Sports books are inclined to be dreary and predictable with a few bits of carefully calculated spice added to titillate potential readers and make a reviewer’s task easier. There are of course exceptions, Andre Agassi’s colourful autobiography comes to mind, where we learn how he came to loath the game that made him rich and famous. And of course there’s Thomas Hauser’s magnificent biography of Muhammad Ali. The closest Irish books to Niland’s in tone are Paul Kimmage’s cycling memoir Rough Ride and Eamon Dunphy’s Only a Game about his time at Millwall. The three books demonstrate their protagonist’s ultimate disillusionment with his sport after scrabbling around for years on its lower slopes. Niland’s book is better written, more intimate in its details of the struggle for success, and almost tragic in its trajectory. His ultimate and most damaging failure shows Niland choking when on the brink of winning a match that will propel him on to the centre court at Wimbledon against Roger Federer - player he had beaten as a junior. Tennis is uniquely a game that is not over until the last point is won and anyone who’s ever played the game will remember matches where they threw away considerable leads by tightening up as the finish line beckons. I still recall a backhand volley I hit into the top of the net at 30-0 and 7-6 in the final set of an important match in 1962. Niland has the same recall of crucial points in his career. You don’t have to be a tennis fan to enjoy his life story – there’s loads of attendant colour and detail of life on the road as a struggling sportsman. La dolce vita it was not. A running theme, by the way, is the lack of support by the Irish tennis establishment for aspiring pros and juniors of potential. This starts I suppose at government level. Niland was mostly dependent on his middle-class parents for survival. A riveting read.
