Open
The eight-time Grand Slam champion's confession that he hated tennis all along: a childhood conscripted by his father's ball machine, a career spent inside a manufactured image, and the slow construction of a life he actually chose. Written with J.R. Moehringer.
A ghostwritten athlete memoir arrives under suspicion, and Open earns a share of it. Moehringer's fingerprints sit on every scene: the present tense, the novelistic staging, arcs that resolve a touch too cleanly. Skeptics call it the most elegant image renovation in sports publishing, confession deployed as brand strategy. And the hate-tennis refrain, sounded across two decades of prize money, grows theatrical on repetition. He despised the game, he tells us, while cashing its checks for twenty years.
The case for it and the rest of the canon open with Pro.
