“Monsieur Connors. Do not worry. I have little Brett. I saw him run out and chased after him. When I caught him he asked me to take him to the park. He wants ice cream, I think.”
I never knew that having a family would be so hard on the nerves.
Then, a few years later (and not because of the Brett incident), we decided to try a different hotel and moved to the Plaza Athénée, on Avenue Montaigne, the hotel where I’d been invited by Sinatra to join him for a cocktail.
Nasty picks Patti and me up at Charles de Gaulle Airport, drives us to the hotel, and comes up to our room for a drink. As we’re waiting for our bags, I open the curtains to look at the view of the city skyline. About five minutes later there’s a knock on the door. Nasty answers and talks to the bellhop for a few seconds.
“Connors boy, there’s a note here for you,” he says. “It’s from Marlene.”
Who?
I open the letter. “To Jimmy. I have just seen you arrive. Good luck in your matches. Marlene Dietrich.” Noooooo. How did she even know we were here? A minute later the telephone rings and Nasty starts speaking in French and then hands me the phone.
The voice is husky and unmistakable. “Jimmy, this is Marlene.”
It turned out she lived in an apartment right across from the hotel and she had seen me at the window. We talked for a minute and she said she hoped I would enjoy my stay in Paris and wished me luck in the tournament. Nasty, Patti, and I couldn’t believe it, and a few minutes later there was another knock at the door. This time the bellhop delivered a package: a framed photograph of Dietrich from the 1930s. Written across it were six words that still make me smile: WE JUST TALKED. FUCK THEM ALL. Attitude plus style. My kind of woman.
I’d have loved to have her come out to the stadium to watch one of my matches, but she was in her eighties by then and it just wasn’t possible. Instead, we spoke regularly over the next two weeks. Talking to Marlene Dietrich made East St. Louis seem a long ways off. If I ever needed to be reminded of the life tennis had given me, all I had to do was remember Paris. And Marlene.
Some of my favorite encounters in Paris were with René Lacoste, a distinguished French player and the inventor of the racquet I used for almost 30 years, the T2000. Mr. Lacoste had been one of the French tennis stars dominating the game in the 1920s and early 1930s, and the world’s number one player in 1926 and 1927. He won seven Grand Slam singles titles in the French, American, and British championships. Oh, and he also founded the Lacoste clothing firm, featuring the famous crocodile logo.
I first met Mr. Lacoste in the early 1970s when Nasty invited me to join the two of them for lunch. I was nervous as hell, but I relaxed soon after Mr. Lacoste told me how much he enjoyed following my matches. I’m not kidding, this man was amazing, what he had achieved, how he had broken new ground in almost everything he tried, and there he was telling me he liked my game. I have to tell you, that felt good.
Whenever I was in Paris I’d call Mr. Lacoste to say hello. He wasn’t short on opinions, another thing I liked about him.
“Oh Jeemy, I saw you play today. You drive me crazy. You hit the ball too close to the line, too close to the net. Geeve yourself more margin of error, please.”
Topspin ruled in Paris. Hitting the ball flat was almost unheard of. Almost losing in straight sets to Caujolle in 1980 wasn’t the only scare I had that afternoon. Deep into the third set, with the tournament slipping rapidly away, there was a sudden commotion in the area of Mr. Lacoste’s seat, and I could see he was being helped out of his box.
All I could do was go on with the match and hope everything was OK. As soon as we walked off the court, I called Mr. Lacoste’s wife to find out what had happened.
“René was not feeling so well. He had to leave.”
“Madame, I am so sorry. Please tell him I’ll call him later to see how he is.”
A couple of hours later Mr. Lacoste called me at the hotel and I asked him if he was OK.
“Yes, Jeemy, I am fine now, thank you. But I cannot watch you anymore. Your game, the way you play, it geeves me a heart attack!”
Saturday, July 5, 1980.
Centre Court, Connors versus McEnroe, Wimbledon semifinal.
First set 4-2, 40-15, McEnroe.
