Then there were the women, always the women. Nasty was out of control. When he was on court, he’d spend every free minute scanning the crowd for prospects. If I was watching the match, he’d send me up in the stands to tell whatever pretty girl he had picked out that the Great Nastase would like to invite her to dinner and, oh, yeah, bring along your attractive friend in the next seat. Once they accepted, that would be the last I’d see of Nasty for a week.
Nasty speaks six languages, and he’s written several books in French. When he retired, in 1985, he went through a bout of depression as he tried to figure out the next act in his life. As he was coming out of his funk, he wrote and recorded a song called “Globetrotter Lover,” which I’m sure you’re all familiar with. But it actually made it to the number two spot on the French charts. Mon Dieu!
It was tough for me to play against Nasty, because we were such good friends. We also practiced together, which meant he knew my game better than anyone. He beat me 10 times in a row, and I remember telling Mom, “Nasty has my number.”
“Well, I have news for you,” Mom said. “You guys aren’t going to be friends for very long, because he’s losing respect for you. He’s beating you and laughing at you while he’s doing it.”
Mom was a master of psychology—at least mine. I went on to beat Nasty something like 26 consecutive times. He didn’t seem to mind it too much. Nasty was the kind of guy who would always say, “It’s OK, it’s OK,” when someone else came out on top, and then he’d go have a ham sandwich and a Coke. My buddy was easy to please; all he really wanted was a blonde and a bite to eat.
I figured that if I had been able to accept all my prize money in the summer of ’71, I probably would have made around $50,000. In anyone’s world, that’s a lot of money; for a college student, it was beyond belief, and I couldn’t take a penny.
“Jeez, mom, I can’t keep on giving up all this money.”
“That’s OK, Jimmy. Just go back to school and get your education. You never know how long you’re going to be playing tennis or what will happen in the future. You need a fallback.”
I tried pushing the issue, but she insisted that I had to finish college before making any decisions. I entered my sophomore year in the fall of 1971, and the following January I played another of Bill’s tournaments in Baltimore, where once again I lost to Nasty in the finals. After that match, I remembered a conversation I had with the actor Lloyd Bridges. Mr. Bridges was one of the regulars at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club; he loved the game and was quite a decent player. He also happened to be the father of Cindy, the girl I was dating. I had been over at his house, talking about my future and how as an amateur I hadn’t been able to accept any of the prize money. I told him how frustrating it was for me that my mother insisted I finish college. He said something then that would snap my head back.
“I understand what your mom is saying, Jimmy, but think of it this way: You may never get this chance again. You’ve got to strike while the iron is hot.”
After the Baltimore defeat, I called home.
“Mom, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it anymore. I just played this great tournament and lost in the final to Nasty in three sets. I’m playing too well now. I’ve got to take my chance. I’m turning pro. I promise I’ll go back to college once I’ve given this a try and made some money.”
OK, so I lied.
Her reaction surprised me. “You do what you think is best, Jimmy.”
I quit school, turned pro, entered the first tournament possible, on the hard indoor floors of Jacksonville, and won. I made something like $1,500.
Then I got drafted.
6
NASTY ENTERTAINMENT
The Vietnam War still had a year to go before the official ceasefire, and the draft was ordering up troops through the lottery system. I should’ve been in the lottery the year before, but I had a student exemption. Turning pro cost me the exemption, and because I had a low number I’d be near the front of the line when the call came. My brother, Johnny, would’ve picked up his bags, his gun, and his uniform and been out the door before they even finished saying his name, but—and I’m not ashamed to tell you this—I was terrified. Now, let’s get one thing straight: I had and will always have the utmost respect and gratitude for the men and women who serve our country and keep us safe. As scared as I was, when it came right down to it I was willing to do my duty.
I went through all the physicals and was mentally prepared to go, when suddenly I was told I was no longer needed. To this day I don’t know why, and to be honest, back then I didn’t ask too many questions. But I promised myself that I wasn’t going to waste the gift of time that had just been handed to me.
