You Cannot Be Serious (11 page)

While the team was undefeated, however, Mr. Number One was not: I lost two singles matches, one of them an embarrassing rout by Eddie Edwards of Pepperdine, who completely outplayed me in front of a home crowd. Coach Gould had called me up at the last minute. The other came when I played with a high fever against Larry Gottfried, now of Trinity, but—excuses, excuses! In fact, the pressure of expectations for me as the number-one player provided great preparation for the pros.

I
T WASN’T UNTIL
W
IMBLEDON
in ’77 that I felt strong enough to serve-and-volley. I had grown in height (maybe I was starting to stand up straighter) and weight; my leg strength was becoming an asset. My serve didn’t get me a lot of aces, but I could place the ball well enough to finish up with one volley, or two or three—as many as it took.

That was when it all came together for the first time. My style of play was very high-percentage—short backswings, no wasted energy, no unnecessary chances. I believed that my quickness and anticipation and hand-eye coordination were better than any baseline player’s—that, playing my style against theirs, I could win.

My serve-and-volley game developed even further when I went to Stanford, because, for the first time in my life, I was playing nothing but hard-court tennis. Suddenly I just saw that serve-and-volley was the better way to play. A few of you may still recall tennis as it used to be during the clay-court mid-’70s: Remember Vilas, during his incredible run in ’77, playing those withering, interminable rallies? I thought that just wasn’t particularly interesting. As soon as I found I had the capability to move right in and end those points, I thought, “Clay-court tennis is for the birds—this is a better way to make a living.”

The fact that I was a good volleyer had often been wasted on clay. Wimbledon was something different. Borg wasn’t a great volleyer, yet he won Wimbledon five times in a row. On grass, a mis-hit off the frame or the edge of the strings could turn into a surprisingly effective drop-volley, so my theory became: Get close to the net!

But I really could volley, which was good for me at Wimbledon and very good for me on those fast hard courts at Stanford. A solid, good volley on a hard court is even more critical than on a grass court. The problem was, those hard courts weren’t especially good for my body: Freshman year at college was when I started to get some back problems.

It was in the lower part of my back. Maybe it was just stiffness from not stretching enough; maybe there was some emotional tension, too—most of the time, I’ve found, that has something to do with back pain. I know I was putting a lot of pressure on myself, because, well before school ended, I was certain that I was going to turn pro (I also played four pro tournaments that year—still as an amateur—and raised my ranking from 21 to 18), and I felt in my gut that the only way to go out on a positive note was to win the NCAA’s, in Athens, Georgia, in May.

Winning that tournament meant a lot to me. To my knowledge, few people had done poorly in their big matches in the juniors or college and then turned around and had fabulous pro careers. Eliot Teltscher was an exception—he lost in the second round of the NCAA tournament, and later reached the top ten—but I didn’t want to go out that way. I was the number-one college player and our team was undefeated. I wanted to win this thing and go out with a bang. Anything else would have been lame.

I played a lot of tennis during that tournament. It was a nine-day event, four days for team competition, then five days for individual matches. Over the first four days, I played four singles and four doubles matches, and then over the next five days, six singles and four more doubles matches.

My semifinal in the individual competition, against my friend and doubles partner Bill Maze, stirred up some mixed feelings—and fore-shadowed issues that would later crop up between Peter Fleming and me. I wanted this one very badly, and despite my friendship with Bill, I went into the match in a take-no-prisoners, win-at-any-costs state of mind. There were several close calls against me, and I’d give Bill a look: Tennis players know that look, the guilt-inducing stare, that says to the other player, in effect, “You’re really going to take that?” Afterward, I was mad at myself: I felt I’d stepped on our friendship a bit. But I couldn’t help feeling delighted that I’d won.

I’ll never forget the scene at the NCAA finals that year. My opponent, John Sadri of North Carolina State (not exactly a tennis hotbed), walked onto the court wearing a blue blazer, white tennis shorts and shirt, and a ten-gallon hat! The Southern crowd went wild.

