Confession Choc

Après, on ne peut pas écrire une biographie sans parler de ceux que vous avez croisés dans la vie, et pour Agassi, sa carrière pro et affronter d'autres joueurs sur le circuit représentant 20 ans de sa vie, c'est normal qu'il y ait quelques "impressions" sur certains d'entre eux, non ?

Kid Stefano a écrit:

Par contre, je suis pas d'accord, il balance pas des masses sur les autres, j'aurais préféré plus de révélations sur les autres joueurs car il sait peut-être des trucs très croustillants de l'intérieur (mais bon, on se retrouve vite avec un procès au cul de nos jours) que ses révélations gênantes sur "et j'ai croqué des amphéts' depuis que je suis gamin, et j'ai balancé des matchs etc etc..."


Parceque là, ce qu'il dit sur Sampras Chang ou Becker, c'est que dalle! Sampras, on sait déjà tout ça, même lui ne cache pas que c'est la personne la plus ennuyeuse à vivre, on sait qu'ils s'appérciaient et se respectaient sur le court mais pas trop en dehors, rien de nouveau!
Chang il casse les couilles à tout le monde avec sa religion, ça coûte rien de dire tout haut ce que beaucoup pensent tout bas!
Mais bon, le pauvre est pas né dans une famille mais dans une vraie secte...

Justement, il ne dit rien. C'est de la bisbille alors qu'on sent bien qu'il y a de la rancœur (ou/et de la jalousie...) dans ses propos. Du coup, ca en devient un peu grotesque. Là, je suis peut-être plus clair.

Enfin là ce ne sont que des extraits. Attendons le livre pour voir s'il balance ou non

Agassi a écrit:

Sur ces liens, il y a vraiment toute l'interview :

http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=5579067n&tag=api
http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=5579259n&tag=api

La deuxième partie est plus intéressante et plus émotionnelle aussi lLinguiste d un niveau plus bas que Zoé et Ted j ai un peu de mal avec l accent de dédé.


En tout cas il n a pas trop a s en vouloir vu qu il a menti sur une drogue récréative et pas sur un produit dopant.


La ou il doit s en vouloir c est de lacher volontairement une demi à l AO au noms de tous se fans fan et au non du tennis, ça c est beaucoup plus grave...


De toute façon moi j ai connu vraiment dédé en 99, mais pour les plus vieux cela doit faire un choc...

Agassi est quelqu un de bien quand même, donc je ne comprend pas pourquoi il crache sur pete qu il respectait beaucoup ou même sur chang....

agassi the overgifted a écrit:

La ou il doit s en vouloir c est de lacher volontairement une demi à l AO au noms de tous se fans fan et au non du tennis, ça c est beaucoup plus grave...


De toute façon moi j ai connu vraiment dédé en 99, mais pour les plus vieux cela doit faire un choc...

Oui, ça fait un choc, balancer un GC comme ça alors qu'il avait fait le plus dur, et qu'il ne restait que des joueurs qu'il battait souvent, et pour une raison absolument ridicule, c'est à peine croyable un gâchis pareil, ça change carrément tout un palmarès!

Et moi, devant ma télé comme un con, à l'aube et sans avoir dormi, les yeux explosés de fatigue, à passer 1 h 40 à me dire: "Mais qu'est ce qu'il fout ? mais qu'est ce qu'il fout ?"

Tenez, je n'ai retrouvé que ça, comme extrait de ce match, ça donne une indication quand même, j'aurais aimé trouvé plus mais bon, comme c'est pas un grand match, c'est normal!

Citation :

Dans une interview accordée à nos confrères de L'Equipe, Marat Safin est revenu sur l'affaire Agassi. Si Federer parle de "déception" et Nadal, de "manque de respect", le Tsar, lui, met la barre un cran plus haut. Franchise et ironie sont au rendez-vous ; du Safin dans le texte.