For once I’m wearing the white hat and the villain is across the net. Mac serves, down the line, and it hits the T, a puff of chalk. I take a step toward my chair.
“Fault!”
I stop. So does Mac. He stares across the net, then at the umpire. I stand and wait.
The umpire makes the call. “Play a let.”
Mac walks toward him. “Play a let? But I aced him.”
“No, no, the call came before the ball was played.”
Not sure about that.
“He never even called it. He never said anything.”
“He called a fault.”
“He never called a fault. He just went like that.” Mac sticks his arm out, mimicking a line judge.
“He called a fault. Play a let, please.”
“Could I have the referee, please?” Slow handclaps beginning around the stadium.
“No, play on.”
“I’d like the referee. I’m not playing on until you get the referee. I feel I have a right to get the referee. Are you going to call the referee?”
I stand quietly, casually twirling my racquet, happy to let him wind himself up. The crowd doesn’t like it, but I do. This can only work to my advantage.
“You can only call the referee on a point of law.”
“But this is the point of law. I want the referee out here right now.”
“You can’t have it.”
“But I aced him. Wait, in your opinion he could have gotten that ball?”
“Yes. He could have gone for it. Play on.”
“I’d like the referee.”
Realizing that this could go on forever, I walk toward the courtside seats and put one foot up against the barrier, smiling at the fans next to me.
“Play on.”
“I’m not playing until you get the referee.”
The umpire, Pat Smythe, has had enough. I’m surprised it took this long.
“Mr. McEnroe, you are getting a public warning. Now, please play on.”
Mac, shaking his head, walks to his service line. I settle myself and look toward the umpire’s chair to ask a totally innocent question.
“Two balls or one ball?”
“Two.”
“Oh, jolly good.” I’m trying to sound like Prince Charles, but it comes out like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. And the crowd loves it.
Mac hits his serve long, has a little tantrum, and smashes my return into the net. More boos from the crowd. His next serve is good, but I return it low and he nets his volley. Cheers ring out as though I’ve just won the championship. On the next point, Mac serves an ace to go 5-2 up, then sarcastically asks, “How was that?”
At the changeover he’s still talking to the umpire. Man, give it a rest.
I wag my finger at him. “I’m telling you, son, keep your mouth shut out here.”
And still he goes on, “I’d like the referee out here.”
First set, 5-2, 15-0, my serve.
I hit it down the line, but it’s called a fault.
“Ooh, I say,” in my Dick Van Dyke voice. Laughs ring out everywhere except on McEnroe’s side of the court.
I return serve that day as well as I have in a long time. Under pressure, with McEnroe hovering at the net, I lob him repeatedly. On his side of the net, he serves and volleys as well as anybody I have ever played, creating angles even I didn’t think possible.
Despite my best efforts to try and throw him off his rhythm, I never quite manage it.
I lose the third, and in the fourth I have opportunities to pull even, and though the momentum is with me I can’t quite close the gap. Mac wins the match and keeps me from playing another Wimbledon final. In the 14 matches we’d played up until then we’d only ever gone to f
ive sets once, in Philadelphia earlier in the year, and I’d come out on top. But that day at Wimbledon, I just came up short. A BBC commentator had likened the match to an irresistible force meeting an immovable object. Unfortunately, the irresistible force that was John McEnroe prevailed.
If he wasn’t quite there already, I knew Mac was on his way to becoming the world’s best tennis player. He was now ranked number one in the US, and that’s what really pissed me off. I’ll say it again: That title belonged to me and I wanted it back. What you saw on the court back then was genuine dislike.
Mac came out with a good line after that semifinal, which I’ve got to give him credit for. When asked about the nature of our relationship, he replied, “Well, we don’t go out to dinner together a lot.”
Even though we get along better than we used to—I’d go for a beer with him now—there’s still that edge. Whenever Mac and I meet up, do I still think, Goddammit, he beat me in the US Open? Sure I do, but I don’t lose sleep over it anymore. At the time, though, some of those matches caused me insomnia. We didn’t have a soft rivalry; it was down and dirty, old-school.
