The Outsider: A Memoir (27 page)

“Now I know you inside and out,” I told Patti later.

Aubree Leigh Connors was born at 9:51 a.m., December 20, 1984. She was a fragile little thing with, nothing like Brett’s impressive set of lungs. Aubree just let out these tiny cries that sounded like a kitten mewing.

“Is she OK?” I asked the doctor over and over, even though they kept reassuring me that she was healthy and fine, a perfect, beautiful little redhead. And I fell in love with my family all over again.

During the 1970s, the exhibition matches and special events that Nasty and I played became our main source of income. Tennis was still in its rapid growth phase, and the various associations still hadn’t realized that they would also have to offer bigger prize money. Even though it slowly went up, it didn’t happen in time for the guys of my generation.

From a financial point of view, the Slams—particularly Wimbledon and the Open—were important; win one of those and the price you could command for exhibitions went through the roof. Tennis was my love and I respected it, but it was also my job. Exhibition guarantees—payments and expenses to sweeten the deal—started appearing around the early to mid-’70s. We were committed to playing a dozen or more tournaments, plus the Slams, but we could choose from among over 80 sanctioned Grand Prix events on the tour, but which ones? That’s where the guarantees came in.

The ATP and USTA were against guarantees. In 1983, they tried to make an example of Guillermo Vilas by fining him $20,000 and imposing a year ban after he supposedly received money to play at a tournament in Rotterdam. Mac, Lendl, and I came out publicly in favor of guarantees, which might have helped Vilas, because although his fine was upheld when he appealed, his suspension was dropped.

Of course, I never saw a problem with guarantees; to me, it was no different from paying Sinatra to play a concert. People wanted to hear him sing, they bought tickets, and the promoters and venues all made money. Why should tennis, or any other professional sport, be different? We’re all in the entertainment business, aren’t we? I never understood why the authorities made a stink, but they did. We just kept it quiet and they turned a blind eye. Or did they just accept it? The fans got to see the guys they wanted, the tour continued to be exciting, and everyone was happy. No big deal. But, look here: Just because I was getting a big guarantee didn’t mean that winning the tournament wasn’t still my top priority.

Today players don’t need the guarantees (even though they still get them), because they earn so much in prize money and endorsements. The schedule allows them to take weeks off at a time. In my era, we had to cash in while we could. Win a Slam and within a day you’d be back on the road, making a living.

I didn’t want to admit it, but by the mid-’80s my career had peaked, and I was on the down elevator. I figured it was time to build up my retirement fund and let me tell you, I had some fun doing it.

Over the next seven years, through 1990, I was on an airplane, flying all over the world to grab any opportunity I was offered. It took its toll, but it was worth it. I was able to experience new cities, cultures, food, and I was being paid to do what I loved. By the way, I was also still active on the main tour throughout this period. Out of the 13 Grand Slams I entered between 1985 and the end of 1989, I made five semis and three quarters and remained in the world top 10 through 1988.

Exhibitions were real matches. Players like Nasty, Vilas, Mac, Vitas, Borg, and, later, Yannick Noah all wanted to win. Our reputations were on the line, so there was no chance we were going to cruise through the matches. But the fans were also paying to be entertained.

I remember a four-match tour with Petr Korda and Goran Ivanisevic in Prague and Budapest and ending up in Italy. When Ivanisevic had to pull out because of an injury, we called on Noah, the former French Open champion, for the last match. The event was being televised and the promoters had sold twice as many tickets as the stadium would hold. There was almost a riot when half the fans didn’t have seats, but they packed them in anyway. Standing room only. The crowd was on top of us, and the atmosphere was buzzing. Just the way we liked it.

Noah was a wreck when he flew in that afternoon. Tennis wasn’t his priority, and playing at that level was something he wasn’t used to doing at that point. And when he saw the size of the crowd and the number of cameras, his nerves started to take over.

In the locker room Noah pulled a bottle of Courvoisier out of his bag and took a drink.

“Better take it easy on that stuff, Yannick,” I cautioned.

“Don’t worry, Jeemy. It’s just to calm me down.”

By the time we started to play, Noah was tipsy. Watching Yannick in the warm-up was something to behold. He was a mess.

