The Outsider: A Memoir

by Jimmy Connors

  Going into Wimbledon four months later, I feel as good as I have in years. Definitely on a par with 1982. The enforced layoff has worked in my favor, making me hungry for competitive tennis. My conditioning is no problem; the exhibitions and special events have looked after that. As I hit balls with David Schneider in Holland Park the week before the start of the tournament, I honestly believe a third Wimbledon title is within reach.

  “Jesus, Connors, I haven’t seen you move this well in years,” Schneider comments.

  No one else seems to think that. The talk in the papers is focused on how I’ve slowed down around the court. In press conferences the same questions are repeatedly thrown my way. “How long are you going to stick around, Jimmy?” “It’s almost two years since you won, Jimmy. Are you done?”

  The fact that I had to pull out of the Queen’s final with a groin strain only added to the speculation.

  “Is your body trying to tell you something?”

  I just smile. “I enjoy the battle and the fight. But no one is going to have to tell me when I can’t play any longer. There comes a moment when you know you’ve given everything you have and there’s nothing left. When that time comes, I’ll know.” As Two-Mom would say: Keep an element of mystery about yourself, Jimmy.

  I leave them scribbling furiously, preparing my tennis obituary. I know the time hasn’t come; nowhere near it, in fact. If they want to believe otherwise, that’s fine by me.

  The odds offered on a Connors win are too good to resist. This year I’m going bigger than ever. I’m not in this to go out and have a fancy dinner, I’m in it to do some serious damage. With a couple of grand laid down in a string of betting shops, I’m ready.

  “You feeling good, Jimmy?” Ken, my driver, asks a couple of days before my first match. Since I arrived in London, he’s been driving me around to my practice matches and to the bookies.

  “I’m thinking of getting in on some of this action,” he says.

  “Yes, son, I’m feeling very good.”

  At the press conference after my first-round match against Robert Seguso, the questions are the same.

  “Will this be your last Wimbledon, Jimmy?”

  “Will you be back next year?”

  Only this time I’m not smiling. I’ve just been beaten in four sets.

  I knock their questions straight back at them. “Why? You want me out of tennis? That’s your problem over here. You don’t know what you’ve got ’til you lose it. Why don’t you just let me make my own decision? That’s my worry, not yours.”

  Back at the hotel and Schneider is shaking his head. We’ve both just taken a big hit.

  “I’m not so mad about you or me, Jimmy,” he says to me, “but our driver, Ken—well, he’s in the soup line. Don’t know how he’s going to explain that one when he gets home.”

  Oh, man, that sucks. I’d forgotten. Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut. Looks like Ken’s gratuity just got a lot bigger.

  A year later—1987—and I’m back in London. That’s something you could have bet on (and I wish did). The drama, the crowds, the excitement—it’s all part of who I am. I’m not tossing that aside lightly. As long as I feel capable of winning, I’ll keep coming back.

  That’s what I feel right now. But I’m the only person on Centre Court who thinks that. It’s the fourth round and I’m playing Mikael Pernfors, from Sweden, a guy who is 11 years younger than me and was a runner-up at Roland Garros a month ago. And he’s leading 6-1, 6-1, 4-1, and I’m getting an old-fashioned ass-kicking. The crowd lost interest a long time ago. I think at this point they just want to see me put out of my misery and I don’t blame them. I’ve been struggling out here at 34; should be preparing for my afternoon nap instead of playing on Wimbledon’s Centre stage.

  What they don’t know is that something miraculous just happened. It was invisible, but it definitely occurred.

  On that last return, I anticipated Pernfors’s shot. That’s the first time it’s happened in the match. I knew where the ball was going and I got there and passed him down the line. It’s not that I’m suddenly trying harder. Quite the opposite. Maybe I’ve been too clever, attempting too much, putting too much pressure on myself, and now I’ve relaxed. It’s like Mom always says, “Jimmy, don’t try and be any better than you are.”