"J'ai entendu parlé du livre d'Agassi. Personnellement, je n'écrirai pas mon autobiographie. Moi, je n'ai pas besoin d'argent. La question est : pourquoi, lui, l'a-t-il fait ? Ce qui est fait est fait. Il espère vendre plus de livres ? Mais il est complètement stupide ! Je ne veux pas défendre les gens de l'ATP mais ce qu'il a dit les a mis dans une sale position. Or, c'est l'ATP qui lui a permis de gagner tous ces tournois, tout cet argent. Ils ont gardé son secret, pourquoi leur faire subir cela ? Il y a des fois où vous devriez être en mesure de la fermer. Okay, il se sent coupable ? Alors qu'il rende ses titres, son argent et ses Grands Chelems ! S'il est tellement fair-play, qu'il aille jusqu'au bout. L'ATP doit bien avoir un compte en banque, il peut leur faire un virement. Tout le monde avait entendu parler de cette histoire. Au sein de l'ATP, il y avait des rumeurs. Et il n'y a jamais de fumée sans feu."

source WLY





Je me suis levée de ma chaise, j'ai crié "yeah!"
True story

Marat je t'aime
C'est là que je réalise qu'il va me manquer quand même...

Enorme, alala Safin, c'est clair qu'il va manquer
En tout cas le lire est toujours un réel plaisir

tango a écrit:

Citation :

Dans une interview accordée à nos confrères de L'Equipe, Marat Safin est revenu sur l'affaire Agassi. Si Federer parle de "déception" et Nadal, de "manque de respect", le Tsar, lui, met la barre un cran plus haut. Franchise et ironie sont au rendez-vous ; du Safin dans le texte.

"J'ai entendu parlé du livre d'Agassi. Personnellement, je n'écrirai pas mon autobiographie. Moi, je n'ai pas besoin d'argent. La question est : pourquoi, lui, l'a-t-il fait ? Ce qui est fait est fait. Il espère vendre plus de livres ? Mais il est complètement stupide ! Je ne veux pas défendre les gens de l'ATP mais ce qu'il a dit les a mis dans une sale position. Or, c'est l'ATP qui lui a permis de gagner tous ces tournois, tout cet argent. Ils ont gardé son secret, pourquoi leur faire subir cela ? Il y a des fois où vous devriez être en mesure de la fermer. Okay, il se sent coupable ? Alors qu'il rende ses titres, son argent et ses Grands Chelems ! S'il est tellement fair-play, qu'il aille jusqu'au bout. L'ATP doit bien avoir un compte en banque, il peut leur faire un virement. Tout le monde avait entendu parler de cette histoire. Au sein de l'ATP, il y avait des rumeurs. Et il n'y a jamais de fumée sans feu."

source WLY





Je me suis levée de ma chaise, j'ai crié "yeah!"
True story

Marat je t'aime
C'est là que je réalise qu'il va me manquer quand même...

Il a faux sur presque toute la ligne et je ne le laisserai pas dire de telles conneries...



Ce n est pas du dopage, il a pas gagné des matches grace à cela...

Au pire c etait trois mois de suspension à une époque ou il n avait plus rien à perdre...


Ca lui aurait permis de continuer son foncier en fin de saison, et cela n aurait rien changé pour la suite....


Et je ne dis pas cela pour défendre agassi, je dis ce que pense être vrai....


Par contre le coup de sa demi balancée et ses propos sur les joueurs ça me choque un peu ça...

C'est pas vraiment le problême.
Marat dit juste que Agassi a truandé l'ATP en déballant toute l'histoire quand ils ont décidé de passer l'éponge sur son cas.

C'est ce que je disais au début de ce topic aussi, c'est pas réglo comme attitude...

d'accord avec tuco, l'atp lui afait une grosse fleur en le couvrant, et maintenant pour donner l'impression d'etre honnette il les balances...

Tuco Benedicto Pacifico a écrit:

C'est pas vraiment le problême.
Marat dit juste que Agassi a truandé l'ATP en déballant toute l'histoire quand ils ont décidé de passer l'éponge sur son cas.

C'est ce que je disais au début de ce topic aussi, c'est pas réglo comme attitude...

Je suis d accord avec ça par contre.

C'est sur qu'on peut critiquer le fait que du coup il fout l'atp dans la merde, alors que l'atp avait été clémente à ce moment là.

