The Outsider: A Memoir (17 page)

In December 1975, I was supposedly finished—just a chubby, washed-up, fading superstar with no manager, no coach, and no fiancée.

By September 1976, I had my fourth Grand Slam, Mom looking after my business, Pancho in the stands, and Miss World to wake up to.

Washed-up ain’t so bad.

“Jimmy, I’ve got to go home. Today. There’s a flight this afternoon. I’m going to pack and call a cab to take me to the airport. I know it’s short notice, sorry, but something has come up in LA.”

It was November, and Marjie and I were having breakfast in our hotel suite in London. I was supposed to play the Wembley final that evening.

“What do you mean?” I asked her. “What’s up? Is everything OK?”

“It’s just work, Jimmy, nothing to worry about. You’ll be OK here without me. Lornie will keep you company. Everything’s fine.”

She was right about one thing: My buddy from Illinois, Lornie Kuhle, was with me on tour. Mom wasn’t traveling with me anymore, but she could still figure out if I was struggling by just watching my matches on television, then she’d call me to offer a solution. That’s why I call her a genius, but maybe it was just because she really cared. She had an amazing ability to assess and analyze the smallest details of my game that needed work.

For his part, Lornie was a great organizer of my daily schedule, and he was able to take the pressure off me. We played a lot of backgammon, and there was always a chance that guys would be looking for a money game. We were happy to oblige.

One time, Lornie and I were at a tournament in Frankfurt and ran into some buddies who just happened to have a backgammon board. We stayed up four nights straight playing in their hotel room, Lornie and me against the two of them. The only time I left the room was to go play my matches. I’m making $250,000 for the event and I’m more excited about having a chance to win a couple thousand bucks on the backgammon board. It’s crucial to have your priorities straight.

The other good thing about having Lornie along was that he understood tennis. As he says himself, he was a frustrated player who never made it, but he was close to Bobby Riggs and had picked up a lot of tips from him, which he was more than happy to pass on when we practiced. I didn’t always listen, of course, but if Mom had talked to Lornie and given him a piece of advice on a part of my game, he would pass on exactly what she’d said. He became her mouthpiece.

“Tell Jimmy’s he’s tossing the ball too far out front on the second serve.”

“He’s not getting down low enough on the short balls. He’s got to bend his knees more. Take the ball even earlier.”

Lornie was good for my confidence, and he could also tell me when I was out of control. We had known each other for so long that I didn’t mind, and he was usually right, anyway.

I couldn’t get a straight answer out of Marjie all morning about why she had to leave. She kept saying that something had come up, it was important for her career, and she had to be back in LA to deal with it.

“Sure, but what is it?”

“It doesn’t matter, Jimmy. It’s not important. I’ve got to go, bye-bye, see you in LA in a few days. Good luck with your match.”

And she was gone. That left me to take some revenge on Roscoe Tanner for my Wimbledon defeat by winning my 12th tournament of the year and securing my third-consecutive number one spot in the world rankings.

When I arrived back at LAX, I saw Marjie’s face smiling at me from the cover of
People
magazine, with the headline
MARJIE AND HER MEN
. She hadn’t even told me she had done the interview. OK, I get it. She’s got to live her own life; that’s fine by me. She wanted to be back in LA when the magazine came out. I know I wasn’t headed to the altar, and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t, either.

I called her when I got back to my apartment and told her I thought the piece was good and asked if she wanted to meet me for dinner. I knew how much the cover story meant to her, since she was trying to rebuild her career. But the fact that Marjie hadn’t said a word to me about it, even though my face was there alongside George Best and Pete Revson, told me that we’d started the downhill slide a little sooner than I expected.

We weren’t over quite yet. I was hoping to enjoy some time off with Marjie in LA before the next tournament. But then my brother, Johnny, called from Belleville.

“You’d better come on home. Daddy’s got cancer and it’s not good.”

Marjie and I hopped on the first plane out.

My dad, who hadn’t been sick a day in his life, had been complaining of aches and pains in his back for a while and had been going to a chiropractor, but it wasn’t helping. He decided to get some tests done, and when the doctors saw a spot on his lung, Dad went into the hospital for a biopsy. Once they opened him up, they realized that he had cancer that had started in his lungs and spread into his chest wall, his spine, bones, and just about everywhere in his body. The surgeon told Johnny and Mom that it was hopeless and that Dad wouldn’t be going home.