  That one shot has suddenly brought the court into focus. I can see it all clearly now. This isn’t over yet. What is it inside you that makes you want to stay in there and fight instead of rolling over, like most people would, and saying it just isn’t my day? For me, I could call upon what I learned from Pancho at the very beginning. He always said it’s pride. Always walk off with your head high, no matter what the results, knowing that you have given everything that you had to give. It was much easier for me to find inspiration to plant my feet than it was to come up with reasons to surrender.

  Two hours later, just before eight o’clock in the evening, I fire a match-ending two-fisted crosscourt backhand beyond Pernfors’s reach. Over the past 10 years, since the boos of 1977 faded into history, the Wimbledon crowd has given me a hell of a lot of support and encouragement. With that shot, I like to think I gave something back to the loyal fans who had stuck around. I throw my arms high in victory as the spectators rise to their feet.

  A year later, in July 1988, I won my first tour event in almost four years, the Sovran Bank Classic, in DC, beating Andrés Gómez in straight sets in the final. I confess it was a relief. Although I closed the previous year at number four in the ATP world rankings, the defeats in the semis at Wimbledon (Pat Cash) and again at the Open (Lendl) frustrated me. By the time I arrived in Washington, I’d slipped to eighth in the world, not where I wanted to be or where I felt I should be. Sure, I was 35 years old, but I was determined to shove phrases like “antique” and “old man” down the press’s throats. The win over Gómez was a good way to answer my critics.

  However, I couldn’t deny forever that age would eventually overtake my desire to fight on. In my mind, I still had a number of combative years ahead, but maybe, just maybe, it was time to prepare to reinvent myself again. The call from Merv Griffin in October provided the perfect opportunity.

  I’d known Merv for many years. He was the creator of the mega-hit TV game shows Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, a regular visitor to the La Costa Tennis Club, in San Diego, and pals with Pancho and Lornie. After a few minutes of catching up on friends and family, Merv cut to the chase, “I don’t know if you have read about it in the press, Jimmy, but Pat Sajak is stepping down as daytime host of Wheel of Fortune, so we’re looking for someone to replace him. What do you think about trying out?”

  This is so cool. I’m stunned but flattered. Merv Griffin thinks I’ve got what it takes to host one of the most popular shows on TV!

  “Just say when, Merv. I’ll be there.”

  I arrived at the studio the next day, excited at the prospect of where this might lead. During our previous conversation, Merv and I had discussed how the hosting gig could work alongside my tennis. I’d been up front with him, explaining that while I was very interested in the job, I wasn’t looking to retire in favor of a career in front of the cameras. Turned out it wouldn’t be a problem. They recorded five shows a day, a week’s worth of broadcasts, and they were willing to fit the taping around my schedule. Whenever I had a free week, which I could make happen by turning down exhibitions, we could crank out five weeks’ worth in one session. In the studio they ran through everything—how to walk out on the set with co-host Vanna White, introduce the contestants, ask them questions to put them at ease, all the things I’d watched so often on TV. I was offered a script but refused, confident that I could wing it. We ran through a number of takes, and I think I did pretty good for an amateur. Sure, there were a few rough edges, but those could be ironed out. Most important, I’d felt relaxed and enjoyed myself.

  A week later the producers called with disappointing, but not life-threatening news. Pat Sajak had decided to re-up as t
he daytime host until the New Year. Until then, they explained, plans for his daytime replacement were being put on hold. And so, I guess, was my TV stardom.

  Shortly after the audition I was off to Toulouse, France, where I battled through more foot discomfort to record my second tour victory of the year. In the semis, I was pitted against my friend Andrei Chesnokov with whom I practiced all week. While hitting with him, I had noticed that his tennis shoes were worn out. The soles were flapping so bad that he had to wrap tape around them to keep the shoes together. I kept wondering how he was going to be able to play the tournament in those things but I had my own foot problem to worry about.