En même temps, comme il ne cesse de le répéter, son livre s'appelle "Open", et donc il se doit de tout dire, sinon le titre n'a plus de sens.

Et dans un sens, c'est aussi ça que j'aime bien dans l'initiative de dd, c'est qu'il dit vraiment tout, afin qu'on comprenne vraiment tout. Agassi a souvent dit qu'il concevait sa tactique sur un terrain comme un puzzle.
Que chaque point marqué, et la façon dont il a été marqué, etait une piece de ce puzzle.

Là son livre je le vois pareil. L'histoire de la meth est une piece du puzzle qui permettra de tout comprendre.

Voici sinon des extraits du livre, histoire de vous mettre l'eau à la bouche Perso je trouve ça passionnant à lire.
Zoooeeeee au boulot pour le scan et la traduction INTEGRALE du bouquin !!!!!!!!!



People Magazine – November 9, 2009

ANDRE AGASSI OPENS UP

In a stunningly candid memoir, tennis champ Andre Agassi discusses his marriage to Brooke Shields, the truth about his famous hair – and how crystal meth nearly derailed his career.

He was the athlete as rock star, a cocky rebel with shaggy locks and go-for-broke style. Yet Andre Agassi’s wild-child image – and a burning drive that earned him eight Grand slams titles – masked an inner torment he kept hidden throughout his 20- year career and which he reveals only now in his autobiography, Open. “If you’re going to tell your story, you owe it to yourself to tell it honestly,” Agassi, 39, explained to PEOPLE’s Alex Tresniowski. “Especially if you’re going to call it Open.”

Agassi, who retired in 2006, says he spent thousands of hours “downloading my life and finding out the arc of it. I knew my stories, but what was my story?” He explored his deep ambivalence toward tennis and how his demanding father pushed him into the sport. “I never chose this life, so I resented it,” he says. “It came with a huge price tag.” In 1997 he dropped to no. 141 in the world rankings; by then he was already using crystal meth. “It was periodic for a year or so,” he says. “I can’t speak to addiction, but a lot of people would say that if you’re using anything as an escape, you have a problem.” Scared straight after flunking a drug test, he quite and rededicated himself to his sport – and found happiness with Steffi Graf, whom he married in 2001 (they live in Las Vegas with their children Jaden, 8, and Jaz, 6.)

Agassi says he consulted with first wife Brooke Shields before writing about their rocky two-year marriage. “We spent many hours [on it],” he says. “A lot of our recollections were the same, but not the interpretations.” In the end, he says, Shields complimented “the beautiful nature” of the book. “I tried to turn a harder lens on myself,” says Agassi, “than on anyone else.”

I’m seven years old, talking to myself, because I’m scared, and because I’m the only person who listens to me. Under my breath I whisper: Just quit, Andre, just give up. Put down your racket and walk off this court, right now. Wouldn’t that feel like heaven?

But I can’t/ Not only would my father chase me around the house with my racket, but something in my gut won’t let me. I hate tennis, hate it with all my heart, and still I keep playing, because I have no choice. I keep begging myself to stop, and I keep playing, and this gap, this contradiction between what I want to do and what I actually do, feels like the core of my life. My arm feels like it’s going to fall off. I want to ask, How much longer, Pops?

No answer.

I get an idea. Accidentally on purpose, I hit a ball high over the fence. I catch it on the rim of the racket, so it sounds like a misfire. My father sees the ball leave the court. He curses. But he heard the ball hit wood, so he knows it was an accident. He stomps out of the yard. I now have four and a half minutes to catch my breath and watch the hawks circling overhead.

My father likes to shoot hawks with his rifle. He doesn’t like them because they swoop down on mice and other defenseless creatures. He can’t stand the thought of something strong preying on something weak. Of course he has no qualms about preying on me.

Agassi quits school in the ninth grade and turns pro at 16. His looks and style attract nearly as much attention as his game – particularly his hair, which he wears long. In fact, he is going prematurely bald and has to wear a hairpiece, even while playing.