It was strange, but a few weeks before Johnny had made that call to me, I had a weird feeling that I should be back home in Belleville. I can’t even explain it; it was just an uncomfortable feeling that something was up. I even had a dream in which Dad was standing on a cliff, calling for me. Like he was saying, “Come back, I’ve got a problem, come back.”

I ended up staying in Belleville for the nine weeks that my father was in the hospital. I wasn’t looking for absolution; I was there because I wanted to be.

We made sure that someone was with Dad 24 hours a day. Mom wanted to be constantly by his side, but even when we’d send her home for a rest, she made my dad dinner so that he didn’t have to eat the hospital food. My dad’s sisters and their husbands and kids also took their turns, but it was usually Mom, Johnny, and me. My dad always thought he was coming home, but he was so fragile that he broke his back while he was lying in bed.

It was during those terrible nine weeks that my dad and I got the closest we had been in our lives. I’d spend hours at his bedside, and when he’d wake up, we’d talk, really talk, about things that previously would have been off limits, out of bounds. It was as though everything that had ever existed in our lives was contained in those hours together.

I remember that when Johnny and I were kids, Dad would hate it when we farted at the table. I mean he really hated it. In the hospital, with cancer invading his stomach, there were times when he would pass gas and the smell practically filled the whole hospital. I’m sitting there one night, and as I’m gagging on his fumes he grins.

“See, not so pleasant, right?”

Tennis had never been Dad’s thing—it was his social life that was important to him—but it had, without a doubt, taken Mom and me away from him. But in the hospital, he told me he had seen what tennis had given me, and he understood that it wasn’t just something Mom wanted to do. He realized that it had been a means to an end. My dad told me that he was always proud of me no matter what.

Sometimes you wait a lifetime for those kinds of words from your dad, and when they come, they mean everything.

I hadn’t touched a racquet while I’d been in Belleville, and I was due to play the US Pro Indoor tournament in Philadelphia. I had decided not to go, but Dad said, “Jimmy, I’d like to see you play. Go win that tournament for me.”

Marjie and I went to Philadelphia on January 23, and a week later I lost to Dick Stockton in five sets in the final. After the match, I called Mom from the hotel.

“Daddy’s probably not going to last another day,” she told me. “You need to get right back here.”

Johnny picked Marjie and me up at the airport. I was tired and really hungry and we were driving down Main Street, so Johnny says, “Let’s stop at Steak ’n Shake and get you something to eat.” Steak ’n Shake had always been a favorite.

“No, I have a bad feeling I’d better get up to Dad’s room.”

“It’ll only take five minutes,” says Johnny. “You want a hamburger or not?”

“Johnny, just take me to Dad.”

At the hospital, Johnny and I stood on either side of the bed, holding Dad’s hands. Although he was slipping in and out of consciousness, he knew we were there and squeezed our hands as a sign of recognition.

Mom went out for a moment to get a cup of coffee. Dad took three big breaths, and on the last one he didn’t exhale. I looked up at the clock and it was 10:22 p.m. The sports were on the local news, showing me losing the tournament in Philadelphia.

Not much more to say about that.

We spent the week after Dad’s death helping Mom with all the arrangements. Dad was to be laid out at Brickler Funeral Home. The casket was open, and the wake lasted for two whole days. Dad knew everyone in the surrounding area, not just Belleville and East St. Louis but all of St. Louis and beyond. People just kept on coming: Johnny’s friends, my friends, the mayors of several nearby cities, and all of my dad’s buddies, including the great baseball players Stan Musial and Red Schoendienst, coach and manager of the St. Louis Cardinals at the time. They all came to pay their respects.

The funeral service was held in the Blessed Sacrament Church, and from there we went to the gravesite to lay Dad to rest. When we returned to our house, the party kicked off and didn’t stop for 24 hours. The next day Dad’s friends were still there drinking. It was a full-blown Irish funeral, a testament to the affection people felt for him. He was only 56 years old when he died but he had lived a full life.

After Dad’s death, Mom was in a state of disbelief. Two-Mom had died five years before, and that had hit Mom hard, and now she was burying her husband. I was going back on the road, Johnny was living his own life, and she was alone. So in one way it was good that she had tennis to dive back into. After we buried Dad, Mom did what she had been taught to do: get on with it. And I did exactly the same thing, although looking back now I realize it probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could have done.

