like to be around that person, and there are times that you resent, you just want to run from that person. That's what I did with the fans, but it was always people.
Again, as I read the book, we hear a lot about who you dislike — (Jeff) Tarango, Becker, Connors, (Thomas) Muster, (Michael) Chang — not so much who you like, besides (Pat) Rafter. Who do you like? Or is it just tough to really have that kind of bond in high-stakes tennis?
I'd like to address the first part of what you said. I want to really make sure that we put this in a proper light. This book is written in present tense, and what I'm going through at those moments with those players are through an 18-year-old, through a confused, scared, angry 25-year-old. I do like Boris. I didn't get to talk about when we went out to Oktoberfest and drank beers together and laughed about some of this stuff. There's nothing hidden between any of us. When I walk in a room with Connors, just because his book is written doesn't change what has existed between me and Connors. So, you know, it feels long ago and juvenile in many ways.
What you're saying is that your relationship with these people has evolved, and because you don't like them in the book doesn't mean you're not friends with them now.
Yeah, and it doesn't mean that I am either.
But to contain anybody's life inside 400 pages is impossible. … You run through this whirl, and you hope that you've chosen the nuggets that allow somebody to understand your anxieties, your fears, your joys, what makes you tick. And so it's an attempt to shine a light on your own life, but your life intersects with these people for different reasons.
I spent seven minutes of my life talking to (Jimmy) ConnorsJimmy and five of those minutes came when I was 7 years old.
You criticize Chang for his religious praise after wins.
I did pray for one result in my life, and that was the 1990 French Open Final, that my hair stayed on. That was the result I was praying for. I felt like, "This is important enough to God, my hair stay on." (laughs)
You called Pete Sampras dull, you point out he's a bad tipper. Why do you include those details?
I'll tell you why. Because, first of all, there were huge distinctions between me and Pete, and they manifested themselves in two entirely different kinds of careers. I needed inspiration in my perspective, in my lens, and that lack of inspiration at times caused me great despair, and a great sense of meaningless.
And Pete didn't. Pete didn't seem to need inspiration. And as a result, he kicked my ass way more times than I beat him. As it relates to anything off the court, this is what I realized in this process: That I don't know Pete, despite all that we've lived. When there wasn't a net between us, there was a wall between us. I fought to find any interaction with him off the court that could somehow be true to the distinctions that exist between us. There's just nothing to pull from. … And that tipping thing really happened. He better not deny it either. (laughs)
You recently played an exhibition together. Can you find more of that common ground today, or is it sort of the same?
No, absolutely the same. He still confuses me. And I'm sure that I confuse him. When he asked me about my book, I told him about the thousands and thousands of hours that I've put into it, and he looked at me like, "What the hell is the matter with you?" At least that's how I perceived it. (laughs)
Pete said that you made him better. Did he make you better, and do you consider him your greatest rival, or do you not even look at your career in those terms?
He was my greatest rival because we played in most of the big matches. You can't deny the rivalry that existed. Did the rivalry always mean something special to me? No, but I was aware of the fact that it was special to others. … I think without Pete in my career, I think my career would've been better, but I think I can honestly say that I as a person would be less.
Why is that?
It taught me a lot. It shined a light on, if anything, on my confusions about myself. … Yeah. I don't identify with athletes who want to be nowhere else than that playing field. It's foreign to me, to the point where I've gone through many years of my life convinced they're just lying. This is positioning, this is poker, this is wanting somebody to believe this, this is positioning. And then I went through other times where I went, "No, they really believe it, and it really is the case." In both cases it perplexed me. So Pete, he confused me, and that confusion made me fight to understand myself in some respects better.
The 1995 U.S. Open loss to Pete you called an uber-loss. Why? Why was that one just so crushing to you, and sent you into a tailspin?
It was coming off a life of not being connected to what it is I do, not liking what it is I do, feeling the price of what it is I do more than I feel the rewards of what it is I do. And the Becker comments in Wimbledon about me personally left such a wound that — we can deal with hurt a lot of ways. We can repress it. Sometimes we can use it as fuel, as anger, and that's what I did.
I kind of chose for the first time in my life not to self-inflict, but to go inflict some pain on others as a result of how I felt. And I tore that summer up, 26-0, and went into that U.S. Open final after that Becker match so kind of physically and emotionally and mentally, and then there's Pete, and I lose to him, and it just heightened the sense of meaningless to me.
I didn't like how I felt the whole summer. I didn't like that. I rode with it, and I lived with it and I needed to be in it, but I didn't like it, it wasn't me. And when I lost to Pete, I would've given up many of those just to have gotten over that. You can win in tennis, and lose, you can go 6-1 and you're a loser. I never could reconcile how much more hurting lost than winning felt good.
You talk, during the time you were having problems with Brooke Shields, and that you purposely tanked the 1996 Australian Open semifinal to Chang to avoid another war with Becker. Can you explain that thinking?
I spent two and a half years reducing it pretty clearly in the book, but I'll give you a couple of sound bites on it. Tanking, it's more detestable than it sounds, because when you tank, it sounds like you just threw it away.
We've all tanked. I think maybe it's kind of like taking drugs. It feels great while you're doing it, and afterwards you feel (terrible).
That's well said. You like yourself less.
But at the time it feels good. It's relief. You disengage the ego.
You numb the pain.
But there's different ways to tank. … And so I was not, I was going to not show up on Sunday — that was my goal.
Do you regret that now?
I regret all of it. I regret all of it, yet — I would change everything, yet nothing. While I regret the fact that that had to be the case, it had to be the case. I don't know how else I could've lived my life.
You don't need to expand too much on this, but the French Open, you never liked clay, you had your best early results in majors there, then it became your sort of albatross before you finally shook it off by winning in 1999. Do you consider that the pinnacle of your career?
I do. That, and also New York at the end (2006). But winning there in Paris was the tops.
You call the number of Slams as sort of the marker for someone's greatest in tennis "bogus," and winning all four the "holy grail." How did you come to that? Someone could look at that and say that's a little self-serving.
Yeah, interesting, but I'm charged also with the duty of giving my perspective on it. If you look at it through historical lenses, through people who know the sport inside and out, people who play the sport, champions from the past, you'll see a history of generations that skipped many tournaments. Bjorn Borg didn't play Australia when it was on grass and he was dominating Wimbledon — he played it one time. … So I'm not degrading what an accomplishment it is to win more Slams. Every one you win is a great accomplishment. What I'm saying is it was never the benchmark. It didn't become the benchmark until the '90s.