OK, a little history lesson, Connors style.
When I turned professional, in January 1972, I had some big decisions to make. I had to figure out what tournaments I wanted to play because there were so many options.
Grand Slam events, which are also called the majors, are the ones where you make your reputation, then as now. They have the most ranking points, the most prize money, and they attract the most attention. Winning the Grand Slam means winning all four of the majors—the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open—in the same year. Rod Laver is still the last man to have accomplished that feat, and he did it twice, in 1962 and 1969. Before 1968, only amateurs could play in the majors, but that year was the beginning of the Open Era, so professional players could compete as well.
And there went the neighborhood. Two-Mom always said, “Beware of open tennis.” I didn’t know what she meant, but I soon found out.
Suddenly there was a whole load of money to be made in tennis and a whole lot of people were fighting for a piece of the action.
On one side you had the central governing authority, the International Lawn Tennis Federation (ILTF), allied with a bunch of national associations, including the United States Lawn Tennis Association (USLTA). The ILTF sanctioned the most important world tournaments, including the four Slams.
On the other side was the World Championship of Tennis (WCT), dreamed up by the legendary sports promoter Lamar Hunt, the first guy to put players under contract. The WCT sanctioned its own circuit and controlled which players could participate. It’s too bad that when things spiraled out of control, and too many rival promoters muddied the waters, Hunt decided to take his expertise—and considerable resources—to other sports. He could have owned tennis, because he gave players a way to earn a living. He made the game more popular by increasing prize money and giving the players a choice of where they wanted to play. But in the end, Hunt refused to get caught in the petty politics between the different factions, which ultimately proved detrimental to the game. Basically, the World Championship of Tennis threatened to overtake the Grand Prix circuit, organized by the ILTF. And they didn’t like it.
Both sides dug in their heels until it all came to a head, in July 1971, over an impossible clash of schedules. This resulted in the ILTF voting to prohibit WCT players from participating in its events for the following year.
The power struggle was eventually solved by carving up the tennis schedule like a Thanksgiving turkey. The WCT pulled back from staging tournaments in the summer and fall and became the popular circuit for the first four months of the year, before the main Slams in Paris, London, and New York. Just to make things more interesting, Bill Riordan started his own circuit, the Independent Players Association (IPA), which was a direct rival to the WCT and where I played from January through April.
Then, in 1972, to further complicate things, along comes the Association of Tennis Professionals (ATP), headed by Jack Kramer, Donald Dell, Arthur Ashe, and the South African Cliff Drysdale. Even though players had to pay a fee to join the ATP, by the end of 1974 it had 125 members, including 99 of the top 100 players. Guess who the exception was? And the title of this book is?
Tennis became one big bowl of alphabet soup, and, for better and for worse, we were all swimming in it.
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sp; Pressure was coming from all sides to declare your allegiance and pick your poison, but as always, the outsider in me dictated my choice. I was open to all events, but I wasn’t under contract to anybody. I just wanted to play tennis. Some people have said I was afraid to play the other circuits, but nothing could be further from the truth. I went with Bill because he had looked after me over the years, inviting me to tournaments and—as I said—slipping me expense money under the table. I also knew that on the IPA tour I could hold my own and still compete against some top players. My choice was not only controversial; it brought criticism from the press and players alike.
In Bill’s camp were guys like Nastase, Ion Tiriac, Jan Kodes, Roger Taylor, and Vitas Gerulaitis, and by playing them on a regular basis I could hone my game and gain more experience. After the Riordan events concluded in the spring, the Grand Prix circuit schedule took over, pitting me against the rest of the world’s best players, like Laver and Ken Rosewall, John Newcombe, Ashe, and Stan Smith. It was no big deal. I’d be ready for them.
A lot of other young guys were getting thrown into the mix straightaway and losing week after week. What good would that do? I wasn’t in a hurry. By biding my time and traveling with Bill to out-of-the-way places, I felt like I could keep an air of mystery around me, just as Two-Mom had advised. The Grand Slam champions—those supposed powerhouses of the sport—were barely aware of my game in the early days, which definitely worked to my advantage.