The night before the 1990 French Open, I’m taking a shower and I feel my hairpiece suddenly disintegrate in my hands. The weave is coming undone – the damned thing is falling apart. I summon my brother Philly to my hotel room. Disaster, I tell him. My hairpiece – look! He examines it. We’ll clip it in place, he says.

He runs all over Paris looking for bobby pins. He can’t find any. In the hotel lobby he bumps into Chris Evert and asks her for bobby pins. She doesn’t have any. At last he finds a bag full. He helps me reconfigure the hairpiece and set it in place. Will it hold? I ask. Yeah, yeah. Just don’t move around a lot. We both laugh.

Of course I could play without my hairpiece. But after months of derision, criticism, mockery, I’m too self-conscious. Image is Everything? What would they say if they knew? Win or lose, they wouldn’t talk about my game. They’d only talk about my hair. I can close my eyes and almost hear it. And I know I can’t take it.

Set up by a mutual friend, Agassi and actress Brooke Shields exchange faxes before their first date in Los Angeles shortly after Christmas 1993.

We go to a little Italian joint on San Vicente. We say most of the same things we’ve said by fax, but now, in person, over plates of pasta, they sound different, more intimate. There is nuance now, subtext, body language, and pheromones. Three hours pass in a millisecond.

We discover that, despite our outwardly different lives, we share similar starting points. She knows what it’s like to grow up with a brash, ambitious, abrasive stage parent. Her mother has been her manager since Brooke was eleven months old. The difference: her mother still manages her. And they’re nearly broke, because Brooke’s career is slumping. She does coffee commercials in Europe to pay the mortgage. She says things like this, startlingly candid. I wish I could be half as open. I can’t tell her much about my own torments, though I can’t avoid admitting that I hate tennis. She laughs. You don’t actually hate tennis.

Yes.

But you don’t hate hate it.

I do. I hate it.

My third date with Brooke. We’re kissing, on the verge, but first I need to tell her the truth about my hair. She can sense that I have something on my mind. What’s wrong? She asks.

I haven’t been completely honest with you.

We’re lying on a couch. I sit up, punch a pillow, take a breath.

Andre, what is it?

This isn’t easy to admit, Brooke. But, look, I’ve been losing my hair for quite some time and I wear a hair-piece to cover it up.

I reach out, take her hand, put it on my hairpiece. She smiles. I had a feeling, she says. It’s no big deal. It’s your eyes I find attractive. And your heart. Not your hair.

Shields persuades him to shave his head, to his great relief. But by then cracks are already starting to show in their relationship.

The producers of Friends have asked Brooke to [be a guest on the show]. The actor playing Joey seems like a nice enough guy. When the scene starts, however, I realize I’m going to have to kick his ass. Apparently the script calls for Brooke to grab Joey’s hand and lick it. But she takes it one step further, devouring his hand like an ice-cream cone. Brooke is laughing. Joey is laughing. I’m staring, wide-eyed. Brooke didn’t mention anything about hand licking. On the next take, Brooke takes Joey’s hand and puts it in her mouth, up to the knuckles. I jump out of my seat, push through a side door. Behind me comes Brooke. She grabs my arm and asks, Where are you going? I don’t want to watch you lick that man’s hand, I say. Don’t do this, Brooke says. Me? Me? I’m not doing anything. Go back and enjoy yourselves. Have some more hand. I’m out of here.

Despite escalating tensions, Agassi proposes and the couple set a date.

My wedding looms. I think all the time about postponing it, or calling it off altogether, but I don’t know how. One day I’m watching TV with Slim, my assistant. During a commercial Slim says, You want to get high with me?

High? On what?

Gack.

What the hell’s gack?

Crystal meth.

Why do they call it gack?

Because when you’re high, your mind is going so fast, all you can say is gack, gack, gack.

That’s how I feel all the time. What’s the point?

Make you feel like Superman, dude. I’m telling you.

As if they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth, I hear these words: You know what? Yeah. Let’s get high.