  Shortly before we went out to play our semi, the concierge delivered a box to my hotel room. Lelly, who was traveling with me, received it and put it aside for me to open later. It was only after I beat Chesnokov in straight sets and Lelly and I returned to the hotel, did either of us notice that the box was supposed to have been delivered to Chesnokov. It was the new pair of tennis shoes that he was supposed to have worn in the match against me. Oops.

  After beating Andrei, I played my old nemesis, McEnroe, on Sunday, October 15, in the finals and came away with a 6-3, 6-3 victory—my 108th tournament title.

  From Toulouse I went to Tel Aviv, and had one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Gerry Goldberg had arranged another private tour, and we took a helicopter to the Dead Sea, where we ate lunch at a beach resort, then spent a couple of hours floating in the salty water. As we were heading back to Tel Aviv, we spotted a Bedouin tent in the desert and asked the pilot to land. We didn’t know what to expect, so the pilot left the engine running as he approached a Bedouin to ask if we would be welcome.

  They treated us to some special hospitality, inviting us into their tent and bringing out some ancient cups that looked like they hadn’t been used for quite some time. They cleaned out the cups and served us tea. I felt like I was an extra in Lawrence of Arabia until the Bedouin’s son came into the tent wearing a pair of Jimmy Connors Converse shoes! I really, really didn’t want to leave my new fans but I had a match to play that evening. Always take care of your business, Jimmy.

  I beat Israel’s Gilad Bloom 2-6, 6-2, 6-2 to win the Riklis Grand Prix event. The prize money was $20,000, and I donated it all to the Israel Tennis Center, where we were playing and Gerry was on the board. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but that win, my 109th victory on the main tour, was my last.

  The discomfort in my left foot didn’t worry me too much at the time, but over the following few weeks, what had started as an ache turned into a sharp pain, which required surgery by November. That left me convalescing for three months, unable to move around very easily and certainly in no condition to accept Merv Griffin’s renewed offer to host Wheel of Fortune and tape five shows a day come January. The slot went to Rolf Benirschke, the San Diego Chargers’ kicker, and I was left to imagine how upset poor Vanna must have been to miss out on my suave one-liners.

  My foot injury set me back significantly in terms of match fitness. I didn’t return to competitive tennis until early February, when I lost in the second round in Chicago to teenager Michael Chang, quickly followed by a quarterfinal loss to Kevin Curren in Memphis.

  To have any prayer of getting back to where I thought I should be, I realized some radical thinking was required. Off-pace and off-target, I needed as many matches as possible to sharpen my game, so I decided to hit the clay circuit of Europe once again, playing both singles and doubles, a tactic I hadn’t employed for years. It was punishing playing on those painfully slow surfaces, which meant grinding out every point. That was the whole idea, I guess, to build fitness and consistency, but it wasn’t a lot of fun.

  In Monte Carlo, I fell to Italian Paolo Canè in the second round (Spain’s Sergio Casal and I went out in the first round of the doubles), then performed a similar disappearing act a week later in Munich, this time at the hands of Argentine Martín Jaite, in the singles, and again with Sergio in the second round of the doubles. These defeats took me out of the world’s top 10 for the first time since computer rankings began, in 1973.

  OK, this was not going according to plan.

  Publicly, I joked about relishing the prospect of becoming a dangerous, unseeded floater in the Slams if my position dropped any further, but privately my form worried me. With no disrespect to Canè or Jaite, it was clear I required more than a good workout if I was to save my season; I needed to be battling the best players around and my early exits from tournaments was making that impossible.

  Salvation arrived in the form of an exhibition in France, made possible by the fact that I had never signed with the ATP. Directly after my defeat in Munich, Billy Lelly took a call at our hotel, asking if I’d be free to play against Becker and a couple of young Australians in a bullring in Lille, France. For any ATP member, the answer would have had to be no, because of a rule prohibiting players from participating in two events in a week. No such restriction applied to me. Give me a day to fulfill my obligations to the organizers in Munich, glad-handing a few corporate sponsors, that sort of thing, and I’m there.

  Turned out to be a good call. The arena they’d constructed suited my game far better than the clay in the previous two tournaments, and Becker pushed me hard. My game improved almost immediately, resulting in a better showing in Hamburg a week later, where I made it through to the quarters.