A week after Dad’s funeral I went to Toronto for a WCT tournament. I didn’t really want to go, but I had an obligation and I thought it was better for me to keep busy. I was playing my good friend Eddie Dibbs in the semifinal when I had a total meltdown. After a few questionable line calls went against me, I lost my shit and jumped up onto the umpire’s stand, grabbed him by the shirt, and was about to jerk him out of his chair when the thought occurred to me: Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

Dibbs, pal that he is, said to the umpire, “You can’t let him do that! You have to default him.”

It makes me laugh now.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, “thanks for the help, you asshole.”

12

MEETING MY MATCH

M
arjie and I split for good not long after my father’s death. We’d been together for more than a year, and although it was unspoken, I knew both of us felt that the relationship had run its course. I think Marjie realized around the time of the
People
article that the lifestyle I was leading wasn’t really what she was looking for. Even though she’d dated other sports stars and was accustomed to the on- and off-season routine, tennis lasted all year round. George Best might have played two soccer games a week, Pete Revson might have raced twice a month, but I was playing tournaments that went on for a week, two for the big ones, sometimes with matches on consecutive days. When I wasn’t playing, I had no desire to be in the public eye. I didn’t want to have my photograph in the papers, and I hardly needed the added publicity. The less people knew about my private life, the happier I was. But that wasn’t how Marjie rolled in those days.

I drove over to where she was staying with a friend, and we talked in my car.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think we’re not going anyplace with this. I think our relationship is . . .” I searched for the right words, which Marjie already had.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “It’s been fun . . .”

Even though on the surface it sounded casual, it was an emotional conversation. We both knew our relationship was over, but it didn’t immediately erase the feelings we had for each other. At least for me. Looking back at it now, I wonder why all the women I broke up with took the news so easily.

March 1977. After the all-too-quick Orantes Challenge Match, Caesars Palace announced that they didn’t want to host a fourth round of the winner-takes-all contests. Well, here I go again. First the breakups in my love life; now I’m being dumped by my beloved Vegas hotel.

But Caesars’ attitude wasn’t going to stop Bill. It didn’t take him long to find a resort that was more than happy to host the next event. He moved the whole package to the Cerromar Beach Hotel, in Puerto Rico, where Nasty and I would go head to head for a winner-takes-all purse of $250,000, with CBS televising the match in prime time.

This was a big deal with a lot of money at stake, but as usual, Bill wanted more. I don’t blame him; that’s what he was good at, creating controversy and interest. This time, Bill’s malarkey was that Nasty and I had gone from best of friends to bitter enemies.

Whenever Nasty and I played each other, we put our relationship to one side, and it was all about who was better on the day. It was no secret that this was tough for me; he knew my game inside out, and he was also good at taking advantage of our friendship. In any case, it was time for me to start asserting myself and earning back his respect. We both had tempers and were never shy about insulting each other across the net. We more than earned the nickname the press hung on us: “The Bad Boys of Tennis.”

Once Bill got started marketing the match and manufacturing controversy to sell tickets, the tennis press, which will print any story that is fed to them (OK, there were some exceptions, like Mike Lupica, Neil Amdur, and Bud Collins—I’m sure I’ve left out a few more, but not many), was more than happy to report that Nasty and I had had a major falling-out.

In a pre-match press conference in Puerto Rico, Bill said that the rift occurred in a tournament Nasty and I had played the previous year. “They were big buddies for a while,” he told the reporters, “but the split began in Nottingham, England, before Wimbledon. They were playing for $30,000 in the final. Each had won a set, and it began raining slightly in the third. Nastase got a service break, and Connors said, ‘Let’s quit,’ and walked off the court.”

Nothing could be further from the truth. So what really happened in Nottingham? The rain started falling before we even got onto the court, but since people were already in their seats, Nasty and I agreed to play as best we could. We slipped and slid our way through two sets, taking one apiece. It was entertaining and the fans enjoyed it. But at 1-1 in the third, with a service break each and the rain still coming down, conditions were getting a little too dangerous, so we agreed to stop the match and split the prize money. We may be tennis players, but we’re not stupid. No one complained. We walked off the court to applause and laughter and hit the bar for a beer.

