The Outsider: A Memoir

by Jimmy Connors

  David Schneider and I are driving back to Turnberry across Alligator Alley from his place in Fort Myers, Florida, where I had spent the night. It’s a long drive, about 150 miles across the Everglades, and for the past hour he’s listening to me complain about Patti.

  “This is bullshit, Schneider. She’s telling me when I can and can’t see my son. Fuck that. I told her I’d take him away and she’s got lawyers saying I can’t.”

  “No, you can’t, Jimmy. And the fact that Patti won’t fold is messing with your head. You know she’s right and you don’t like it. Look, man, I love you, but I love Patti, too, and I don’t want to hear you talking about her like this anymore.”

  David had already told me more than once that he didn’t like how I was acting. And he wasn’t the only one of my friends who felt that way.

  In reality, I had backed Patti into a corner and she’d come out fighting, showing the same instincts that served me so well on the tennis court. I was trying to rally my buddies to my cause, and they weren’t buying it.

  We didn’t have a lot of friends in Florida, because we had spent so much time traveling. When I decided I didn’t want to be married anymore, Patti was forced to rely on a handful of people for support. Eddie Dibbs and his wife would visit her and make sure she was doing OK; so did Father Charles, the priest who had baptized Brett. Father Charles was staying in an apartment at Turnberry because of the kindness of the owner, Donny Soffer. Why was I depending on others to take care of my family? What a dick.

  Once Schneider and I got back to my hotel in Turnberry, I asked him if he wanted to get a drink at the bar.

  “Sorry, Jimmy, can’t do it.”

  Then he drives away, leaving me on the front steps of a hotel full of people I don’t know.

  Roland Garros. I’ve just lost 6-4, 6-4, 7-6 in the quarterfinal match against Frenchman Christophe Roger-Vasselin, who is ranked 130th in the world, as the crowd screamed, “Roger! Roger!”

  Afterward, I’m in one of my favorite restaurants in Paris, sitting across from Lornie talking about tennis. This doesn’t feel right. And it has nothing to do with tennis.

  At Wimbledon, Kevin Curren of South Africa defeats me in the fourth round 6-3, 6-7, 6-3, 7-6, after serving up 33 aces. It’s the first time I’ve failed to reach at least the quarterfinals of the tournament. In the post-match press interview I call the match “a bad day at the office.” In reality it was a tough loss on the number 2 court, which was known as the Graveyard of Champions. Can you say karma?

  I’d ended the affair. It had been a mistake from the beginning but I can’t go back and undo it. I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.

  Later that night, I’m at the Playboy Club, once again sitting across from Lornie and talking tennis. Still. This really doesn’t feel right. But then nothing has felt right for a long time.

  Then this overwhelming feeling comes over me and it doesn’t take me long to realize what it is: I miss my wife.

  After Wimbledon I called Patti and asked if it was OK if I came to Turnberry to see Brett. It wasn’t my agreed-upon visitation arrangement, but Patti never once refused to let me see our son.

  Patti and Brett picked me up at the airport in Fort Lauderdale, and we decided go to a Chinese restaurant, Christine Lee’s, for dinner. After a few glasses of plum wine, I stumbled my way through to what I really wanted to talk to her about. I call that Plum Wine Courage.

  “Do you think we can make this work?” I asked.

  “Make what work?” asked Patti. Later, she told me she thought I was asking if we could work out things between us financially in the divorce.

  “Us. This crazy circus?” I said, indicating Patti, Brett, and me.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if I even like you, let alone love you,” she said.

  I didn’t know what else to do except hug her. I wanted to be with my family, and you know me well enough by now to know that I would fight to the death to win them back. I stayed in Florida for two days before returning to Belleville. I had to figure out some way to show Patti I was serious about trying to fix our marriage.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go to South Africa for some exhibitions in a couple of days,” I said to her. “Would you like to go and keep me company?”

  There was silence. In that moment, I allowed myself some hope.

  “OK.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Mom can look after Brett. But, understand, if I do, it’s as a friend only.”

