The Outsider: A Memoir (30 page)

“Billie Jean, thanks for the offer, but I’ve just had wrist surgery and I’m sitting here in a full arm cast.”

It didn’t seem to bother them at all. They were willing to take the chance that I would be able to play some kind of tennis. You can’t buy loyalty like that, especially from a great champion like Billie Jean. It just drove me that much harder to stick it up everybody’s ass.

I made my way into four tournaments without winning a single round, but I wasn’t worried. After each loss I could feel the old drive building steadily inside me. By the time of the French Open, I knew I was back on track, if not quite firing on all cylinders. Not yet.

The clay in Paris back then played incredibly slow, which meant hitting more balls per point than I had for a long time. I’d won my first two matches by staying faithful to my game, hitting it early, flat, close to the net, on the lines, basically attacking the ball instead of hanging back. And now I was playing Michael Chang, who was a mere 20 years younger than me.

The mercury had risen to over 100 degrees as I walked out onto the red clay of Roland Garros to face Chang, an opponent who was prepared to be there all day if necessary, to run down every ball. It’s kill or be killed. That turned out to be a bit too close for comfort.

We traded the first two sets, he took the third and then in the fourth I hit the wall for the first time in my life. I had no idea where I was or what I was doing. I was done—fatigue, dehydration, everything. At one of the changeovers, as I looked around the stands, I turned to Lelly, who was sitting courtside. “Why are all these people here?” I asked. Just a little out of my mind.

Doing things half-assed doesn’t fit my personality, and I hit that wall running so hard I managed to force my head through to the other side just long enough to hear a voice tell me, “Not yet, Jimmy. Not yet.” A couple in the crowd made a move to leave.

“Don’t go,” I called to them. “This isn’t over yet.”

I broke Chang to go 5-4 up and held on to even the match at two sets each.

“Allez, Jeemeee! Allez, Jeemeee!”

After three hours 31 minutes, I faced my second fifth set in as many days. Wounded and exhausted, I dragged myself out of my seat. I knew I’d gone as far as I could. My back was seizing up, my vision blurred, head spinning. Kill or be killed? What asshole said that?

All through the months of hurt and sweat that had brought me to that moment in Paris, I’d only thought about one thing, the tournament that defined me, the US Open. New York in September.

To keep going against Chang would be insane, jeopardizing everything I’d been working toward. If I screwed up, if I injured myself, that would be it for the summer and probably forever. Yet I didn’t have a choice. The crowd wanted more.

I thought, “Come on, Michael, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Chang serves the first point of the fifth set. I attack it with my backhand, sending the ball screaming down the line, clipping the baseline, leaving him with no response.
Now
I am done. Slowly I walk forward to the umpire Bruno Rebeuh’s chair.

“It’s my back,” I tell him. “I’m trying my ass off out here. I did all I could, but I just can’t play anymore. Believe me, if I could, I would.” The scores stand at 4-6, 7-5, 6-2, 4-6, 0-15. If you’ve got to quit, then do it when you’re ahead.

Bill Norris, the ATP trainer and one of my friends on the circuit, helped me off the court. Bill had been around forever. I knew him well, and I knew he’d look after me. As we walked off, the Parisians came to their feet, cheering and clapping. That place rocked. They knew what they’d just witnessed, and I like to think they were saying
merci
.

The rain came down pretty much constantly throughout the first week of Wimbledon, creating a huge backlog of matches, but my wrist had held up to that point. No matter what the weather, you were expected to show up as scheduled. And wait. Trapped in the locker room. Needless to say, clock-watching did not suit me.

Still, there were some light moments. Brett, now 12, had come with me to London, and he was in the middle of a card game with Sampras and Richey Reneberg when Richey shouted over to me, “Connors, your son is up three hundred dollars on me. What am I supposed to do? I don’t have any cash.”

Brett had a solution. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll take your racquets.” That’s it, son, always pick up your winnings.

I won in straight sets against the Finn Veli Paloheimo—who later told the press I was the best player he’d ever faced—and my buddy Aaron Krickstein.

For the very first time in Wimbledon’s history, they opened the gates on the middle Sunday. “People’s Sunday,” they called it, with tickets printed the night before and sold on a first-come, first-served basis. The real tennis fans!