Two months after Wimbledon, Mac and I met again at the Open, our third-straight Grand Slam semifinal. I had worked hard to win over the crowds in New York in 1978 and now Mac wanted them on his side. I think he thought he was the real king of New York and I was just some guy from East St. Louis trespassing on his territory. That just wasn’t the case. I’d won this thing three times already, I’d spilled my blood out here, and this was my stadium and my tournament.
The Flushing Meadows fans knew what was going on. Mac had guts, he really did, but there were times when he just wanted to have everything his own way. But who didn’t? The crowd demanded great tennis and became irritated when Mac held up the match with his calls for a change of umpire halfway through my run of 11 games in a row. After having lost the first set, and finding myself down a set point in the second at 4-5, I didn’t lose another game until I was 2-0 up in the fourth.
Then he decided that the electronic Hawkeye device used on the service line was broken. Come on!
“The machine’s wrong. It was this far out,” he yelled at umpire Don Wiley. “Tell me when you’re going to get one right, Mr. . . . Mr. whatever-your-name-is. Mr. Incompetent. You’re wrong eighty percent of the time. You realize that?”
The crowd started booing and hollering.
The call for the umpire change came at 0-3 down in the third, after Mac complained once again about what he saw as a bad call.
“I’d like to see the referee, please.”
I’d heard it all before. This shit was getting old.
At 0-2 in the fourth, Mac pulled his game back around, and as his tennis began to heat up, so did the fans. They were getting the kind of show they expected from us, and they roared their approval.
The match went to a tiebreak at 6-6 in the fifth set, a great opportunity for me to close him out. But Mac served and volleyed his way to victory, and once again I had failed to reach a Grand Slam final.
And all on Patti’s birthday. That sucks.
At the beginning of the year I’d been aiming for the number one spot but ended 1980 third in the world behind Mac and Borg, and second in the US. That sucked, too.
“He’s a chicken.”
It’s late, very late, Friday night/early Saturday morning at Madison Square Garden, January 16–17, 1981, and I’m talking to the press after beating Ivan Lendl, 7-6, 6-1. This is the sixth time I’ve met the Czechoslovakian over the past 18 months, and the only set he took off me in those matches was the previous year in Dallas. That’s OK; he’s young, he’s learning, but this stinks. We’re at the 1981 Masters (which is played for the year 1980), and the way the matches have worked out, the winner tonight will meet Borg in the semis, while the loser will be up against Gene Mayer in the other semi. Who would you rather play?
So what happened? Lendl tanked. Everyone in the stands knew it—the lack of effort, the shots he was missing. It’s unacceptable. He’s number six in the world: He should show respect for the sport, for his opponent, and, most important, for the fans. So let’s just say I wasn’t afraid to express my opinion.
For me there is only one way to play tennis. You put yourself on the line and fight to win, always. No questions asked. No compromise.
Over the years I grew to like Lendl. I respected his talent, conditioning, and preparation. He represented the new breed. Yeah, maybe a bit mechanical and lacking in flair, but still a great player. He went on to kick my ass in a lot of matches throughout the 1980s, but not in the two that mattered most—the US Open finals of 1982 and 1983. Those are the ones I remember.
So, yeah, Lendl was OK, but I still despised what he did that night at the Masters
The next day, I was back out there putting everything into my match against Borg, but before I could find my rhythm he ran away with the first set. I took him to a tiebreaker in the second, which I won 7-4, but I was exhausted, and at 1-5 in the third set it looked like the match was over. Then I broke him and held to make it 3-5, and the pressure now was back on him. It took him four match points to finally win the match, but not before I made him earn it.
This was my ninth-consecutive loss to Borg, but I knew there would be a lot more battles to come. It reminded me of the ice cracking under my feet as a kid while I was thinking, I can make it. I can make it.
“You’re going to get drunk tonight, aren’t you?”