  Beggars can be choosers. I’ll take it.

  We decided that we would meet in New York and fly out from there.

  I’m waiting by the departure gate at JFK and the London flight has just been called. The plane from Miami landed half an hour ago. I start to think that Patti has changed her mind.

  I look at my watch. I’m going to have to board and the rest of my life is starting to look pretty fucking lonely. I understand that, if Patti shows up, she’s just testing the waters to see if she can even stand being around me. I know we can eventually be friends, but what I’m holding out for is that she’ll love me again.

  And now here she is, walking across the concourse toward me.

  That was a good moment. A very good moment.

  After a quick stop in London, the press is out in force in Johannesburg, waiting for us when we touch down. Word has gotten out that we are traveling together.

  “Did you tell them?” Patti hisses at me as we make our way through the explosion of flashing bulbs. “Because if you did and didn’t warn me, I’ll kill you. I’d have brushed my hair and put some makeup on!”

  She’s always known how to make me laugh.

  We go straight to a private plane that takes us to Sun City, which is owned by Sol Kerzner, who built the big Atlantis resort in the Caribbean. Sun City looks like Vegas, with spectacular hotels and casinos, and Sol books all the big acts, like Rod Stewart and Elton John.

  In our hotel that night in Sun City, we have the conversation I’ve been dreading. I’ve been hoping I would never have to talk about it, but I know if I’m going to have any chance of getting my wife back that this has to happen. Now.

  “Why did you do it, Jimmy?” Patti asks.

  “Do what?” I say, stalling for time.

  She just looks at me.

  “I don’t know,” I say. And I really didn’t know.

  “Tell me honestly about that woman,” Patti says.

  “She’s just a friend, nothing more.” This is the lie I’ve stuck to since Patti filed for divorce and I was going to stick with it no matter what. She never believed it for a moment.

  “What do you mean, ‘Just a friend’? We’ve been married four years and I’ve never met her. She’s not just a friend, and I want the truth. Right now. This is it, Jimmy. There are no second chances. Either you tell me the truth and admit it to my face now or I’m on the next plane out of here.”

  She’s looking right at me and asking me to be the man she married, not the man I’ve become over the last few months. I take a deep breath. I can hardly get the words out, because I start crying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “No.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It isn’t much of an answer, but Patti understands. She nods, holds my hand, and says, “OK, Jimmy, let’s talk about what the future might look like. But before that, I’m going to have to speak to your mom and straighten out some things.”

  “I understand you have to do that. But you should also know, after Wimbledon, when I was dropping my bags off at Mom’s house, she said to me, ‘Jimmy, go back to Florida. Go see your wife and son. That’s where you should be.’ In her own way, Mom was telling me that she and I have both made mistakes and that we need to try to fix them if we can.”

  It took a while for Patti and Mom to make peace, but eventually, in later years, they would form a close bond that would last until Mom’s death.

&
nbsp; That night in Sun City, for the first time in a long time, we talked to each other openly and honestly about what had gone wrong, and what I allowed to go wrong by keeping my feelings to myself. We made a deal that whether I was in a tournament or not, we’d face whatever issues came up in the moment and try to resolve them. We’ve stuck to that ever since. I still turned into that “other person” whenever I stepped onto the court, but instead of letting things fester and slide, either Patti brought me back to earth or I dragged myself there on my own. Thirty-three years later it still works.

  On one of the days we spent in Mala Mala, Patti decided that we needed some exercise and the safest place to do some jogging was the small airstrip. We were happily jogging along when we saw a jeep coming toward us. It was our ranger and our guide and they were carrying rifles.

  “Mr. Connors,” the guide said, “you shouldn’t be jogging out here without a guide.” Then he pointed behind us. Patti and I turned around to see three lions crossing the airstrip. I guess they needed a little exercise, too. And maybe a little snack to keep up their strength.