The atmosphere couldn’t have been more different from the usual stuffy Wimbledon experience. Unlike at the US Open, the All-England Club tennis fans are there to watch and enjoy the tennis with their usual restrained attitude. Don’t get me wrong, they love the sport as much as they do in New York and Paris, but Centre Court is more cathedral than coliseum—a place for the subdued appreciation of skill and endeavor rather than the frenzied cheers and catcalls thrown down from the Flushing Meadows stands.

But on that middle Sunday in 1991, a transformation occurred. From the moment Gabriela Sabatini stepped out to face Andrea Strnadová for their third-round encounter until the last point later that evening, not a seat was empty. Corporate hospitality had given way to sports fans, and they were there to make themselves heard.

There was shouting and singing, and the wave even rippled around the stadium all afternoon. I loved it, especially the wild support that followed every shot I made, and that was just in the warm-up. As I walked off Centre Court that afternoon, after Derrick Rostagno beat me in straight sets, the crowd rose spontaneously to give me an incredibly generous send-off. It moved me. As in Paris, I felt as though the tournament was bidding me farewell.

On the flight home I thought about my Slams so far that year: two third-round appearances, feeling and playing better after each match. But I knew I wasn’t where I needed to be. The match against Chang proved that I wasn’t in the shape to deal with back-to-back five-setters. I wasn’t recovering quickly enough.

I call my dentist friend Joel Woodburn, who recommends the Cooper Clinic, in Dallas, where they’ll put me through a series of tests to assess my body-fat ratio, the lactate levels in my blood, and a variety of indicators that will allow them to customize a diet regimen to improve my recovery time. OK, I’ll give anything a try . . . once. Given my normal eating habits—a Pepsi and Snickers bar in the morning and a BLT at lunch—I’m guessing they might be able to help. The explanation they give me makes sense.

“Mr. Connors, look at it this way. As you are now, you start out at one hundred percent, play a match for four hours, during which your fitness levels naturally drop by fifty percent. That’s fine; your opponent will be facing the same thing. The problem is, before your next match you’re only recovering to seventy-five percent, which means that when you drop again you’re operating at less than half capacity. The other guy will have the edge, and even if you do get through that, the next one will be a near impossibility. What we’re looking to do is to get you back up to one hundred percent after every match, or close to it.”

They put me on a carbo-loading diet: blueberry muffins every day, pretzels, raisins, and a supercharged drink before and during my matches.

Given what happened in the following weeks, I’d say they got it about right.

Over the summer I played Team Tennis with John Lloyd, as the captain of the Los Angeles Strings. I had some tough workouts and some good match practice, and for once I was a team player. Of course, we were the most hated team in the league, not only because we were a big draw but also because we weren’t afraid to show we were having a little fun. But at that point, I couldn’t care less what people thought. I had only one goal in mind: get to New York.

The US Open has always been my stage and the crowd my people. The rubber sweat suit, the track work, and running up that hill—it has all been for this. If I can win a match or two, I know the crowd will do the rest for me. If I can build momentum, I really think something good will happen. It’s time to get the show on the road.

My old T2000 racquet had long been overtaken by technology, and by 1991 I was using an Estusa racquet, which I painted fluorescent purple at the French and Wimbledon. For New York, I wanted something with more attitude. Style never beats substance, but let me tell you: When I produced my neon-yellow racquet for the first time, I felt like I was holding Excalibur. If I didn’t play decent tennis with
that
color racquet, they’d run me out of town.

Connors versus McEnroe again, in the first round, only this time it’s Patrick, the little brother who doesn’t quite have Mac’s whole game, but he does have 15 years on me and is dangerous. Walking out under the stadium lights, flashbulbs popping all around, I don’t have
that
feeling—the anxiety in the pit of my stomach, the tingle in my fingertips. I feel OK, but I can’t find that instinctive sense of belonging, which I’ve been used to for so many years here. I’m nervous. Maybe it’s because I didn’t play last year? Does anyone care I’m even here? Obviously so. They’ve scheduled me on Tuesday night, so they were expecting a big sell-out crowd. No pressure.

Seems they’re right; the place starts out packed. But I’m getting my ass kicked and those loyal New York fans are beginning to desert me. The box-seat holders gave up on me after a couple of hours, hitting the exits in time to make their dinner reservations in Manhattan. At least that lets the diehards climb down from the bleachers and fill the courtside seats, but I’m guessing they’re here to see the last stand of an ex-champion. It won’t be long now, guys. You’ll still be able to catch a beer before the bars close.

