I didn't pick up Andre Agassi’s Open expecting to fall headfirst into an existential whirlpool. Honestly, I anticipated pages filled with sweat-drenched match points and polished trophies. Instead, I was instantly captivated by the brutal honesty of a man who despises tennis—a man whose entire identity hinges upon the very thing he resents. From that unexpected collision, I couldn’t look away. Agassi opens his memoir candidly: “I play tennis for a living even though I hate tennis, hate it with a dark and secret passion.” Right there, …
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