  I wasn’t the most popular guy in town that week, although that was hardly new territory for me. Some of the players were pissed at me for managing to squeeze in the extra, well-paid event that they had to refuse.

  “But guys,” I would explain, “I’ve always said there’s a big bonus in being independent.”

  “Screw you, Connors,” they’d reply sweetly.

  My trek across Europe continued in Rome with the Italian Open, which I’d never won and hadn’t participated in since Nasty and I lost in the doubles final of 1975. There was a reason I hadn’t been back.

  Once, Nasty and I were playing a pair of young Italians in one of the early round doubles matches on an outside show court, the crowds were giving us some trouble while they rooted for the hometown favorites. Nasty, who speaks fluent Italian, wasn’t taking it lightly. He was giving back better than he got. The match was close, and as we took the lead in the third set the crowd’s abuse turned ugly. They started throwing coins, drinks, food, shoes, babies—everything they could at us in an attempt to spur on their countrymen. It didn’t happen.

  Now, knowing that things were going to be tense, I had moved my bag to the other side of the court so I could make a quick getaway, if necessary. Nasty, on the other hand, thought everything would be fine, so he left his bag near the crowd. As soon as we won the match, the angry fans stormed the court, and headed directly for us. I grabbed my bag and took off running. I’m pretty fast when I need to be, and I thought Nasty was behind me, but just as I turned to look for him, he passed me, the mob hot on his heels. We made it to the locker room just in time and bolted the door. We were held in there until they cleared out not just our court but the whole stadium. We eventually left accompanied by armed guards.

  I was always willing to improve myself, and those hot-blooded Italians made an art form out of throwing a tantrum. And to this day it’s one of the things I admire most about them. Rome remains one of my favorite places in the world, even though to this day when I walk down the street I still look over my shoulder for a flying piece of rotten fruit. In addition to their fiery temperament, the Italians also have long memories.

  My performance in the singles improved as I reached the third round after a marathon two-and-a-half-hour match with Massimo Cierro, from Naples, played on what I think is best described as thick soup, following heavy rainfall. We eventually finished at 11 o’clock at night with my legs like Jell-O, which showed the next day in my 1-6, 1-6 loss to Sergi Bruguera, a young Spanish kid half my age. Literally. And I felt every one of the 18 years that separated us.

  None of
this preparation did me much good at either the French or Wimbledon. A kid from New Jersey, Jay Berger, beat me in the second round at Roland Garros, and in London, Iowan Dan Goldie did the same. The only bright spot came in the doubles in Paris, where I was playing with Vitas. Vitas had been on the receiving end of some pretty harsh press concerning the state of his fitness, so he had both of us walk out onto the court for our first-round match on crutches. We won a lot of friends that day. The same couldn’t be said for points. The red clay of Paris took its toll as we fell to our first-round opponents, but this match with Vitas was one I would never forget, because it was the last time that Vitas would have the opportunity to play on such a big stage.

  I still had the US Open in my sights; playing well there could salvage my year. I destroyed French and Wimbledon runner-up Stefan Edberg in the fourth round, 6-2, 6-3, 6-1, silencing a lot of people who thought I didn’t have a chance including the moron who a couple of days earlier after my victory over Andrés Gómez shouted out from the stands, “Let’s go, old man!”

  Worse, I cramped badly after the Gómez match, requiring two and a half hours of medical attention and intravenous drips before I could even leave the stadium. The smart money next day had me withdrawing. Who were they kidding? Had they forgotten what tournament it was?

  Against Edberg, I played some of the best tennis I had in a long time, maintaining a level throughout the match that I’d only been able to reach occasionally over the past couple of years. The New York Mets were playing across the parking lot at Shea Stadium, where they kept flashing my scores against Edberg, and I could hear the cheers every time I was in the lead. Did I just make that up? Doesn’t matter. This was my tournament. The fans at the Open demanded more from me than any others in the world.