The next summer, Patti and I are in the car going back to our hotel after the 1981 Wimbledon semifinal. We’ve already stopped off at a little store not far from the grounds, where I picked up a six-pack of beer and some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. I’m already two beers down and the seat is littered with crumbs from the three bags of chips I’ve demolished.
“Oh, yes, I am.”
Up until that afternoon I’d had a good tournament. Sure, there had been the usual confrontations with the rigid protocols, but I was accustomed to that by now. I never got completely used to the crazy formality at Wimbledon—it was their way or no way—but the older I got, the less it bugged me. This year, actually, it had been Patti who clashed with the All-England authorities. Bettina Bunge and Dick Stockton were playing mixed doubles on an outside court, and Patti was sitting in the tea room (very British, you know), watching the match through the long lens of a friend’s camera.
“Excuse me, miss, no cameras are allowed in here.”
“Yes, I know that, but don’t worry. I’m not taking any photographs. I’m just watching our friends play.”
“No cameras allowed in here, miss.”
“I understand, but as I just said I’m not using it as a camera. It’s really a . . .”
“Do you want me to escort you out, miss?”
“Just fucking try it.” Did I mention that Patti is half Irish and half Cherokee? You think I’ve got a temper?
Everything else had gone smoothly all week. Instead of the Inn on the Park, Patti, Brett, and I were staying in an apartment just behind Harrods where we had fun socializing with our friends the Gottfrieds, cooking meals together, and playing hearts. Patti usually won. My favorite strategy, it will come as no surprise, was shooting the moon. All or nothing for me.
One night we went to the Playboy Club to meet up with Gerry Goldberg, who was also in town. After dinner we decided to head to the disco in the basement. Gerry was leading us down when he suddenly stopped and I almost fell over him.
“Gerry, what the—”
“Connors, I don’t think we should do this. Let’s hit the tables upstairs instead.”
“But, G-Man, Patti wants to dance. Come on, we don’t have to stay long.”
“No, Connors, I really don’t think we should.”
He was looking really flustered by now. Behind me, Patti was asking what the hell was holding us up.
“Look,” Gerry whispered in my ear. “Look,” he said again, insistent this time, as he gestured with his head at the wall over his shou
lder. “It’s Patti,” he hissed.
I looked up and there was a huge naked picture of my wife from one of her Playboy shoots.
“Hey, Patti, take a look at that,” I said, pointing to the picture. Why not? I was proud of it.
She burst out laughing. “Don’t I look cute?”
Until the quarters I hadn’t lost a set. Then I mounted a huge comeback against Vijay Amritraj, battling back from two sets down to win the match in five sets, setting up my semifinal with Borg. Let me say something here: When you’re two sets down, you can’t think about time, because you don’t know how long it will take to climb back into the match. You just keep grinding and looking for a break or a way to make something happen. Remember, you’re fighting with someone of equal ability and determination. You have to trust your own instincts and play with abandon, because you have nothing to lose. As Two Mom used to say, greed and fear are your worst enemies in that situation.
After an hour and 24 minutes in the English sunshine against Borg, with me up 6-0, 6-4 in the semifinal, it looked like his winning streak over me was about to end and I was once again going to make a Grand Slam final. Guess what? Neither of those things happened. After going two sets up and having my way with Borg, he ends up rolling me over exactly the same way. I walked out of the stadium feeling like I’d just been hit by a runaway truck with BORG painted on the side. I had never before blown a match after being two sets up, and I was in for a gut-check. You could handle that two ways; you could crumble and never be heard from again, or use the experience to grow stronger.
Flushing Meadows. September 13, 1981. It’s Borg versus McEnroe for the second-consecutive Grand Slam final. Borg’s serve had cut short my effort to regain the Open title, as he fired 14 aces on his way to a straight-sets victory in the semis. Now he had a chance to avenge his defeat by Mac the previous year in New York, and for Wimbledon earlier that summer.
The Outsider: A Memoir Page 23
