2026/01/11
It seems fortuitous that my McPhee reading spree coincided with having watched Challengers. Like Challengers did sixty years after the fact, Levels of the Game uses tennis as an object of fascination in its own right—see also Infinite Jest and how much of that book, indeed all of DFW’s worldview, was shaped by the relative weirdness of the tennis circuit compared to its team-based sport brethren. But even more than that, I’m interested in it as a canvas to explore systemic issues. Challengers touches on class nominally, but Guadagnino is at the end of the day much more interested in the love triangle that dominates the film, and in the idea of competition as a pure entity. McPhee has no problem dispensing with subtext…
2026/01/11
It seems fortuitous that my McPhee reading spree coincided with having watched Challengers. Like Challengers did sixty years after the fact, Levels of the Game uses tennis as an object of fascination in its own right—see also Infinite Jest and how much of that book, indeed all of DFW’s worldview, was shaped by the relative weirdness of the tennis circuit compared to its team-based sport brethren. But even more than that, I’m interested in it as a canvas to explore systemic issues. Challengers touches on class nominally, but Guadagnino is at the end of the day much more interested in the love triangle that dominates the film, and in the idea of competition as a pure entity. McPhee has no problem dispensing with subtext and speaking plainly about the differences between his twin protagonists: one is white and comes from a solidly middle-class background; the other is black and comes from a solidly lower-class one.
Side note: Arthur Ashe was born in Richmond, Virginia, and I live one block away from a boulevard named in his honor. You can credibly accuse Richmond of using Ashe as a bulwark against criticism, given how many of its other heroes are old white Confederates. But Ashe did in fact grow up here, and this book is not sparing in its description of how white Richmond rejected him.
McPhee is not really interested in competition the way Guadagnino is; he describes Ashe and Graebner less like fierce competitors and more like two rival members of the same French New Wave. Part of this is truth—they were literal teammates playing in the Davis Cup together. That aspect of tennis, somewhat alien to me, is interesting in its own right. And while we know from the future that Ashe emerged as the superior and more exemplary player, McPhee is more interested in talking about form and style than raw prowess.
This is a brief book—really just a snapshot of a single day—and as such it never outstays its welcome. By the last few passages, McPhee has perhaps run out of novel ways to describe a backhand. But it’s a good read and a lot of fun. It speaks about style and grace and athletics, and it elevates the form of sport in such a way that sixty years after its original publication, it still feels not just prescient but modern.