“Listen, Yannick,” I said. “Don’t worry about the match. It’s all good.”

On the first point he serves, I send back an easy return and he follows up with an approach to the net. I make like I have to stretch to reach his shot and deliberately set it up perfectly for an easy volley, which he puts away. Thank God. Noah relaxes immediately.

“OK, Jeemy,” he slurs at me from across the net. “I get it. I’ll be OK now.”

Well, sometimes that’s how it goes. We have to make it work. That’s what we were getting paid for.

Needless to say, one of the downsides of an exhibition schedule like mine was jet lag. Once, after finishing a match in São Paulo, Brazil, my friend Bill Lelly, who traveled with me, and I were getting ready to go home when we got a call from Onni Nordstrom, the former NHL player and now a sports agent and promoter.

“Can you guys make it to Helsinki by tomorrow night? We’ve got a tournament and Boris Becker’s opponent has just pulled out. We’ll pay for the flights. And what else will it take?” We made a deal in five minutes.

Hell, yeah. So we hopped on the plane for a 7,000-mile flight, crossing God knows how many time zones.

When we arrive in Finland at 11 o’clock that night, I go up to my hotel room and find a feast waiting for me. Nasty, who was also playing, had brought foie gras, caviar, and smoked salmon, from Paris. My kind of welcome.

The next morning, I hit some balls, attended a couple of corporate events in the afternoon, went to a cocktail party that evening (now dead on my feet from jet lag), and still managed to play a couple of matches over the next two days.

Another time, I agree to an exhibition match in Ecuador against the local favorite, Andrés Gómez. It’s near Christmas, my game’s a little rusty, and I think that the best-of-three set match will start preparing me for the year to come. The president of Ecuador is going to be in attendance.

However, on the flight down with my friend Gerry Goldberg, when there’s no turning back, the promoter tells me, “Oh, by the way, this is three out of five sets.” Oh, boy. Suddenly, my mood takes a sharp downturn. And it doesn’t improve when the crowd goes crazy for Gómez, the local hero, and the line judges are helping him out any chance they get.
And
the temperature’s over 100 degrees and humid. I’m hot and tired and playing on red clay. I swear at the officials, throw my racquet around at all the bad calls, and grab my crotch whenever I win a point, just to piss people off. Not my brightest move.

At a changeover, I hear Goldberg shouting at me, “Cool it, Connors!”

When I sit down, he fills me in.

“Lay off the crotch,” he says, “or you’re going to jail. The head of security has just had a word with me. You’re offending the president of Ecuador. Listen, they’re gonna put us both in jail if you do it again!” Well, at least I’ll have some company.

And to answer your question, no, I didn’t do it again. That’s all I needed: to be in an Ecuadorean prison in my tight white shorts.

I think the hardest thing for me during this period of combining the main tour with exhibitions wasn’t jet lag or the threat of Ecuadorean jail but the challenge of trying to balance tennis and my family life. In 1985, the reality of just how difficult that was came crashing home to me.

Pop had been in an assisted-living facility near Mom in Belleville. He’d been in good shape, still driving, still taking his daily walk to the cigar store, but at Christmas his health took a serious turn for the worse, so I made a plan to take baby Aubree and the rest of my family to see him in early spring. If his health kept deteriorating, I couldn’t stand the thought that he wouldn’t have had a chance to hold his great granddaughter. But I was in Europe getting ready for the French Open and Wimbledon when I got the call from Mom.

“Pop’s passed, Jimmy. It was peaceful.”

“I’m coming home, Mom. Tomorrow. First flight I can get.”

“No, you’re not. Pop made me promise to say this before he left us. He said, ‘Tell Jimmy not to come back for the funeral. I don’t want him interrupting what he’s doing just for me. Promise me you won’t let him, Glo.’ That’s exactly what he told me, and that is what’s going to happen. You finish your business there. I’ll take care of everything else here.”

I felt brokenhearted and alone. Pop had been such an influence in my life and on my career, and wasn’t that just like him to say, “Finish your business”?

So I wasn’t there when my Pop died, and I wasn’t at his funeral, and even though that’s what he wanted, it still hurt. It was another two months before I stood at his graveside to say goodbye and thank him for everything he’d done for me.

