The Outsider: A Memoir

by Jimmy Connors

  By the summer Mom told me to get back to my family, because she was feeling better. “Go home, Jimmy. Look after Patti. Play some tennis. You can’t stop just because of me. It’s not right.”

  That was Mom, practical as ever. It reminded me of the time when she was in her late fifties and was robbed at gunpoint in Belleville. She’d parked her car behind a row of stores and had gone across the road to the shoe store. It was getting dark as she left the store, and a guy was waiting for her when she got back to her car. He held a gun in front of her face. Mom stared at him for a moment before speaking. “OK, buddy. You can have my money, but you’re not getting my license or my credit card. It’s too much of a pain in the ass to have to replace those things.” Thank God the idiot went for it.

  In the summer of 1999 I played a handful of events while dividing my time between California and Belleville. Then, in November, Patti had to have another surgery. The doctors had been monitoring a growth on one of Patti’s ovaries, and as it continued to grow, they made the decision that it needed to be removed.

  In the pre-op room at Cedars-Sinai hospital, Patti and I waited for our friend Dr. Greig, to arrive. We were concerned but not too worried.

  A doctor we didn’t recognize came into the room and introduced himself as one of Patti’s physicians.

  “I’m your cancer doctor, Mrs. Connors. We need to be one hundred percent sure during the operation.”

  Cancer. For a second it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. I felt sick. Patti and I had seen the scans and we knew how big the growth was, and if it was cancer, it was going to be everywhere.

  This can’t be happening.

  What would I do without her?

  Patti says the blood drained from my face.

  When they took Patti into the operating room, I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  Tests confirmed it was a benign tumor, but in that moment in the pre-op room I’d been more scared than at any other time in my life. That’s when I decided I was done with tennis.

  I’d already made plans to play a couple of events in 2000, and people were relying on me to fulfill my obligations. I talked with Patti and then Mom and we agreed that I would honor my commitments, but after that I would be finished. Honestly, it was a no-brainer for me. Patti and the kids needed me, and so did Mom. My hand was called, so I played it.

  Over the next couple of years we still couldn’t get Mom to move to California, but Patti, Brett, Aubree, and I spent a lot of time with her in Belleville. She had recovered from her surgery, but she was never able to get back on the courts. The surgery had taken too much out of her. The combination of her osteoarthritis and rheumatoid arthritis also started to take a toll on her.

  On one visit to Belleville, Patti sat down with Mom for a talk.

  “Gloria,” she said, “I want you to know that I realize and understand that it’s because of all your hard work, everything that you did with Jimmy, that we have a wonderful life. You made this possible. Thank you.”

  Mom never once said to me that she was responsible for the life I’d been able to lead. But I think it meant a lot more to her to hear it from Patti. It’s just sad that it took so long before Mom opened up enough for Patti to be able to say those words. So often over the years, Patti had told me that she understood Mom better than Mom realized.

  “I know what she’s protecting, Jimmy. I get that she poured her life’s blood into you. I want her to know that I see that and I love her for it. All I’ve ever wanted is to be part of her life. She just won’t let me in.” What matters most to Patti and me is that it happened in the end.

  I guess I had too much time on my hands.

  We moved from the ranch to Santa Barbara in April 2001. With the kids growing up and leaving home soon we didn’t need as big a house and property, not to mention the headaches of maintaining a ranch. As much as Patti and I loved the big skies and sitting outside by the pool late at night watching the stars, the ranch was pretty isolated, and we had to be aware of Patti’s heart condition. Her thyroid operation had dealt with the immediate problem, but she continued for years to have irregular sinus rhythms, and both of us would feel more comfortable closer to bigger medical facilities.

  I had backed off on the gambling during the time I was taking care of Patti and Mom. Well, not completely. After everyone was back on their feet and we’d moved into our new home in Santa Barbara, the urge to gamble returned. I had bet heavily all during the Champions Tour, and sometimes my habit became out of control.

