When you read an autobiography you expect to get something that you can't get from any other source. Where was the dirt? Where was the inside look into his family life? Where were the heartwarming photos that would provide me a window into who exactly Brendan Fevola is?
All we got was a play-by-play of every match he'd ever been in and how many goals he'd kicked, with plenty of name-dropping and an OTT amount of "perspective." We know you fucked up, but seriously, how okay can you be with how each situation was handled?
I understand that depression is a serious mental illness, and I have no doubt that he has been suffering with it for years before he even started in the AFL, but I think taking every bad thing that's happened in your life and blaming yourself as the reason for it is not a healthy way to look at things.
He takes every team loss as a personal affront to his abilities. Or he's on the opposite side, and the loss happened but it wasn't his fault because he kicked *insert number of goals and behinds as he does on nearly every page of this book.*
I wanted to get to know Fev personally through this book; that is what a good autobiography should do. Instead I got stats, a long list of "great mates," a recap of every article ever written about him, excuses for his bad behaviour and rollercoaster performances, and barely a peek into Fevola's private life.
I started this book expecting more and was left severely wanting.