Bill was taking tennis where it had never been before. While the ILTF and WCT were staging tournaments in major cities, we found ourselves in more intimate venues where we could sell out the stadiums. Initially, Bill faced restrictions in terms of the prize money he could offer, or else he would be in breach of the agreement brokered between the ILTF and the WCT, which had granted Bill limited subsidiary rights. If he ignored these financial limits, his players faced possible exclusion from all the major events in the summer. But Bill, being Bill, always found ways to entice players to his tournaments. He’d invite major corporations to sponsor bonus pools that would go to the winners of the most events. And, let’s face it, who couldn’t use a little extra cash at the end of a long, hard season?
Bill laid out the situation in simple terms. I could join the other bandwagons like the WCT and be one of the herd, or I could go with him. Together we’d make some noise and I’d end up earning a shitload of money and become famous. That doesn’t sound bad. Where do I sign?
Bill used to tell me that just winning wasn’t enough; we had to entertain, to put on a show. It was in his blood. His father had financial interests in several prizefighters, and Bill had spent his youth ringside at Madison Square Garden, soaking up the showbiz atmosphere. Boxing had a big influence on his vision for the future of tennis. He also believed in the appeal of the Eastern European contingent of Nastase, Tiriac, and Kodes. With their talent and theatrical personalities, the Riordan circuit stoked interest and created controversy, and Bill milked it for all it was worth. He encouraged his players to kick up the energy in arenas like the Coliseum in Hampton, Virginia, where eight or nine thousand people would scream and shout as if they were watching a heavyweight bout.
It was loud and it was in your face, but it wasn’t just about the spectacle. Riordan also knew his tennis. Back in the late 1950s, in his home state of Maryland, he formed the Salisbury Tennis Association and ran clinics in the local parks that produced a string of high-quality junior players. He also coached his local high school team to great success, promoted the United States national men’s indoor tennis championships in Salisbury and, in 1964, had even joined the enemy, the USLTA, as an official delegate—until the power struggles brought on by the Open Era pushed him out and forced him to set up his show.
Bill had no fear of going mano a mano with anyone, slugging it out like the street fighter he was. Mostly this worked in my favor, but it could also backfire, when he went after people he felt had done him wrong, like that time he sued Ashe and the ATP. Hell, he even sued me once. All in all, Bill had a huge impact on the game of tennis. This was boom time, the gold rush, and he was at the heart of it. Pretty soon the moneymen caught on, and big holiday resorts started giving up expensive real estate to build courts for their guests to play on. My timing could not have been better.
Since Nastase and I were already friends when I turned professional, the fact that he was a part of the Riordan circuit was a giant lure.
Nasty was the big name in the IPA ranks in 1972, but Bill also knew he needed someone else who would represent all that his tour stood for—taking tennis to the heartland, playing in front of real sports fans. When he signed me he got exactly that: a young, brash, hard-hitting American. A maverick. An outsider.
He made me the star of the show. As I won more and more tournaments, Bill used to schedule my matches for Wednesday, rather than Monday, so that I could spend the early part of each week meeting sponsors and local dignitaries, shaking hands, making small talk, playing exhibition matches. I didn’t mind one bit. I understood that this was part of Bill’s master plan to ride me to the top.
Bill would introduce me at cocktail parties with the words “The one and only Jimmy Connors,” even though I hardly deserved the title. After that kind of buildup, you can’t just sit there with your thumb up your ass. You have to jump in, schmooze the money guys, and give the fans what they want—the kind of show that will keep them coming back. It didn’t matter if I was tired or in a crappy mood; when I was on, I was on, and I got to be pretty good at it.
I wonder sometimes how I learned in those first couple of years to speak in public without making a fool of myself. Of course, some people might think I never learned that lesson, but this is my book; I can write what I want. I wasn’t really looking for star billing, and I honestly don’t know how it all happened. It just did. Playing tennis was my thing, but I eventually got a Ph.D. in marketing and promotion from Riordan University.