  From Mala Mala, we went to Durban for another match, then on to the beautiful city of Cape Town for yet another. This was still during apartheid, and we would encounter signs like COLORED BATHING BEACH and WHITE BATHING BEACH. Patti was offended by the cruelty and injustice and didn’t hesitate to voice her opinion, “You guys are going to regret this. The blacks outnumber the whites, twenty-five to one. You haven’t provided education or social services and this is going to come back and bite you in the ass.” As usual, Patti was right.

  South Africa will always be a special place for me. With my head full of myself, and so much else going on in our lives with tennis and Brett, I’d forgotten until that trip that having Patti as my partner and lover was my life. I would never forget again.

  Back home we took it slowly, but we both knew we were back together for good, and after Thanksgiving Patti withdrew her petition for divorce.

  Although I may never fully understand why I cheated on my wife, what I do know with absolute certainty is that without Patti’s understanding and forgiveness, my life would have taken a very different course.

  The thought of any other outcome now is unacceptable. If Patti hadn’t come running across that concourse at JFK, we wouldn’t have had the incredible joy of having our daughter, Aubree, our second child.

  It’s the semis of the ATP championship, at Mason, Ohio, third set, late evening, and it’s still sweltering. Earlier the courtside temperature topped 115 degrees, and tempers are short. Not the best conditions for a match between Mac and me. We’ve both been trash-talking, complaining about calls, and generally getting on each other’s nerves.

  There’s been a heckler in the second row on Mac’s back all night, and Mac finally snaps.

  “Come on, Jimmy, you can beat this punk,” the guy shouts, and Mac turns on him.

  “Fuck you. And your girlfriend, too.”

  Never bring the girlfriend into it; it only means trouble. The guy is big and now he’s out of his seat and heading for Mac.

  I jump the net and stand between them.

  “Come on, let’s just cool down,” I say to Gigantor.

  “Jimmy, I’m rooting for you, but he disrespected my girlfriend and I’m not going to take it.”

  I glance behind me and Mac’s giving the guy the “Fuck you, buddy” treatment as he walks backward in full retreat.

  “Come on, Mac, why not just apologize to the man’s girlfriend?”

  The stadium has gone quiet. I think half of them hope the guy gives Mac a pounding. (Personally, I’d pay to see that!) “Mac, do you mind? Let’s face it, the two of us together don’t stand a chance against this guy.”

  Reluctantly, McEnroe nods and approaches.

  “I’d like to apologize to your girlfriend. But fuck you.”

  That works for me.

  I look at the guy, hopefully. “You got to accept that, right?”

  “Sure, Jimmy. Until the match is over.”

  I really should have let the guy kick Mac’s ass. Instead, Mac kicked mine 6-4 in the third.

  It’s Flushing Meadows, September 2, 1983, and my 31st birthday. I don’t have a match today, but I’ve gone to the stadium to pick up some racquets. Patti suggests we get a bite to eat while we’re there. We’re about to go into the player’s lounge when a pretty young woman wearing glasses and dressed in a business suit, runs up and grabs my sleeve.

  “Mr. Connors, Mr. Connors, I love you. I love you. Please can you get me a ticket to come and watch you play?”

  Oh boy, after everything that’s gone on with Patti, this is just what I need. The young woman now has a death grip on me and I can’t get away. “Sorry, I have my family here. I don’t have any extra tickets. I am really sorry. But thank you for your support. I’ve got to go now.”

  Patti and I enter the players’ lounge, which is packed with about 200 people, and the young woman follows us inside, hanging on to my arm.

  “Please, Mr. Connors, please. At least try and get me a ticket,” she says.

  She’s not giving up and she won’t let go and I can’t just shove her away. I look over at Patti and raise my eyebrows as if to say, “What do I do now?” She just shrugs and mouths over to me, “Who is she?” This is a familiar question, but I have no idea.

  The young woman finally releases my arm and reaches into her bag. What the . . . ? A gun? Is she going to kill me? No. She’s pulling out a tape recorder. Does she want an interview? She doesn’t say another word; she just puts the tape recorder on a nearby table and presses play. Oh, God, what now? Music?