The fans—citizens of Athens and N.C. State supporters who’d been brought down for the event—were overwhelmingly behind Sadri, whereas I only had Coach Gould and Peter Rennert there to support me. But it didn’t matter: The frenzy in the stands only fueled and inspired me. I was simply determined not to lose this final.

It was a good thing I was determined. Sadri had one of the biggest serves I’d ever seen, and the match was just about as close as it could be: 7–6, 7–6, 5–7, 7–6. When I won that final point, I felt as if I could fly.

The only downside was that during changeovers in that final—partly because I’d been playing so many matches, and partly because of stress—I had to receive treatment for my back: The trainer made me lie flat and pull my knees to my chest. When the euphoria of the victory wore off, my back was really hurting.

I
TURNED PROFESSIONAL
at the Queen’s Club tournament the next month, June of 1978. Ironically, my first pro match was against Peter Fleming. I almost lost it, too, but then I came back and won in a close three sets. Peter was gracious when we shook hands at net: We were buddies. I got all the way to the final, which I lost to Tony Roche—I think it was the last tournament the great Aussie ever won, toward the end of his career.

Then I lost in the first round at Wimbledon—just like that. I’d gone from the semifinals in ’77 to the first round in ’78. I think there’s no doubt it had to do with my back problem—though, to be fair, Eric Van Dillen played a great match. (There, I said it.) I wore a wrap to keep my back warm—I’d put it on and feel too hot, then I’d take it off and feel too cold. Peter and I did get to the finals in doubles, however (we lost to Bob Hewitt and Frew McMillan), so that salvaged something from Wimbledon.

It was a sign, though. Right from the start that summer, I’d just been getting by, not doing anything extraordinary. In fact, to be honest, I was having mediocre results. I was struggling with just getting to the quarters of tournaments, not really beating any of the top players, losing to the Harold Solomons and Eddie Dibbses of the world on clay. (Nothing against Harold and Eddie—they were tough customers on the dirt. They were known as the Bagel Twins, because they were both short, Jewish-looking guys from Miami, even though Eddie’s background was Lebanese, not Jewish.) Anyway, I was winning rounds, but not winning tournaments, solidifying a number-15 ranking, but nothing more. I felt as if I were wilting a little, now that I had truly entered the big time.

I knew I could do better.

T
RUE TO MY RANKING
, I was seeded number 15 at the 1978 U.S. Open. My lower back still felt tight, and for some reason—to this day, I don’t know why—I decided to turn completely sideways when I served. I noticed the difference immediately: It loosened up the tension, relieved the pain. I don’t know how it worked; to tell the truth, I didn’t really want to know. I just thought,
This feels all right.

And then I noticed something else: Not only was my back getting significantly better, but people were having a tougher time reading my serve. Because I was so young and flexible in those days, my body weight moved me way into the court. (These days, when I serve, I still do it a little bit—jump, hit, and waltz in. In those days, I was all over it.) Suddenly I found myself up at net faster than ever before, hitting a lot of winning volleys.

The sideways serve was a beautiful double-whammy. People said, “What the hell is this guy doing?” because no one served that way. I felt much better—and, after my results started improving, better still.

To his huge credit, Tony Palafox completely accepted the new serve. This was so Tony: always thoughtful and curious about tennis, and infinitely supportive of me. He never advised me against the change—in fact, he figured it out for himself, so that he could help me do it better! He would stand sideways, or imagine himself in the position, and then I would ask him questions: “How come the serve isn’t breaking wide enough in the ad court?” Tony would think for a second, then say, “For that wide serve, it’s like throwing a knife—give it that same flick of the wrist.”

I wrote that tip down on a card. Ever since I’d started out, and to this day, I’ve written down tips to myself—“Keep your head up all through the serve”; “Don’t open your body too soon on the backhand.” I keep the cards in my tennis bag. Sitting during a changeover, I focus myself by looking at those cards. Throughout my career on the tour, I also called Tony whenever part of my game wasn’t up to snuff, and he would always tell me what I had to do differently, as calm as Bjorn, while I agonized.

I changed the serve early in the Open, and I got good results right away. I eventually lost in the semis to Connors—Jimmy was still Jimmy, after all; I still hadn’t beaten him, and he soundly outplayed me that day. Then, the next night, I traveled down to Chile to play my first Davis Cup match ever.