I remember reading, years later, an interview in Sports Illustrated where Bill said, “With Jimmy, sometimes it was like leading a symphony. And I don’t believe anyone could have done it like Connors. He never deviated from the script I wrote him. Even today, at his press conferences, some of my best lines surface.”
Attaboy, Bill.
Life on the tennis circuit has a reputation for being all about glamour and parties, first-class travel and five-star accommodations. Let me tell you, it wasn’t, not back in the early 1970s. Mom or Bill would organize my travel, but it was still a pain in the ass, sorting out a flight from, say, Paramus, New Jersey, to Roanoke, Virginia. I’d be on standby most of the time, kicking around a string of departure lounges, drinking sodas and staring into space, trying to save money. I played two years on the circuit before I could afford to buy a first-class ticket anywhere.
The truth is, in the beginning I was bored out of my mind most of the time. My regimen went as follows: practice a little in the morning (on the one court available in many of Riordan’s venues), then go for a walk to kill some time, return to the hotel to rest and watch television—westerns, whenever I could find them, but also daytime soap operas. Life didn’t get much better than a doubleheader of As the World Turns and The Guiding Light. I went out only after my matches, usually late at night to find a place to eat, and misbehave with Nasty. As you can imagine, life in Salisbury, Maryland, was kickin’.
There is a big difference between a pretender and a weekender. The guys who were knocked out in the first or second rounds could spend their lives hanging around the bars, playing the tennis-pro card to pick up girls. I couldn’t do that. Staying out until 3 a.m. doesn’t catch up with you the next day—with me, it usually took three or four days, which is when I was playing in the semis and finals and needed all my energy and focus. I’ll say it again: Tennis is all about timing.
On those few occasions when I stepped over the line, the one that Pancho had drawn for me, I became sluggish, my reactions slowed and my intensity level hard to maintain. Normally, I w
ould happily stay out on the court for as long as it took to win, but when I felt tired, my mind began to play tricks on me. He’s too good for you, Jimmy. Give it up. You don’t have what it takes. You’re humiliating yourself. I was strong enough physically to play through exhaustion, but it was those momentary lapses of mental toughness that would drag me down.
That was unacceptable. It went against everything Mom, Pancho, Two-Mom, and Pop had taught me. So I was careful and saved most of my nighttime adventures for when I was back home in Los Angeles.
The fans, however, made it all worthwhile. They came out in the thousands in places like Little Rock, Arkansas, and Shreveport, Louisiana, places better known for football.
At the beginning it was only the country-club set that came to watch, but that quickly changed as word spread about some of the antics that Nasty and I brought to the party. We talked to the fans, shouted, laughed, cursed, and made rude gestures, but they came back the next day to see more. The noise, the abuse, the language—it was wild. Who wouldn’t enjoy that? That’s how the transition occurred; the country-clubbers remained, appreciating the quality of the tennis, but they were joined by new fans, who came for the show.
As the rivalries intensified—Nasty and me, Vitas and me, Nasty and Tiriac—it became more like Ali vs. Frazier than Laver vs. Emerson. Those guys were definitely tennis royalty, but we were the new generation, blue-collar stars, always at each other’s throats.
Once my reputation and my notoriety spread, the agents came calling. It happened pretty much immediately following that first victory in Jacksonville, right after I turned pro. I was happy to let Mom handle the business end of it, allowing me to concentrate on my game. I trusted her judgment completely. Even though she was criticized for it, Mom wasn’t shy about being a manager. Mark McCormack, the fabled founder of IMG, the biggest sports agency in the world, went to her and asked me to join his stable of players. When that didn’t work out, he paid a visit to the La Costa club in Carlsbad, California, where Pancho was now the head pro. McCormack tried his best to persuade Pancho that I’d be much better off with IMG than with Riordan. Pancho took McCormack’s offer to Mom but recommended against it.
The Outsider: A Memoir Page 8