Between the exhibitions and the tour, I was away from home for long stretches, for up to half the year. It was hard on Patti, but she never made a big deal about it. When I’d call and ask how things were going, she’d always say, “Fine, Jimmy, no problems.” The work she did during those years allowed me to concentrate on the tennis.

But it was the same old story: When I was home, I wanted to be playing tennis, and when I was playing tennis, I wanted to be home. I’d arrive back in Santa Ynez and feel like I didn’t fit in, because Patti and the kids didn’t stop whatever they were doing the moment I walked through the door. I felt like a visitor in my own home.

I knew my family was always happy to see me, but they had an established routine of mealtimes, homework, soccer practice, dance lessons, tutoring, and their friends. I had to get with the program or go back on the road, and it was always a little unsettling.

My homecomings turned into a good opportunity for the kids to dance around Patti’s rules and get me to do what they wanted. Patti would have said no to something, but then the kids would hit me up. “Can we go to a movie, Dad?” “Can we go to McDonald’s?” I’d feel guilty for being away, so I’d give in. “Yeah, sure, let’s go.” After a few days of this I’d be off again, leaving Patti to pick up the pieces. I’m no dummy.

On occasion, I would take Brett out of elementary school early for summer so he could come along for some of the tournaments. Aubree was too young, and she stayed home with Patti while I traveled with Brett to Europe.

He was a natural traveler, but there were still times when he gave me a few early gray hairs.

I was playing a special event in Frankfurt and 20,000 German fans were cheering their homeboy, Boris Becker. Brett seemed perfectly happy soaking up the atmosphere, and I figured the worst that could happen was that I’d lose the match. Then, at a changeover, he was gone. His seat was empty and the bottle of water he’d been drinking was knocked over next to the chair.

I panicked. I called over my friend who was supposed to be watching Brett.

“You haven’t seen my son, have you?”

“Oh, my God, I don’t know. He was there a minute ago.”

I was frantically looking everywhere at the same time they were telling me that my match was about to start. The event was being televised, so I went back onto the court to play, putting my faith in the German authorities to FIND MY SON! Two games later, on the changeover, they had located him—under my bench on the court, taking a nap. The travel had finally caught up with him.

A few years later in Argentina, Brett learned about work when he had to get down on his hands and knees to save a match that Guillermo Vilas had arranged way out in the country, west of Mendoza.

We were shocked at the venue when we arrived. It was a big tin barn. Right next to it was an old bus, which I had the horrible feeling was our locker room. Nothing but the finest for you, Jimmy.

“Are you sure this is the right place, Willy?” I ask, using my nickname for Guillermo.

He shrugs his shoulders and nods.

It’s freezing inside. This is winter in Argentina and the “stadium” doesn’t have heating. Instead, the organizers placed huge metal drums in each corner of the barn and started fires in each of them. The smoke is billowing up onto the roof.

Again, only the best.

Guillermo and I go out to hit some balls as the crowd starts to filter in. Luckily, they hadn’t built the stands too high or fans would have been passing out from smoke inhalation.

I move to hit a return. Did I just feel something move under my feet?

I go to serve. There it is again. Man, the court is shifting. I call Billy Lelly over. Brett follows.

“Something’s up with the surface, Lelly. Can you take a look?”

It’s 10 minutes before showtime.

Lelly pokes at the corner of the court. Sure enough, it moves. He looks underneath. The sections have been glued together, but they’ve forgotten to attach it to the ground. It’s just sitting there on concrete. Play on this and one or both of us is going to break a leg. Guillermo just shrugs.

Brett and Lelly get busy with some tape they’ve found, scrambling around on all fours doing the best they can to stabilize the court as the spectators start to get restless. By the time they finish the place is literally rocking as the crowd stamp their feet and whistle. And it’s getting smokier.

We start the warm-up again. Guillermo can’t keep two consecutive balls in play. He’s out of condition, out of practice, and the crowd is out of patience.

I have a quick word with Brett and Lelly.

“Find some tacks or something. You’ve got to let the air out of the balls. Slow them down as much as you can so Guillermo can hit a few or we’ll be murdered in here.”