Andre Agassi Meth, Memoir And Mumbo Jumbo

by digiburger

1 Nov
2009

This post sponsored by VINTAGE CHRISTMAS CARDS OldSchoolArts.com

digitalcheeseburger.com creeped out
Tennis legend Andre Agassi’s ghostwriter didn’t stand even a ghost of a chance when faced with having to pen his autobiography, titled “Open” which Digital Cheeseburger suggests ought to remain Closed!

Okay, so the reader of this confessional-cum-contrivance tome is expected, as per damned usual, to sympathize with the poor little rich druggie celebrity forced down the celebrated pathway of narcotics abuse to ease the pressures of fame and fortune a tad bit. Agassi claims his 1997 use of crystal meth was in part down to anxiety over his impending marriage to Brooke Shields. Brooke Shields for pity’s sake! Oh yeah, every guy would need to reach for the escape pills in that scenario. Yeah right, Agassi.

He compounded his meth headedness by lying to the Association of Tennis Professionals (ATP) when snared by their drug-testing. Claiming to have imbibed a spiked soda belonging to “Slim,” his assistant, the ATP suckered under and let him play on. Noteworthy, however, is since his drugs’ revelation in this book, the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) is currently investigating whether charges can be brought against his lies after failing the drug test. We hope the throw the book (yes, their’s and his!) at him.

The Great Confessor then goes on to cross the unbelievably sublime with the patently ridiculous:

“I play tennis for a living, even though I hate tennis, hate it with a dark and secret passion, and always have.”

Oh please, do your readers just the one little favor here and do not insult the intelligence so harshly, Agassi. No one could ever become a Wimbledon wonder, let alone snag tens-of-millions-of dollars and eight Grand Slam titles through hating the game. That kind of success, particularly in this type of sports demands commitment commanding love of the racquet.

We’ll trail off here, not wishing to elaborate any on his memories of his Las Vegas childhood with a father portrayed as some sort of gun-toting Mafia mobster mustache Pete, who’d fill a guy full of lead for daring even to drive down the same boulevard. A father who littered their Sin City house’s roof with air kill, apparently daddy disliked hawks:

“Our house is blanketed with his victims, dead birds that cover the roof as thickly as tennis balls cover the court.”

Guess literary license is permitted to stretch to breaking point the readers’ suspension of disbelief in an Agassi yarn masquerading as yet another anecdotal tale in his creepy life’s story.