The corporate guests weren’t the only ones who found they had better things to do with their time than watch me slip into the sunset. Even my good friends Nasty and José Luis Clerc left when things weren’t looking good at two sets down. When Nasty returned home that night to his wife, he said, “What a shame it was about Jimmy.”

“About what?” his wife asked. “Look at the TV. He’s serving for the match right now. And where have you been?” For the first time, Nasty was speechless—and busted.

And it wasn’t just my buddies who bailed. Patti and the kids had returned home to California for the beginning of the school year and sat suffering through the first two sets on TV. By the start of the third, Brett couldn’t take anymore. He went over to his friend’s house to play video games. Patti drove him there. If I could have, I would probably have left as well.

I’m two sets down, 0-3, 0-40, when
that
feeling returns. Where it comes from, I don’t know, but, man, am I glad the electricity has been switched back on. Fuck this—I’m not letting Patrick McEnroe beat me in my own backyard. This is where I live. This is my stadium. I’m not ready to say goodbye.

The air around me is changing. I don’t know how, but the crowd seems to sense something happening. Now I get it. All the hard work, the fight to regain my fitness, the need to be out here one more time—none of it has been about me or my family or Mom. I’ve won enough for them in the past. I’ve won enough for myself. This is about winning for the fans. It has been from the moment I was throwing up on the City College track.

I hold my serve to make it 1-3 in the third and the stadium erupts. Now I can’t miss. Nothing Patrick throws at me is good enough. The fans are giving me everything they have, and they’re demanding everything I have. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I doubt I ever will again.

I pump my fists, I point at the crowd, I thrust my racquet toward the sky, swearing in frustration and screaming in delight. Nothing is going to stop me.

“How can you miss them all?” I yell at the umpire after another bad call. “Get the referee out here. You can’t do your job.”

Patrick’s not giving up; he battles to the end. At 1:35 a.m., four hours 18 minutes after we began, I serve out the match. That insane New York energy surging from the fans has fueled my comeback. Turning to each of the four stands, one by one, I let them know how much I owe them, how much I’ve always owed them. Then I look into a camera to send a message home: “Hi, Brett and Aubree. You guys better be in bed; you’ve got school tomorrow. Ah, hell, if you’re not, that’s OK.”

The regular TV broadcaster had also given up on me, switching the match to a different channel. A friend telephoned Patti at home to tell her. “Turn the TV back on, Patti. Jimmy’s coming back. It’s into the fifth.” She found that hard to believe, but she took a look and immediately called Brett.

They were watching me come back from the dead one more time.

In the following rounds, I faced two good players, the Dutch qualifier Michiel Schapers and 10th-seed Czech Karel Novacek, but for me it was back to business as usual with straight-set victories in each. After overcoming Novacek to reach the third round, I sensed people were thinking that the madness had to end.

Not me.

I draw Aaron Krickstein in the fourth round, on my 39th birthday. Aaron’s a buddy whom I’ve practiced with at my house and a player I respect. He’s never beaten me, and I’ve defeated him once this year already, at Wimbledon. While I know the New York hard court suits his game, going into the match I’m confident that if I can jump on him right from the start and take control, he won’t be able to hold on.

Wrong.

I lose the first set 3-6, expending a lot of energy in the process. He showed up with a game plan—to let me be the aggressor while he stayed back, keeping the ball in play, moving me around, wearing me down—and I haven’t dealt with the aggravation well.

To survive, I have to pull in the reins in the second set, change tactics, adjust my game, come to the net more, and shorten the points. For a while it works. I’m cruising at 5-1 in the second set, when Aaron somehow grabs the momentum and pushes me to a second-set tiebreaker. I’ve expended too much energy, and getting to the tiebreaker has drained me. Falling behind two sets to love would be a disaster. The tiebreaker is full of drama. I’m ahead, then I’m behind, and at 7-7, I bury an overhead on the line. The linesman calls it good and Krickstein’s complaining. Umpire David Littlefield overrules. “Very clearly out,” he’s muttering. You gotta be kidding me! I charge toward the chair, screaming.