Ich möchte Ihre kleinen deutschen Kinder haben. That's (approximately; since I remember what she taught me as being slightly different) "I want to have your little German children," as I had my German-taking high school friend translate for me (thanks, Sheryl!). The reason: Boris Becker. My teenage love for him didn't really hold up; looking back, my favorite and hottest tennis players were John McEnroe and Mats Wilander, respectively. But for a while there, Boris was the living end for me.
This book, translated from the German, is not a linear narrative, but a disjointed hodgepodge of Boris' thoughts on tennis, his childhood, his life since tennis, other players, Germany, the Davis Cup system, different countries in Europe, and so on. It's hard to know what is true and what he wants us to believe is true, and like any great athlete, his ego is huge. Also, he must be more famous than I realized in his home country (maybe not David Beckham famous, but more than Alex Rodriguez famous), since many stories are told with the assumption that the reader knows some of the facts or gossip behind them. After reading this, I'm still not sure exactly what his "business" is today: a marketing firm? a sports marketing firm? Something like that.
He saves the impregnating the stranger in the restaurant broom closet story for the very end. The whole book is slightly strange and very Euro-sporty. I was disappointed by the complete lack of pictures, too.
God morgon. Mitt namn ar Lee Anne. I'll save that for when Mats Wilander writes his memoir, translated from the Swedish.