  It’s Vegas, mid-1990s. I’ve just won the event and I’m at the blackjack table with Goldberg. I’m down and I’m pissed. I open the cover of my tennis racquet and dump my winnings on a square. I know how much it is: $70,000.

  When the dealer goes to count it, I tell him, “Don’t touch the goddamned money. Leave it there. If you win, you take it. If I win, then you can count it and pay me.”

  I’m dealt a 10 and a 6. The house has the same.

  “Hit it.”

  A 4. I’m on 20.

  The dealer turns over his hand. He has a 16 and he must hit. It’s a 5 for 21. He sweeps my money away.

  Goldberg and I stand up and leave. At the main entrance I turn to him.

  “Fuck it, G. What am I going to do now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m broke. Can you lend me money for a cab?”

  I’d just lost 70,000 bucks, and although it didn’t feel great, I’d played the game and lost; that’s how it goes. If he’d dealt me 13 and I’d drawn a 10, I’d have been pissed. Who wants to lose before the game even begins? But for him to have 16 and draw a 5 to narrowly beat my 20, well, that kind of action is worth it. But, man, I wish I had all that money back that I pissed away over the years.

  Pretty soon the craziness came home with me. I’d spend whole days doing nothing but watching football and basketball, reading six different papers, trying to figure out the patterns, looking for the edge, then making the calls.

  “I like Boston minus four and a half.”

  In the evenings I’d sit watching the games. I can tell you, not all our TVs made it through intact. Some I kicked in; one I even threw out the window. I was looking for something to replace the tennis, but it shouldn’t have been this. I knew gambling on someone else wasn’t my thing. My best results have always come when I’m betting on myself or making my own decisions. If I have the dice in my hands or cards in front of me, then I’m responsible. But if the quarterback throws a bad pass or a guy misses a basket, that’s out of my control.

  But I needed the fix again. That’s what it had become, a fix that I wasn’t even enjoying.

  Patti had had enough, and in a two-minute conversation she slapped some sense into me.

  “We go out for dinner with the kids and you spend more time on the phone calling the sports lines to find out the scores than you do with us. Is that really how you want to spend your time?”

  I needed help, so I attended Gamblers Anonymous. Once. That’s all it took. For five years after that, I didn’t make a single bet. Except at golf. I mean, come on—it’s golf.

  I like the game, but let’s face it: It’s not tennis. It can be tiring, sure, but it’s not the kind of exercise I’m looking for. I want to work up a sweat. Golf is more of a mental pursuit, an opportunity to learn how to concentrate better while trying to figure out the technical side. Waiting 10 minutes between shots? Well, you know enough about me to understand that 10 minutes alone in my own head can be disastrous. Adding something to the mix though, even if it’s just a beer at the bar, gives me a reason to play.

  I accept that I’m a gambler and I don’t want to change. Pop was right all those years ago. I like it too much. But I know at this point in my life that I can keep it under control. Maybe everyone thinks that, but everyone’s not me. I’m back on sports-betting again, but only with a group of local buddies. It’s a form of socializing for me now. Do I occasionally hit the tables? Yeah, I do when I’m traveli
ng, but gambling doesn’t dominate my life anymore. I won’t let it. Remember any time I had to overcome anything, I always went back to what I knew best: exercise and pushing myself so that I could exorcise my demons. Exercise to exorcise.

  Mom’s health started rapidly declining in 2003. She never strolled or meandered. She moved quickly, and that had been her lifelong pace.

  Before the illnesses took over, she’d tell me over the phone, “I’m going to the tennis courts, Jimmy. I’m hitting some balls with a friend.”

  Then it became “I’m going to hit five balls against the backboard.”

  Soon all she could manage to do was walk to the courts to watch the kids play.

  Later that year, she took a bad fall in the kitchen and broke her hip. She recovered from that, but she would never be the same again.

  I started spending two weeks a month at Mom’s home. Her condition worsened, and she needed a wheelchair and oxygen tank. The woman who had fought all those battles for me off the court was losing her own fight, and all I could do was sit there and watch her slip away.