Slim dumps a small pile of powder on the coffee table. He cuts it, I snort some. There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria. I’ve never felt so alive, so hopeful – and above all, I’ve never felt such energy. I don’t sleep for two days. Playing weeks later, I struggle. Afterward, reporters ask if I’m OK. They’re actually concerned. Brooke is remarkably unconcerned. Her oblivion is partly due to the wedding planning, but also her rigorous premarital training regimen. For motivation, she tapes a photo on the refrigerator door. It’s a photo of the perfect woman, she says. The perfect woman with the perfect legs – the legs Brooke wants. The photo is Steffi Graf.

Agassi and Shields wed in April 1997. At the nearly 6-ft.- tall bride’s request, he’s wearing shoes with lifts.

That summer, Brooke is in Los Angeles, but I spend most of my time in Vegas. Slim and I get high a lot. Apart from the buzz of getting high, I get an undeniable satisfaction from harming myself and shortening my career. After decades of merely dabbling in masochism, I’m making it my mission. Then, in the fall of 1997, I get a phone call. It’s a man with a gruff voice. It’s my duty, he says, to inform you that you’ve failed the standard ATP [Association of Tennis Professionals] drug test. The urine sample you submitted has been found to contain trace amounts of crystal methylene. If you knowingly ingested the drug, you’ll be disciplined, of course. Three months’ suspension.

I write a letter to the ATP. I say Slim, whom I’ve since fired, often spikes his sodas with meth – which is true. I say that I drank accidentally from one of Slim’s spiked sodas. I don’t know what else to do but lie. I’ve never been so disgusted with myself. I tell [my coach] I’m done with drugs, I’ll never touch them again.

He’s true to his word. But his marriage to Shields remained troubled.

I’m sitting in our bathroom in Los Angeles, watching Brooke get ready to go out. Brooke accuses me of refusing to participate in her world. She says I’m not open to new experiences, new people. I could be rubbing elbows every night with geniuses – writers, artists, actors, musicians. But all I want to do is stay home, watch TV, and maybe, just maybe, have my friends over for dinner. I can’t lie. That does sound like a perfect night.

They divorce in 1999. That same year, Agassi connects with a fellow tennis champ who’d resisted his advances in the past – Steffi Graf.

[At the 2000 French Open, I lose in the second round.] Later I tell Stefanie that I don’t understand why I sometimes come apart – still. She gives me insights from her experience. Stop thinking, she says. Feeling is the thing. Feeling. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. It sounds like a sweeter, softer version of my father. But when Stefanie says it, the words go deeper. Other times, Stefanie knows there is nothing to be said. She touches my cheek and tilts her hand and I see that she gets it – that she’s been there – and that’s enough.

Agassi and Graf begin dating, and in 2001 they announce she is pregnant.

It’s what we both wanted, and she’s delighted, but frightened too. So many changes. We go out dinner, to Matsuhisa. We sit holding hands, telling each other it’s going to be fantastic. I don’t realize until later that this is the same restaurant where it all unraveled with Brooke. Just like tennis. The same court on which you suffer your bloodiest defeat can become the scene of your sweetest triumph. After we’re done eating and crying and celebrating, I say: I guess we should get married. Her eyes widen. I guess so.

Agassi retires in 2006, finally giving up the game he both loved and hated. Then one day he and Graf – who have no tennis court in their Las Vegas home – drive to the local court for a pickup game.

I hit a screaming backhand – into the net. First backhand crosscourt I’ve missed in twenty years. For a moment it bothers me. I tell Stefanie it bothers me. I feel myself getting irritated. Then I laugh, and Stefanie laughs, and we begin again. Soon we’re having so much fun that when the rain comes, we don’t notice.

D'autres morceaux du livre :


Excerpts:-

Excerpt 1:- October 2001

In October 2001, 3 days before Stefanie is due to give birth, we invite our mothers and a Nevada judge to the house.

I love watching Stefanie with my mother. The 2 shy women in my life. Stefanie often brings her a couple ofnew jigsaw puzzles. And I adore Stefanie's mother, Heidi. She looks like Stefanie, so she had me at guten tag. Stefanie and I, barefoot and wearing jeans, stand before the judge in the courtyard. For wedding bands we use twists of old raffia Stefanie found in a drawer - the same stuff I used to decorate her first birthday card. Neither of us notices the coincidence until later.

