Open: An Autobiography. Home · Open: An Autobiography Author: Andre Agassi Theodore Roosevelt; an Autobiography. Read more. Read Open PDF - An Autobiography by Andre Agassi Knopf | From Andre Agassi , one of the most beloved athletes in history and one of the. Read Open: An Autobiography PDF Ebook by Andre Agassi. Random House Audio, ePUB BW8RUHY, cresadtgehomual.cf .PDF).
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Open: An Autobiography
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Nordstrom is an American chain of luxury department stores headquartered in Seattle, Washington. Founded in by John W. Nordstrom and Carl F.. Open From Andre Agassi,.. No one has ever said this to me. An inborn part of me. Few of us are granted the grace to know ourselves, and until we do, maybe the best we can do is be consistent. My father is nothing if not consistent.
This is the only thing we can do that has any lasting value or meaning. To make each other feel safe. What I normally feel is a desire not to lose. But warming up before my first-rounder, I tell myself I want this, and I realize precisely why. My new team, my real team.
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Given half a chance it wantsto return to the beginning, because I'm so close to the end. But I can't let it. Not yet. I can't afford to dwell too long on the past. I get up and walk around the table, test my balance.
When I feel fairly steady I walk gingerly to the shower. Under the hot water I groan and scream. I bend slowly, touch my quads, start to come alive.
My muscles loosen. My skin sings. My pores fly open.
Warm blood goes sluicing through my veins. I feel something begin to stir.
The last drops of youth. Still, I make no sudden movements. I don't want to do anything to startle my spine. I let my spine sleep in.
Standing at the bathroom mirror, toweling off, I stare at my face. Red eyes, gray stubble — a face totally different from the one with which I started. But also different from the one I saw last year in this same mirror. Whoever I might be, I'm not the boy who started this odyssey, and I'm not even the man who announced three months ago that the odyssey was coming to an end.
I'm like a tennis racket on which I've replaced the grip four times and the strings seven times — is it accurate to call it the same racket? Somewhere in those eyes, however, I can still vaguely see the boy who didn't want to play tennis in the first place, the boy who wanted to quit, the boy who did quit many times. I see that golden-haired boy who hated tennis, and I wonder how he would view this bald man, who still hates tennis and yet still plays. Would he be shocked?
The question makes me weary, lethargic, and it's only noon. Advertisement Please let this be over. I'm not ready for it to be over.
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The finish line at the end of a career is no different from the finish line at the end of a match. The objective is to get within reach of that finish line, because then it gives off a magnetic force. When you're close, you can feel that force pulling you, and you can use that force to get across. But just before you come within range, or just after, you feel another force, equally strong, pushing you away. It's inexplicable, mystical, these twin forces, these contradictory energies, but they both exist.
I know, because I've spent much of my life seeking the one, fighting the other, and sometimes I've been stuck, suspended, bounced like a tennis ballbetween the two. Tonight: I remind myself that it will require iron discipline to cope with these forces, and whatever else comes my way.
Back pain, bad shots, foul weather, self-loathing. It's a form of worry, this reminder, but also a meditation.
One thing I've learned in twenty-nine years of playing tennis: Life will throw everything but the kitchen sink in your path, and then it will throw the kitchen sink. It's your job to avoid the obstacles. If you let them stop you or distract you, you're not doing your job, and failing to do your job will cause regrets that paralyze you more than a bad back.
I lie on the bed with a glass of water and read.
When my eyes get tired I click on the TV.Will this be Andre Agassis farewell? They flop on the bed, and my son asks how I'm feeling.
Open: An Autobiography
As usual hes squeezed into a tight yellow security shirt, and he gives me a wink, as if to say, We security guards are supposed to be impartial, but Im rooting for you. Open: An Autobiography - Andre Agassi. Deuce again.
Squillari in Paris.