Tony Trabert, the team captain, had called me a few weeks before and asked me if I would play doubles with Brian Gottfried. I didn’t hesitate for a second, and I’ll tell you why. Strangely, though it was a boom time for tennis, it was a down time for the Davis Cup in the U.S.A.—the last time we’d been in a Cup final was 1973, when we’d lost to Australia. A big reason for our lack of success was that Jimmy Connors seemed to have no interest at all in the Cup. My guess was that, as one of the most blue-collar guys ever to play the game, he had scrapped his way up from nowhere and didn’t want to put himself out unless there was a direct benefit to him. He never said it in so many words, but it was always my feeling that if it didn’t put money in his pocket, Jimmy wasn’t interested in it. And, at $2,000 per week for singles (the money came, and still comes, from U.S. Open proceeds), Davis Cup wasn’t going to cut it for him.

Jimmy was just the most egregious example of this attitude. There were other name players who felt the same way: The money flowing around pro tennis was simply too big to risk losing time and energy (and even injury) playing in what was basically an amateur event, a relic of the good, or bad, old days of tennis.

That was never the way anyone in my family felt about it, though. My parents, influenced by Harry Hopman, always talked about what a great honor it would be to play for one’s country: It meant more to them, I think, than Wimbledon or the U.S. Open. They made me promise that I would play if I was asked, so when Tony called—and I don’t kid myself, I know it was because the top players were all turning him down—I said, “Where do I show up?”

The answer was Santiago, and down I flew to join Trabert’s little band: Harold Solomon, Brian Gottfried, Larry Gottfried, and yours truly, with Van Winitsky as a practice partner. Bill Norris, the great trainer, was also along, as was the wonderful team physician, Dr. Omar Fareed, and the lovely Joe Carrico, then president of the USTA. It was a very small group in those underappreciated days for the Cup—these days, as many as twenty people will travel with the U.S. Davis Cup team. And we were young: Three of the five of us (Van, Larry, and I) were nineteen!

This tie was not going to be any cinch: Chile, which had made it to the finals two years before, had a top-20 player in Hans Gildemeister, and a legitimate chance on its home courts. The South Americans came on pretty strong, and the score stood at one match all when Brian and I stepped onto the red clay for our crucial doubles match against Patrick Cornejo and Belus Prajoux.

Brian and I had barely practiced together. About all we said to each other beforehand was, “You [Brian] play the deuce court, I’ll play the ad court.” I almost never played the deuce—right-hand—court in doubles. One reason was that if I put my forehand on the left when we were receiving, it diminished the effectiveness of a wide serve on that side.

On paper, we were clear favorites against Cornejo and Prajoux, but paper doesn’t mean much in Davis Cup, where an emotional home crowd can become a crucial part of the action. That was certainly the case in this match. What should’ve been a straight-sets win for us turned into a tough four-setter, but Brian and I finally walked off the courts as winners, helping to seal a 4–1 U.S. victory.

At nineteen years and seven months, I was one of the youngest Americans ever to play Davis Cup, and after our victorious tie, I could sense some new stirrings of interest in the press, for the first time in what felt like a long while. I was very proud of that trip—almost as proud as my mom and dad.

I should also note that there was a sizable earthquake in Santiago that week, in the middle of the night. I slept right through it. I used to sleep a lot more soundly in those pre-fatherhood days!

A
ND THEN
—I don’t know any other way to put this—things just exploded. Suddenly, it was as if I’d found my stride. I won my first two tournaments after returning from Chile; at Hartford (over Johan Kriek in the finals) and in San Francisco (over Dick Stockton, despite my being in a frightening car crash the night before; when tournament director Barry MacKay heard I’d been in a wreck, and the car had been totaled, he said, “But you’re gonna play the finals, right?”).

I would eventually win four tournaments in the indoor season that year. I still hadn’t beaten any of the really big boys, though. Then came Stockholm.

T
HE FIRST TIME
I ever saw Borg, I was a ballboy for him.