How Tracy Austin Broke my Heart

I think that the primary aspect of happiness that I derive from David Foster Wallace's sense of writing is his flow. Within any piece of writing there is a natural sense of push and pull with the reader. A sense of building up as points are made and built off one another. The payoff for any lengthy point is made up as if of puzzle pieces sliding together. The author's ability to focus extremely precisely on one particular aspect of a scene is total, and thus there must be great trust from the reader to be lead and directed through the world of the novel or essay. As such, rating the final denouement is in fact rating the entire buildup. Did the author deserve my trust? Was I right to relax and enjoy the sliding of puzzle pieces together? David Foster Wallace, from the very first sentence, assuages such concerns.

Because I am a long-time rabid fan of tennis in general and Tracy Austin in particular, I've rarely looked forward to reading a sports memoir the way I looked forward to Ms. Austin's Beyond Center Court: My Story, ghosted by Christine Brennan and published by Morrow. This is a type of mass-market book—the sports-star-"with"-somebody autobiography—that I seem to have bought and read an awful lot of, with all sorts of ups and downs and ambivalence and embarassment, usually putting these books under something more highbrow when I get to the register. I think Austin's memoir has maybe finally broken my jones for the genre, though.

I love that his prose presents you with a picture of an author that to me invites comfort. Firstly, they are experienced and passionate, thus their probability of having something to say on a class of objects is high. Second, they are self-conscious, with the way that he places the books under something more high-brow immediately reminding you that he does indeed read serious literature and thus, he is likely to be like me and you, someone reflective and thoughtful. Finally, he ends it with a wonderful hook, that although he has this guilty pleasure, this book may finally have given him a thesis about them that either transcends or ruins the entire lot so thoroughly that there cannot be anything more to extract; And at the end of this essay, you too will have their understanding of this world that you heretofore never even considered.

Now I can feel the tension in the words I have written. 'What,' say the audience, 'is the understanding?'. But I fear that I have yet more to say before I reveal that.