They say that winning your first tennis major is always the toughest but most memorable achievement. Perhaps it’s the same principle with autobiographies; it’s the first one that really counts.
Except, of course, there isn’t really supposed to be a second autobiography. How many lives warrant two? Even Winston Churchill didn’t follow up My Early Life with another volume of memoirs.
But then Churchill didn’t win seven tennis majors. And so 15 years after Serious: The Autobiography, John McEnroe, the supremely gifted tennis punk turned celebrated TV pundit, brings us But Seriously: An Autobiography.
The second title, while riding on the first, is also a subtle admission that a) it’s more of the same and b) less definitive than the original, which as sports memoirs go was very readable and full of compelling insight into its author’s troubled mind.
The problem is that while McEnroe has established himself as perhaps the most distinctive voice in tennis punditry, it’s not a world that one has a particular desire to learn more about. After all, how many of us wake up and ask the question: I wonder what John Inverdale is really like behind the scenes?
And so McEnroe rehashes many of the stories from the first autobiography and adds in tales from the seniors circuit. But again, does anyone really care about the seniors circuit? McEnroe opens with a long anecdote about playing a 2015 exhibition match against his old rival Ivan Lendl, whose victory over him at the 1984 French Open continues to induce sweat-filled nightmares for the American.
For McEnroe, it still really matters and he gloats over his exhibition victory in a manner that is meant to be humorous but that says rather more about the difficulty of living a mature life in the shadow of youthful achievement.
In a way, it’s quite admirable. If you’re going to compete – even in your 50s – why not take it seriously? But it’s hard for the reader to take it seriously. Then again, very few successful sports stars have ever matched the emotional investment that McEnroe puts into his tennis. And he played at his peak when tennis was a kind of psychodynamic workshop, and acting out was almost as obligatory as headbands.
For a long time after McEnroe retired, the tennis world lamented the lack of personalities in the becalmed era of Michael Chang and Pete Sampras. But as Martin Amis once noted, in tennis, personality was an exact synonym for “asshole”. The late 1970s and early 80s were the golden era of proctological “personalities”.
But in recent years, men’s tennis has reached a historical peak of excitement and talent with very little histrionics. All of which leaves McEnroe’s shtick looking increasingly dated, even laboured, as if he’s going through the motions with his emotions.
Initially on retirement McEnroe took his bad boy act to the obvious place – entertainment TV. He got a slot as a talkshow host, but as he confesses with winning candour, he got bored listening to his guests.
He describes his excursions into the art world as a dealer with much the same attitude as he brought to the tennis court – there are plenty of triumphant victories (he buys a Freud) and frustrating losses (he misses out on a Basquiat). And he doesn’t hold back on his opinions.
He thinks Warhol is overrated and, despite commissioning him to paint him and his ex-wife Tatum O’Neal, McEnroe mostly remembers the Factory guru as someone who cramped his style when he tried to hit on models at Studio 54.
And here we come to that area of McEnroe’s life that has flourished so well post-tennis that he could stake a valid claim to be the new world No 1 in the field: name-dropping. Boy, you could get backache from bending down to pick up all the dropped names that litter these pages.
He plays guitar with the Pretenders, hangs out with the Rolling Stones, is friends with Paul McCartney, pals with Tom Hanks, skis with Arnold Schwarzenegger, knows Bill Clinton, meets Nelson Mandela, and is on hugging terms with Donald Trump. On it goes, with more celebs per anecdote than there are on Centre Court on finals day.
In a story about working with Larry David, he manages to mention in passing “Jerry Seinfeld, who I thought was great (he lives one floor below me in our New York building now, so he’s not done too badly)”.
It’s a typical aside. Yes, he’s sending himself up a bit, but he also wants us to know that Seinfeld lives “below” him. The brash, insecure kid from Queens once again disproves that old saw about there being no second acts in American life. There are, but as this second autobiography shows, it’s usually just the first act reworked in a new setting.
• But Seriously by John McEnroe is published by W&N (£20). To order a copy for £17 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99