  You can’t be in two places at one time, no matter how much you want to. Just over a year after Mom’s fall, I was sitting on a plane at the Santa Barbara airport, about to take off for Belleville, when Patti called my cell to say that one of Aubree’s best friends, Colleen Kennedy, who had been fighting leukemia for years, had passed away. Aubree had been driving to the hospital, hoping she would be able to say goodbye, but Colleen died before she could get there. I called Aubree immediately. When she heard my voice, she burst into tears.

  “It’s OK, Aubree. Pull over and take a deep breath. Calm down. I’m so sorry.”

  My mother needs me, my daughter needs me, and it’s tearing me up. What’s the right thing to do? There isn’t one.

  I flew to Belleville, leaving Patti to piece Aubree back together.

  Soon after I got home, I underwent the first of three hip-replacement surgeries in LA. I had been dealing with the discomfort and restricted movement for several years, but the constant travel between California and Belleville had started to make the pain unbearable. I’d put it off long enough, and if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life crippled, I had to overcome my fear of going under the knife and just get it done.

  I’d been on Vicodin and Percodan for pain for a while leading up to my hip replacement. There’s something to be said for getting through a day without pain and not knowing where you are, but I’d come to see that the amount of pills I was taking was becoming a problem.

  Patti and Aubree were there in my room when I came out of the anesthesia. The operation had gone well, and after visiting for an hour or so they left and headed back to their hotel to pack and make arrangements for transferring me home the following day, October 22, 2005.

  Aubree was driving when Patti took a call on her cell phone. It was her Aunt Nita but she couldn’t get any words out before the line went dead. Patti knew something terrible had happened and asked Aubree to pull over. Moments later, her cousin called back with the news.

  Patti’s mom had been killed in a car accident. A huge part of my wife’s life had been brutally ripped away from her—and I was in a hospital bed, barely able to move, incapable of supporting her. Aubree stayed home to look after me while Patti attended her mother’s funeral without me.

  Then, on November 12, 2006, Patti’s stepfather, one of the most easygoing, coolest, wonderful men I’ve ever met—Gramps, we called him—died of a brain tumor.

  It was as though some terrible curse had swept through our lives and left us wondering what disaster would happen next. I was never more aware of the importance of telling my family every day how much I loved them.

  Not long after Gramps passed, tennis came back into my life again. I wasn’t consciously looking for it, but maybe with all the loss and pain, I was searching for something I could control, something I understood.

  At Wimbledon in 2005, I was being interviewed by 1976 French Open champion Sue Barker for the BBC when I mentioned I might be able to help out Andy Roddick with a few aspects of his game. Nothing major, just the small things that can make a difference, like playing more aggressively or taking his backhand a little earlier to generate more power. Andy’s biggest weapon was his serve, plus he had a great forehand, but I thought if he could mix things up a little, he could continue to be a real force on the tour.

  Wimbledon 2006 was a disappointment for Andy. He’d made it to two finals in a row (losing to Federer both times), but this time he lost in straight sets to Andy Murray in the third round, dropping his world ranking to 10th. Roddick and I spoke later that month about maybe working together, and on July 24 we made a formal announcement that I would be coaching him. Andy was the US Open champion in 2003 and the success that he’d already had was tremendous, so the changes I would be suggesting for his game would be small. Tinkering.

  He spent four days in Santa Barbara with me, where we broke down some of the fundamentals of his game in preparation for a tournament in Indianapolis. He made it through to the finals there, and a month later he won his first title in over a year by beating Spain’s Juan Carlos Ferrero in Cincinnati. At the US Open in September, he defeated Lleyton Hewitt in straight sets and had a great opportunity to beat Federer in the finals. Federer went on to win the title, but given where Andy had been, we were making good progress.

  After the Open, I told Andy that the guys on the circuit were picking up on the changes we’d made to his game and to keep moving forward we had to work harder.

