Becker's book: An ace with some faults

<div class="section1"><div class="Normal">MUMBAI: While the US Open is on, it is time perhaps to revisit Boris Becker, one of the tournament''s popular winners and among the most charismatic figures in sports history. <br /><br />Becker gives us that chance with his autobiography, <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">The Player</span> (published by Bantam Press), the English version of which was released before this year''s Wimbledon.<br /><br />It hasn''t received great reviews, and the reasons are not hard to see. One, there are no pictures, inexplicable considering Becker is vain and photogenic. Two, at first glance it doesn''t appear an athlete''s book. The cover shows Becker in a clubby avatar, eyes drugged and dark, his stylishly unkempt look overdone. Then there is Becker himself. Reviewers are put off by his megalomania and shocked by his eye which roved even the night his labour-pained wife checked into hospital. <br /><br />Yet, the book befits place on the shelf. Because like everything about the former world No 1, it is passionate and different. <br /><br />The narrative, embellished with some brilliant lines, is disjointed and staccato in an arty way. Time frames and tenses mix the way serve-volley and groundstrokes do in a player''s tactical tool box. The book thus succeeds, though unintentionally, in reflecting the unsettled nature of a modern sportsman''s life. <br /><br />Beginning with the poignant scene of him reading the children''s Bible to sons Elias and Noah, Becker moves on to other things, like his own childhood. A conservative father, Karl-Heinz, and a steadfast mother, Elvira, shepherded him through the early years. Becker captures their characters well, often through anecdotes. Elvira''s matter-of-fact, wry style is evident in her reaction to Anna, the daughter Becker fathered during the famous broom cupboard encounter with Angela Ermakova. "Oh, so we have a girl now," she said when Becker broke the news to her. <br /><br />Becker shares many of the interesting experiences that he had through his peripatetic, high-profile career. His fascination for New York led him to befriend a drug addict, who agreed to show him the dark side of the world''s greatest city. <br /><br />It was in New York again that he escaped a baseball bat-wielding gang by flattening the accelerator of his Mercedes and jumping the signal. But the palm goes to an incident in a Wiesbaden hotel, where Becker stopped for a quiet, secret weekend with future wife Barbara. In glasses and hat, Becker entered his name as Harry Hartel, forgetting that the credit card with which he made the booking bore his real name. Bless that hotel staffer, because he didn''t leak it out to the newspaper guys, just said: "Welcome, Herr Hartel."<br /><br />On the flip side, in addition to that mentioned above, the book is a spent force by the second half, lapsing into repetition and lack of direction. And Becker''s burden-of-fame cant can get weary. Besides, despite being a ferocious competitor, he doesn''t go into details of his matches. To some, that is another shortcoming. But then <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">The Player</span> is not as much about tennis as it is about a tennis life. </div> </div>