  Bow-chica-wow-wow.

  She’s taking her hair down and pulling off her glasses. Now she’s removing her jacket! Shit! She’s a stripper! Patti’s going to freak out and I’ve already caused enough trouble for a lifetime. Sandy’s wife looks shocked. The bra is coming off! I’m about to have a heart attack. Then I glance over at Patti. She’s doubled over with laughter. It’s been a rough year and she thought a stripper would lighten the mood. What could I do? I sat down and enjoyed myself.

  My life at the US Open that year was going pretty smoothly. I had my family back. I was doing a job I loved and I’d only dropped a single set, in the first round and made it to the final. There was just one little hitch: Someone really did want to kill me, and it wasn’t the stripper.

  I had been called into the director’s office, where a member of the NYPD met me.

  “Mr. Connors, we have received a credible threat to your life. We don’t know who it’s from yet, we’re investigating, but we are taking this very seriously.”

  Knowing me, you can probably guess that this isn’t the first time I’d been threatened, and I usually didn’t give it too much thought. But this time it’s different; I have a family now. I sit down with the police officer and discuss the options. It’s the US Open, my championships, and I’m defending my title, but I’ve got to put Patti and Brett’s safety first. I tell the police and the Open officials that I’m not pulling out, but if anything should happen, they have to look after my family. I’ll figure out my own getaway. I might be a moving target, but Patti and Brett would be sitting ducks. The police agree to surround them with plainclothes officers and reassure me they will monitor the situation during each of my matches and add increased security on the gates and in the stadium.

  As far as my game was concerned, the thought of my life being in peril wasn’t going to be a big problem. Once on the court, I’ve always had the ability to switch off distractions—yes, even death threats (yeah, I sleep with one eye open). So I went through the entire tournament unaware of any potential danger while the ball was in play, then went back to worrying about Patti and Brett in the warm-ups and at changeovers. Patti and I agreed that we wouldn’t let it disrupt our lives. We’d be careful, but otherwise we’d go on as we always had. In the end, nothing happened at the Open, but we felt a little uncomfortable for a few months afterward, knowing the person wh
o made the death threat hadn’t been caught and was out there somewhere.

  The fact that someone in the crowd wanted to kill me didn’t actually bother me as much as my little toe on my right foot did. I’d hurt it earlier in the tournament, and by the end of my semifinal victory over Bill Scanlon, it had become swollen and infected.

  On the morning of the final against Lendl, I could barely walk, let alone play. I cut a hole in my sneakers to reduce some of the pressure, which helped, but unless the doctor could do something immediately I knew there was a risk that I’d have to pull out.

  I only had one option. The doctor shot a powerful painkiller into my foot, which numbed the pain but put my foot to sleep. You know what it’s like when your foot falls asleep? It’s like your leg stops at your ankle. Even when I rubbed my toe on the hard court as it poked out of my shoe, I didn’t feel a thing.

  When you rely on your footwork as much as I did, especially against a guy like Lendl—superfit, four inches taller, eight years younger, with a big serve and a long reach—having a leg that stops at your ankle might be a problem. I was going to have to chase balls across the baseline all afternoon with a dead foot. Oh, well.

  Look, at my age the chances of challenging for titles were getting fewer and fewer. Lendl was coming up quick; so were a couple of Swedes—Mats Wilander (he’d already won the French) and a new kid named Stefan Edberg. And Mac wasn’t exactly ready to call it quits. Realistically, the odds for me weren’t good, so I had to take any opportunity I could.

  It was brutally hot inside Louis Armstrong Stadium. During the second set, which I lost in a tiebreak, I had to leave the court. I said I had an upset stomach, but really I had to get another injection in my foot because the first one had worn off. Without another one, I wouldn’t have been able to continue the match. And the second one had to last because you couldn’t leave the court twice.

  In the third, with set point on his serve, Lendl choked. A double fault brought the score back to deuce. He didn’t win another game.