A second memoir from John McEnroe, in which the former tennis player talks about his post-tennis life and struggle to reinvent himself as a father, broadcaster, and author.
But Seriously is a cocktail lounge chat, full of tales from McEnroe’s 21st century life, be it as Manhattan resident, father of six, husband of singer Patty Smyth, son of two driven parents, art collector, musical dabbler, TV movie guest and, most significantly, that rarity, a tennis player with cross-over cache ... The emeritus-like, world-weary sensibility of the Rolling Stones pervades this breezy book, from the literal friendships McEnroe has made with several members of the band to the figurative package McEnroe wraps himself in: tennis’ rock star, aging but still restless and intermittently up for a bristle with anyone from pushy fans to authority figures.
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...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? ... 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 ... 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.
McEnroe, the self-appointed 'Commissioner of Tennis,' appears nostalgic and even reflective on some of his past behavior and comments, especially when it comes to issues with his family. In several chapters, he comes off as a self-deprecating husband and father, but it wouldn’t be authentic McEnroe if the book were about being sorry ... McEnroe spends plenty of pages name-dropping his famous non-tennis friends (Lorne Michaels, Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney are just a few), his failed forays into television hosting, his Catholic upbringing, his appreciation of former rival Bjorn Borg, and his second life as an art collector and aspiring musician. But the most tender and vulnerable moments in the book arrive when McEnroe writes about not being appreciative enough of his late father, his son Kevin’s arrest for alleged cocaine possession (which turned out to be baking soda) and his own battles with drug use.