  In practice he played brilliant tennis. He took the ball early, moved well, volleyed precisely, made the big shots, and fired serves that seemed impossible for anyone to return.

  Our focal point became: Practice like you play your matches and play your matches like you practice. He had it in him, we knew that, but he wasn’t taking the progress he had shown in practice into his tournament play, and that was frustrating to both of us.

  In November, he played Federer again, at the Masters Cup in Shanghai, where he came within one serve of winning the second-set tiebreak and the match, which would have been tremendous for his confidence. But he walked off with a 4-6, 7-6, 6-4 loss. Both of us were emotionally drained and frustrated.

  Andy worked hard and gave it his all every time he went out there, and in the end, that’s all you can really ask of a man.

  After almost 20 months of working together, it became clear that we’d gone as far as we could. When we should have been spending time, developing different aspects of his game, it wasn’t happening. I wrote to him at the beginning of March 2008 to let him know I thought it was better that we part company and wished him the very best of luck. It was a great experience for me to be a part of Andy’s career for that period of time and I hope that he feels the same.

  I guess I needed to be back in tennis, even if it was just for twenty minutes.

  It’s spring 2006, a few months after Patti’s mother’s passing. My mother is in constant pain from the osteoporosis and becoming weaker every day. One evening during dinner, Mom just comes out and says, “Jimmy, I want to go home.”

  “What do you mean, Mom? You want me to take you down to 48th Street? See where you grew up?”

  That wasn’t the home she was talking about. Deep down I knew that.

  Over the last couple of years I’d been spending two weeks in Santa Barbara, then two weeks in Belleville, and I had been watching my mother move slowly toward the end of her life.

  From California I spoke to Mom 10 times a day.

  “Hey Mom, you up?”

  “Had your lunch, Mom?”

  “Been outside?”

  Most of the time she’d reply, “Nah. Not today, Jimmy.”

  I tried to keep her involved in my life by telling her about my coaching Roddick, about what the family was up to. I wanted her telephone to ring. I wanted her to interact. She’d been so active, so involved in everything for years that, when it all disappeared, I knew she would be missing it.


  That day, when she said she wanted to go home, I said to her, “Mom, you’ve never given up on anything in your life. Why start now?”

  Her answer was to look at me with an expression that said, “What’s the point of living like this?”

  In December she had her gallbladder removed. Because of her emphysema and other complications, they couldn’t knock my mother out; instead they used “twilight sleep.” How much more could her little body take? And for the first time I too felt, “Enough already.”

  I couldn’t stand the thought of her being in the hospital over Christmas, and I managed to get her safely released just in time for the holidays. I went home to celebrate Christmas with my family then immediately returned to Belleville to make sure Mom was doing OK. One evening she turned to me and said, “I’ve had it, Jimmy.” She repeated over and over again, “I’ve had it.”

  “I know, Mom. If you don’t want to fight anymore, I get it. I do. It’s OK.”

  I had to return to California for a few days to prepare for a trip to Australia with Roddick. Before I flew out, I stopped off in Belleville again, arriving at quarter to seven in the evening, Sunday, January 7, 2007. Mom was awake, and at the suggestion of her nurse, Hattie, I had brought her fried chicken for dinner. We sat together and ate. Afterward, Mom gave me a list of things she wanted from the drugstore, and I went to get them. When I walked back into her room I knew something bad had happened. Mom could barely talk.

  “I think I just had a stroke,” she managed to say. I can’t be sure, but she sounded almost happy.

  We called my doctor friend Curtis Jones, whom I’d gone to high school with and who had been taking care of Mom, looking in on her almost every day. He arrived within minutes. “Call the paramedics, Jimmy,” he told me. “We’ve got to get your mom to the hospital right now.”

  I didn’t want people buzzing round her, sticking tubes in her, scaring her. It was too late for that. With Curtis there, I asked Mom whether she wanted me to call an ambulance. “No,” she managed to whisper. “No, Jimmy, not now.”