My father insists he's not the least bit slighted by not getting an invite. He doesn't want an invite. The last thing he wants to do is attend a wedding. He doesn't like weddings. (He walked out in the middle of my first.) He doesn't care where or when or how I make Stefanie my wife, he says, so long as I do it. She's the greatest women's tennis player of all time, he says. What's not to like?

The judge runs through his legal rigmarole, and Stefanie and I are just about to say I do, when a team of landscapers arrive. I run outside and ask them to please turn off their lawnmowers and leaf blowers for 5 minutes so that we can get married. They apologized. One holds a finger over his lips.

By the power vested in me, the judge says, and at last, at long last, with 2 mothers and 3 landscapers looking on, Steffi Graf becomes Stefanie Agassi.

Excerpt 2:- Key Biscayne tournament - April 2002

"One morning Stefanie goes off to buy groceries and get in a fast workout. She dares to leave me alone with Jaden. My first time flying soll.

You two going to be OK? she asks.

Of course.

I sit Jaden on the bathroom counter, lean him against the mirror, let him play with my toothbrush while I get ready. He likes to suck on the toothbrush while watching me shave my head with the electric shearers.

I ask him, What do you think of your bald daddy?

He smiles.

You know, son, I was once like you: long hair flowing in every direction.You're not fooling anyone with that comb-over.

He smiles wider, no idea what I'm saying, of course.

I measure his hair with my fingers.

Actually, you look a little ratty there, buddy. You could use a clean-up. I put a different attachment on the shearer, the attachment for trimming. When I run the shearer across Jaden's little head, however, it leaves a bright stripe of scalp down the middle, as white as the baseline.

Wrong attachment.

Stefanie will murder me. I need toe ven this boy's hair out before she gets home. But in my frantic attempt to even out the hair, I make it shorter. Before I know what's happened, my son is balder than I. He looks like Mini-me.

When Stefanie comes through the door she stops in her tracks and stares, saucer-eyed. What the --? Andre, she says, what on earth is the matter with you? I leave you alone for forty-five minutes and you shave the baby?

Then she lets fly a burst of histrionic German.

I tell her it was an accident. The wrong attachment. I beg her forgiveness.

I know, I say, it looks like I did it on purpose. I know I'm always joking abut wanting to shave the world.But honest, Stefanie, this was a mistake.

I try to remind her of that old wives' tale, that if you shave a child's head the hair will grow back faster and thicker, but she holds up a hand and starts laughing. She's bent over laughing. Now Jaden is laughing at Mommy laughing. Now we're all giggling, rubbing Jaden's head and mine, joking that the only one left is Stefanie, and she'd better sleep with one eye open. I'm laughing too hard to speak, and days later, in the final of Key Biscayne, I beat Federer. It's a good win. He's as hot as anyone on tour. He came into this tournament with 23 wins so far this year.

It's my 51st tournament victory, my 700th victory overall. And yet I have no doubt I'll remember this tournament less for beating Federer than for that one belly laugh. I wonder if the luahg had something to do with the win. It's easier to be free and loose, to be yourself, after laughing with the ones you love. The right attachments."

Un dernier pour la route :

Practice session at Key Biscayne in 1999

The next tournament where Steffi and I are both scheduled to play is Key Biscayne. Brad tells me to relax, he’ll get me close. He knows Steffi’s coach, Heinz Gunthardt. He’ll talk to Heinz about setting up a practice session.

The moment we arrive in Key Biscayne, Brad phones Heinz, who’s surprised by the proposition. He says no. He says Steffi would never agree to break her regular preparation schedule for a practice session with a stranger. She’s too regimented. Also she’s shy. She’d be highly uncomfortable. But Brad is persistent, and Heinz must have some trace of romantic in him. He suggests Brad and I book the court for right after Steffi’s practice session, then arrive early. Heinz will then casually suggest that Steffi hit a few balls with me.

