Jimmy connors biography book
The Outsider: A Memoir
April 6, 2016
More than any athlete, other than possibly boxers, tennis players seem to define themselves within the contours of individual will and personality. A lot of tennis greats have written bios in recent years, and each of them seems to have this seminal moment early in their lives that encapsulates how the player sees himself and how he approached the game. Often it takes the form of a tension between the player and the gentility of the greater tennis world. For John McEnroe, it was getting on the subway in New York and commuting to the tony private school where he learned to play, of the tension between his father's working class Irish roots and these rich kids he was now hanging with. For Andre Agassi, it was the image of standing there and watching his dad, a champion boxer back in Iran, beat the living crap out of someone in front of his son. For Jimmy Connors, it was an even more harrowing image: Standing on a public tennis court in East St. Louis as a 7-year old boy and watching as a couple of gangbangers pummeled his mom and his grandfather right there on the court, knocking out most of his mother's teeth and sending them both to the hospital.
This, in a nutshell, is why I have always loved Jimmy Connors, because he was the real deal. Andre's rebel stance was always about image. He was the fair-haired boy with the elegant strokes, even when he was still just the son of an immigrant out hustling the members of the private tennis clubs in Las Vegas. McEnroe's working class blather always struck me as a bit ridiculous, as his dad was an attorney in NYC, and Mac's dream of being the next Eddie Van Halen just another rich kid's wet dream. But Connors earned his street cred the hard way.
Connors game was that of the ultimate scrapper. He was relatively short and kind of scrawny, with only a mediocre serve. His best weapon was this flat, two-handed backhand that he'd rocket just inches above the net, leaving little room for error. Nothing that he did was textbook. He had a great forehand return of serve, where he would catch the ball right off the ground, but he learned it playing tennis off the hardwood in a public gym in Belleville, IL.
As for Connors' autobiography, it is a bit hit and miss: A compelling story lies buried within his series of personal digressions and flippant attempts at humor. His telling of his tale makes it hard to separate Connors the combative athlete, changing the game of tennis while flipping the world the bird, from the silly young man drinking Suave Bolla on his Hollywood veranda, dreaming of being a playboy. People forget that Connors seemingly redefined tennis for about five years there in the early 70's, with his unconventional strokes and nasty attitude, until Borg and McEnroe came and restored order to the tennis universe, Borg with his athleticism and Johnny Mac with his incredible shot making. But for several years, Connors flew around the planet, taking on all rivals in these winner-take-all exhibitions, like a champion boxer, and he rarely lost. It is an era that doesn't fit in easily with our stat obsessed age, and for that reason alone I recommend this book.
It is too bad that Jimmy Connors didn't co-author his biography with a writer worthy of the theme. Because, more than Mac's bio, more than even the most excellent "High Strung," Stephen Tignor's look at the rivalries of this era, Connors' bio is the missing puzzle piece, a first-hand look at this most magical time in the game.
This, in a nutshell, is why I have always loved Jimmy Connors, because he was the real deal. Andre's rebel stance was always about image. He was the fair-haired boy with the elegant strokes, even when he was still just the son of an immigrant out hustling the members of the private tennis clubs in Las Vegas. McEnroe's working class blather always struck me as a bit ridiculous, as his dad was an attorney in NYC, and Mac's dream of being the next Eddie Van Halen just another rich kid's wet dream. But Connors earned his street cred the hard way.
Connors game was that of the ultimate scrapper. He was relatively short and kind of scrawny, with only a mediocre serve. His best weapon was this flat, two-handed backhand that he'd rocket just inches above the net, leaving little room for error. Nothing that he did was textbook. He had a great forehand return of serve, where he would catch the ball right off the ground, but he learned it playing tennis off the hardwood in a public gym in Belleville, IL.
As for Connors' autobiography, it is a bit hit and miss: A compelling story lies buried within his series of personal digressions and flippant attempts at humor. His telling of his tale makes it hard to separate Connors the combative athlete, changing the game of tennis while flipping the world the bird, from the silly young man drinking Suave Bolla on his Hollywood veranda, dreaming of being a playboy. People forget that Connors seemingly redefined tennis for about five years there in the early 70's, with his unconventional strokes and nasty attitude, until Borg and McEnroe came and restored order to the tennis universe, Borg with his athleticism and Johnny Mac with his incredible shot making. But for several years, Connors flew around the planet, taking on all rivals in these winner-take-all exhibitions, like a champion boxer, and he rarely lost. It is an era that doesn't fit in easily with our stat obsessed age, and for that reason alone I recommend this book.
It is too bad that Jimmy Connors didn't co-author his biography with a writer worthy of the theme. Because, more than Mac's bio, more than even the most excellent "High Strung," Stephen Tignor's look at the rivalries of this era, Connors' bio is the missing puzzle piece, a first-hand look at this most magical time in the game.
Best picasso biography book Patrick O'Brian's outstanding biography of Picasso is here available in paperback for the first time. It is the most comprehensive yet written, and the only biography fully to appreciate the distinctly Mediterranean origins of Picasso's character and art. Everything about Picasso, except his physical stature, was on an enormous scale.