David Senra

This is a very unusual autobiography where you have somebody that literally becomes the person that's the best in the world at what he does.

And he hates the thing that he does.

And you could never possibly understand that unless you understand the relationship that he has with his father.

I'm seven years old talking to myself because I'm scared and because I'm the only person who listens to me.

Under my breath, I whisper, just quit, Andre.

Just give up.

Put down your racket and walk off this court right now.

but i can't not only would my father chase me around the house with my racket but something in my gut some deep unseen muscle won't let me i hate tennis i hate it with all my heart and i still keep playing keep hitting all morning and all afternoon because i have no choice no matter how much i want to stop i don't i keep begging myself to stop and i keep playing

And this gap, this contradiction between what I want to do and what I actually do feels like the core of my life.

My father yells everything twice, sometimes three times, sometimes 10.

Harder, he says, harder.

Every ball I send across the net joins the thousands that already cover the court.

Not hundreds, thousands.

My father says that if I hit 2,500 balls each day, I'll hit 17,500 balls each week, and at the end of one year, I'll have hit nearly 1 million balls.

He believes in math.

Numbers, he says, don't lie.

A child who hits 1 million balls each year will be unbeatable.

He's yelling directly into my ear.

Day and night, yelling in my ear.

He turns around, sees me watching.