It’s all set, Brad says. High noon. You. Me. Steffi. Heinz. Let’s get this party started.


On the appointed day, Brad and I get to the court 40 minutes early. I’ve never been so breathless. I’ve played 7 times in the final of a Grand Slam and I never felt like this. We find Heinz and Steffi deeply absorbed in their practice session. We stand off to the side, watching. After a few minutes Heinz calls to Steffi to the net and says something to her. He points to us.

She looks.

I smile.

She doesn’t.

She says a few words to Heinz, and Heinz says a few words, and then she shakes her head. But when she jogs back to the baseline, Heinz waves me onto the court.

I tie my shoes quickly. I pull a racket out of the bag and walk onto the court – then impulsively whip off my shirt. It’s shameless, I realize, but I’m desperate. Steffi looks and does a barely detectable double take. Thank you, Gil.

We start to hit. She’s flawless, of course, and I’m struggling to get the ball over the net. The net is your biggest enemy. Relax, I tell myself. Stop thinking. Come on, Andre, it’s only a practice session.

But I can’t help myself. I’ve never seen a woman so beautiful. Standing still, she’s a goddess; in motion, she’s poetry. I’m a suitor, but also a fan. I’ve wondered for so long what Steffi Graf’s forehand feels like. I’ve watched her on TV and at tournaments and I’ve wondered how that ball feels when it comes flying off her racket. A ball feels different off every player’s racket – there are minute but concrete subtleties of force and spin. Now, hitting with her, I feel her subtleties. It’s like touching her, though we’re 40 feet apart. Every forehand is foreplay.

She hits a series of backhands, carving up the court with her famous slice. I need to impress her with my ability to take that slice and do whatever I want with it. But it’s harder than I thought. I miss one. I yell to her: you’re not going to get away with that again!

She says nothing. She hits another slice. I sit down on my backhand and hit the ball as hard as I can.

She nets the return.

I yell: That shot pays a lot of bills for me!

Again, nothing. She merely hits the next one deeper and slicier.

Generally, during my practice sessions, Brad likes to keep busy. He chases balls, offers pointers, runs his mouth. Not this time. He’s sitting in the umpire chair, his eyes peeled, a lifeguard on a shark-infested beach.

Whenever I look in his direction he mutters one word. Beautiful.

Around the edges of the court, people are beginning to gather, to gawk. A few photographers snap photos. I wonder why. Is it the rarity of a male and female player practicing? Or is it that I’m catatonic and missing every 3rd ball? From a distance, it looks as if Steffi is giving a lesson to a shirtless, grinning mute.

After we hit for 1 hour and 10 minutes, she waves and comes to the net.

Thank you very much, she says.

I trot to the net and say, The pleasure was all mine.

I manage to act nonchalant, until she starts to use the net post to stretch out her legs. All the blood rushes to my head. I need to do something physical or I might lose consciousness. I’ve never stretched before, but now seems like a good time to start. I put a leg on the net post and pretend my back is flexible. We stretch, talk about the tour, complain about the travel, compare notes on different cities we’ve enjoyed.

I ask, What’s your favorite city? When tennis is over, where do you imagine living?

Oh. It’s a tie, I think. Between New York and San Francisco.

I think: Have you ever thought of living in Las Vegas?

I say: My 2 favorites also.

She smiles. Well, she says. Thanks again.

Any time.

We do the European double-cheek kiss.

C'etait l'émeute en tout cas à las vegas pour la signature du livre de dd.

L'opinion publique réagit trés trés bien apparemment, en reconnaissant le courage de dd, et le risque pris par rapport à sa réputation.

Une autre interview en vidéo de dd, où il parle de la meth et des matchs balancés :

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/blog/index?entryID=4637551&name=bodo_peter

Oui, c'est mignon, les extraits...

Tiens un truc moins mignon.
J'ai vu l'info à pas mal d'endroit, et je ne crois pas qu'on l'ai mentionné ici...

Mais apparemment : "the most shocking revelation of all: Beginning in 1999, he says, he never played wearing underwear again"

Donc pour traduire, apparemment depuis le début de l'année 1999 et jusqu'a la fin de sa carriere, Agassi jouait sans sous vetements !!!