After the press gobbled up Bill’s nonsense about Nasty’s and my big fight, Nasty fed them even more baloney. He said that I was trying to get out of the match because less than two weeks before I’d defaulted in my final in Toronto against Dick Stockton, faking a knee injury. Never mind that I was leading 6-5 in the first set and had just lost my dad.

“Jimmy, for sure, don’t want to see me on the court. For two years, I tried to get him in a Challenge Match, but he does not challenge me.”

Well, maybe if you had been world number one for as long as Laver or had beaten me in a Grand Slam final like Newcombe or Orantes, I would’ve given you a call before now, Nasty.

And he didn’t stop there: “I like Jimmy, but I know I have the game to beat him. And Jimmy, he knows it, too. It’s Jimmy’s way, always something wrong with him before a big tournament.”

Classic. Of course I wasn’t making a big deal about my knee injury, just as I hadn’t made any excuses when I fractured my leg at Wimbledon in 1975, so I kept my mouth shut. I knew if I said anything, then the whole thing would blow up in my face and the press would crucify me. I thought about one of my favorite quotes, “Revenge is a meal best served cold,” and that’s what I was planning on doing. They could say anything they wanted to, but they would see the results on the court.

Puerto Rico was beautiful, hot and windy. Not ideal for tennis. In the days leading up to the match, Nasty and I didn’t spend much time together, which only stoked the rumors of our feud. Over the years I had often practiced with Nasty, but how dumb was it to expect us to do that before a Challenge Match? He brought his practice partner and I brought mine. If people wanted to read something into that, then let them. It was irrelevant to me, and I think Nasty probably felt the same way.

One of my old UCLA teammates, Jeff Austin (Tracy’s brother), agreed to be my on-court coach for the match. We were good friends, and he was able to hit the kind of shots that I knew I’d have to deal with when I played Nastase. Of course, Nasty was a little crazy and there are some things you just can’t prepare for.

It turned out that the conditions in Puerto Rico worked in my favor. My hard flat groundstrokes weren’t much affected by the wind, but because of the amount of topspin Nasty employed, he had trouble controlling his shots. I won in four sets, in what turned out to be a pretty calm match, but that became a footnote compared with the controversy over what I’d allegedly said to Nasty that morning. There had been a terrible earthquake in Bucharest, and as soon as I heard the news, my first thought was for Nasty’s family. Before we went out on court, I said to him, “Nasty, I hope your mom and everyone are OK.”

Nasty remembers it differently. In his autobiography, I’m quoted saying something like “Nasty, you better call home. You might not have a house anymore.”

I had no idea that Nasty hadn’t yet heard about the earthquake. I’ll admit it wasn’t beyond me to try to dig out any advantage I could over my opponents by getting them riled up before a match, but this wasn’t one of those times. I was genuinely concerned about his family; I’d been to Romania with Nasty and met his mother, and you know how I am about mothers!

St. Louis Arena, a week later. It’s the semifinals of the WCT tournament, and Nasty has a disgusted look on his face because of what he feels is another bad call in my favor. He stands there for so long that I start to get bored and mimic his expression, to the delight of the crowd. Nasty walks to the net.

“This stinks, Connors boy. They only clap for you.”

“What do you expect? This is my home. But if you want to win that bad, I’ll give it to you.”

“Screw you.”

I go on to win 7-5, 6-4. Career tally against Nasty: 15-6. I’m reeling him in.

As for the press, I’m sure that moment at the net provided many of its members with further proof that Nasty and I were no longer on speaking terms.

After the match, we went out for dinner together. As usual.

The next month, in Vegas, April 10: Nasty and I are in each other’s faces. It must be another big money match.

“You’re not a little baby. So quit acting like one.”

“Fuck you, Connors boy! Maybe you should go get your mommy.”

“Now, you know better than that. Don’t bring mothers into it.”

He’s just questioned a line call and I’m pissed. We’re in the first set of the $100,000 winner-takes-all WCT Challenge Cup, where I’m defending a 13-match unbeaten run at Caesars Palace. There’s a lot at stake—the money, my streak, and revenge for Puerto Rico—and so we’re both feeling the pressure. Nothing new.

I start fast and I’m up 5-1 in the first set before I hit the wall. I’m lucky to win the set, and nothing goes right from there. Nasty’s game picks up and he’s anticipating my every move, giving me no time to set for my shots. He senses things starting to change in his favor and he starts taunting me. Now all the imaginary animosity from before is becoming real. Now I do hate him. I can’t get my emotions under control, and my game, well, what the hell? Nasty wins the next three sets and the title.