Kain a écrit:

Enorme, alala Safin, c'est clair qu'il va manquer
En tout cas le lire est toujours un réel plaisir

Oui, il peut arreter le tennis on s'en fout de toute facon il sait plus jouer, mais faudrait juste que les journalistes continuent a l'interviewer regulierement, juste pour le plaisir Ha, j'aime son franc-parler a ce mec-la, il est juste enorme...

Ce qui fait chier c'est sa resolution de ne PAS ecrire son autobiographie, allez Marat, fais-nous rire!!!!!

Ce qui est marrant, dans la vidéo du match contre Chang que j'ai mis suite à ses révélations, c'est qu'à certains moments, il a presque l'air dépité, ce qui prouve que c'est vraiment un très bon acteur!

D'ailleurs, maintenant, j'aimerais bien qu'il fasse du cinéma, parceque écrire des bouquins, je sens que ça va pas me plaire longtemps!

Voici une info à prendre au conditionnel, Andre serait en dédicace a la Fnac Montparnasse le Jeudi 17 décembre à 17h.

Je me renseigne sur la véracité de cette info.

Agassi a écrit:

Voici une info à prendre au conditionnel, Andre serait en dédicace a la Fnac Montparnasse le Jeudi 17 décembre à 17h.

Je me renseigne sur la véracité de cette info.

Si t'habites pas loin de Paris, je sens qu'il y aurait de quoi te donner des idéees!

Mais mieux vaut vérifier l'info avant, effectivement!

Kid Stefano a écrit:

Agassi a écrit:

Voici une info à prendre au conditionnel, Andre serait en dédicace a la Fnac Montparnasse le Jeudi 17 décembre à 17h.

Je me renseigne sur la véracité de cette info.

Si t'habites pas loin de Paris, je sens qu'il y aurait de quoi te donner des idéees!

Mais mieux vaut vérifier l'info avant, effectivement!

J'habite en région parisienne
Autant dire que si cette info est vraie, je sais déjà où je passe ma journée du jeudi 17 décembre

Tuco Benedicto Pacifico a écrit:

C'est pas vraiment le problême.
Marat dit juste que Agassi a truandé l'ATP en déballant toute l'histoire quand ils ont décidé de passer l'éponge sur son cas.

C'est ce que je disais au début de ce topic aussi, c'est pas réglo comme attitude...

Agassi a fait un vrai travail d'introspection, c'est un homme entier qui ne peut pas vivre avec le mensonge, même le plus insignifiant, cf la perruque.
Sa démarche est risquée mais intéressante, derrière le sportif, on va découvrir l'homme je pense. J'ai hâte de lire ce bouquin, ça changera des autobiographies sans aucun intérêt type Leconte ou Becker qui se construisaient un personnage dans leur livre. Avec Agassi, c'est la démarche opposée, il détruit son personnage. C'est une autobiographie de déconstruction ! Mais il y aura sans doute plein de réflexions et d'enseignements à tirer de ce livre.

botany a écrit:

Tuco Benedicto Pacifico a écrit:

C'est pas vraiment le problême.
Marat dit juste que Agassi a truandé l'ATP en déballant toute l'histoire quand ils ont décidé de passer l'éponge sur son cas.

C'est ce que je disais au début de ce topic aussi, c'est pas réglo comme attitude...

Agassi a fait un vrai travail d'introspection, c'est un homme entier qui ne peut pas vivre avec le mensonge, même le plus insignifiant, cf la perruque.
Sa démarche est risquée mais intéressante, derrière le sportif, on va découvrir l'homme je pense. J'ai hâte de lire ce bouquin, ça changera des autobiographies sans aucun intérêt type Leconte ou Becker qui se construisaient un personnage dans leur livre. Avec Agassi, c'est la démarche opposée, il détruit son personnage. C'est une autobiographie de déconstruction ! Mais il y aura sans doute plein de réflexions et d'enseignements à tirer de ce livre.

+1

j'aurais pas dis mieux