I refuse to talk to the press after the match. I know what they’re going to ask; it’ll be all about how Nasty and I used to be friends and now we hate each other. In reality, all they know is what we want them to know. So keep guessing, boys. Nasty and I have been friends since I was 16 years old. So what if we blow up over a match or two? It was all part of our show. We were friends. We still are today.

In May of 1977, I was still in the legal dispute with Bill Riordan about the share of my earnings he was demanding, and as a part of my counterclaim, a letter of agreement, which spelled out the financial terms of the Orantes Challenge Match, was attached as an appendix. The
Washington Post
picked this up at the same time as the
New York Times
was digging into the details of my match with Nasty in Puerto Rico.

Both newspapers came to the same conclusion: that the winner-takes-all matches weren’t really winner-takes-all. No shit. Was anybody really surprised? Did people honestly think we were going to play high-profile matches, with millions of people watching on TV, and the loser was going to walk away empty-handed? That’s crazy. Caesars Palace did put up the cash for the winner in those events they hosted, and, yes, money from sponsorships, television rights, et cetera, all went into a pot. Whether we actually received everything we should have—that’s irrelevant now. In my opinion, if I had lost, the appeal of the Challenge Matches would have ended. Nobody else could have carried it, and I had a good thing going. Winning was the priority, but the loser’s cut was still substantial. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

I’m grateful for the opportunity to have been able to play the four Challenge Matches, against four of the greatest players in tennis history. It was Bill Riordan’s vision and the participation of Caesars Palace, CBS, and all the sponsors that really made them possible. Next to Billie Jean King and Bobbie Riggs’s Battle of the Sexes, my Challenge Matches were some of the most watched tennis matches ever. Like ’em or not, they did their job by creating more interest, inspiring more participation, and increasing the popularity of the game.

I had stayed loyal to Bill Riordan’s circuit for several years, resisting the temptation of signing with the WCT, even when Nasty did, in 1974. But by 1977, so much had changed in my life that I decided it was time to accept Lamar Hunt’s offer. While Riordan’s traveling road show was going to places like Little Rock and Salisbury, Hunt was taking his events to Mexico City, Rotterdam, Bologna, Monte Carlo, Toronto, and London. He was helping to promote tennis internationally.

I signed with the WCT for a year. What a mistake that was. I should have agreed to a 10-year deal. And I won’t pretend the money they offered didn’t play a part in my decision.

The WCT series ran from January through May, with points on offer from each event, as well as big prize money. The top eight players would then come together in Dallas to see who would be the WCT champion of the year. On top of that, players signing a WCT contract were given a financial guarantee—in my case, $750,000 to play five events, plus prize money. That would grab anyone’s attention, but the appeal of the WCT was way more than that. Tennis was changing, and I wanted to be at the heart of it. But the main reason I ultimately signed with the WCT was for the chance to work with Lamar Hunt.

A well-known Texas oilman, Mr. Hunt was just as passionate about sports as he was about his many business interests. He was one of the original investors in the Chicago Bulls; earlier, he had founded the American Football League, in 1960, and three years later moved his Dallas Texans to Kansas City, where they became the Kansas City Chiefs. He was instrumental in persuading the AFL and NFL to merge in 1966, which led to the creation of the Super Bowl. So you can thank Lamar Hunt for every Super Bowl party you’ve ever been to, and all the guacamole you’ve eaten there.

Hunt was a gentleman: fair, honest, down-to-earth, a class act. And, boy, did he look after his players, treating them better than he treated himself. I was on a number of flights when he would make sure I flew first-class while he rode coach with the people who worked for the WCT.

Lamar Hunt was good for tennis. He generated money, interest, and excitement, and the Dallas finals started to rival the Slams. Of course, it’s precisely because of his success that the tennis establishment tried to get rid of him. They didn’t like the competition and they were always looking for ways to destroy what he was creating. They pretty much succeeded the year after I signed up. They negotiated the merger of Jack Kramer’s Grand Prix circuit with the WCT. Even though the Dallas finals continued into the late 1980s, the magic had gone out of it. But, in my opinion, if that merger hadn’t happened and Hunt had ended up owning tennis, the game would have been better off.