by Pete Sampras
That week, I helped Ivan prepare for the year-end Masters tournament (which ultimately morphed into the ATP Finals and later, the ATP World Championships) for the top players of the year. We talked quite a bit that week about working hard. At that stage I was just kind of floating along, and maybe Ivan sensed or saw that, and just wanted to clue me in on what it took to be great. He asked me a lot of questions about my tennis, and about what I wanted to achieve in life.
I got a strong taste of Ivan’s own work ethic. Within a day or two, he had me going on these bike rides of thirty miles or so, through the cold and sleet, following a car driven by one of his trainers, who was all snug and warm inside. At the time, Ivan was number one in the world and I wondered what he wanted with me. I don’t think he wanted to be my mentor; he had plenty of other things to worry about. I don’t think he was trying to get some kind of advantage over me, either, by having me in his shadow. I don’t think he was manipulative that way. I think he just wanted to get a feel for me, get a sense of what made me tick because he saw that I was going to be a top player. Also, I think Ivan might have been looking to get into sports management. He had an entrepreneurial spirit and already owned a few indoor tennis clubs. Maybe he was checking me out as a potential client.
A few months later, at the start of 1990, I made the fourth round of the Australian Open. And just weeks after that, I played Ivan in the semifinals of the big indoor event in Milan. I won the first set pretty easily but then Ivan simply overpowered me. This was not the same Lendl with whom I had trained. In competition he was a different animal. One thing he did, after I got off to a fast start, was slow down the pace. It was partly a way to get into my head, because young, impatient players would rather hit and play than think and maneuver.
Up to then, I hadn’t run into many guys who could really intimidate me with their game. But Ivan seemed to be on another level. He had that sledgehammer forehand and a tough serve. He could rifle a flat-to-topspin one-handed backhand with the best of them, or use the slice to set up a forehand. He generated so much pace, and moved the ball around so well, that I always felt rushed, like I didn’t have enough time to settle into my game, plant my feet, and trade shots with him. The encounter left me shell-shocked. This was one of the big cats of the game, and as kind as he had been to me earlier, he just mauled me.
Philadelphia was friendly to me again in 1990. This time, I won the whole shooting match. After getting into a war with Andre Agassi in the round of 16 (he retired because of a stomach bug after we’d split 7–5 sets), I convincingly took out Andres Gomez, who was on an upward arc that would end up carrying him to a Grand Slam title—his first and only one—in Paris later that spring. My ranking had been climbing steadily, and it took another uptick.
In the months that followed, I kept going deep in tournaments. But I wasn’t ready to compete on the clay-court circuit that culminates with the French Open, or Roland Garros. I played just one of the European spring clay tournaments, Munich, where I got waxed by one of the legion of Swedish Dirt Devils, Jonas Svensson. I moved on to the summer grass circuit and, despite having very mixed feelings about grass courts, won a small event in Manchester. At Wimbledon, I lost in straights to Christo van Rensburg—a very effective grass-court player.
I treaded water until the U.S. summer hard-court circuit. At the Canadian Open in Toronto, I met John McEnroe in the quarters. There was one important similarity between Wilander and McEnroe; different as they were, neither could overpower me the way Lendl had done. Oh, John could slice me up and jerk me around, use that can-opener lefty serve to make my returning life miserable, but I always felt like I had the one thing I most needed—time to hit my shots.
When I played McEnroe in Toronto, he was in the waning years of his career. I was comfortable. I also knew him a little bit. It’s funny how quickly you get over your awe of a top player when you come onto the tour, especially if he’s your countryman and you have the inevitable string of experiences and contacts with him. I can totally understand why Jimmy Connors was always such a loner—so standoffish and aloof. He wanted his peers—all of them—to stay in awe. John had always been nice to me, and so had Lendl. But where Lendl’s game still gave me pause, I was in a comfort zone with John, physically and psychologically. At Toronto, I beat him 6–3 in the third, but I lost a heartbreaker to Michael Chang in the semifinals, 7–5 in the third.
When Joe Brandi and I rolled into New York for the U.S. Open in late August of 1990, we bunked together at the Parker Meridien. I wasn’t really a city guy; I was a shy nineteen-year-old going about his business from the player hotel. I don’t remember if Brandi snored, but I know I slept very well in our shared room, and it was because I had nothing to lose. There was no pressure. About the only other person I spent time with during the tournament was my friend Jim Courier.
I started my quest at Flushing Meadows as a dark horse, although I was definitely on the radar of my rivals, the pundits, and knowledgeable fans. Through 1990, I was slowly becoming a better mover and all-around athlete, and my serve—already vastly improved—just kept getting better. There was no magic bullet, coaching or techniquewise. Suddenly the big serve was just there, and getting bigger as the months passed.
In the early rounds at the Open, I beat Dan Goldie, Peter Lundgren, and Jakob Hlasek. Those were solid wins, and each one seemed to increase my momentum. I got hot and stayed hot, playing almost the entire event in the proverbial zone—that tranquil state of mind and body in which nothing can go wrong, you seem to have all the time in the world, the ball looks big as a grapefruit, and nothing can disturb or stop you. If ever there was a “good” time for me to go up against Lendl again, it was then—in the quarterfinals at Flushing Meadows. But the assignment was a tough one. Lendl was a multiple Grand Slam champ with more big titles than McEnroe, and he was gunning to make an unprecedented nine consecutive U.S. Open finals. He was at or very close to the peak of his powers and still driven to add to his résumé. This would be different from the Wilander match in ’89.
I had reason to hope that I wouldn’t be blitzed like I had been in Milan. I had seen Ivan’s A game, so there would be no surprises. And my improved serve gave me more offense; it made me a little more dangerous, and that had psychological as well as physical implications. In the six months since I had last met Ivan, I’d grown stronger and sharper. I felt that, and I knew that I could give as good as I got. I was confident that I could put Ivan under as much pressure when I was serving as he put me under when I was returning. But it didn’t exactly make me comfortable knowing that the match might be decided by our ground strokes because, in that department, Lendl still had me beat—hands down. My job was to make it a service brawl.
I won the first two sets 6–4, 7–6, and the tennis was high-quality stuff. I was serving big, and my basic strategy was to hold easily and slap a few forehand winners here and there—just enough to take advantage of any momentary lapse or weakness in Ivan’s game or resolve. After the second set, though, I made the classic rookie mistake. Finding myself in control, I thought I had it won—ignoring the fact that I was up against a lethal opponent who had found his back against the wall on plenty of other occasions, only to extricate himself. And that’s exactly when Lendl’s experience and determination kicked into high gear.
Lendl came storming back, with the leverage of eight straight U.S. Open finals and eight Grand Slam titles giving him emotional and physical fuel. He took the next two sets 6–3, 6–4. In the fifth set, though, it seemed that my serve was getting stronger and more dialed-in than it had been earlier in the battle. I began spewing out the aces; I could see he was having an increasingly hard time trying to catch up with the serve. And it was helpful to my cause that even as he was making a furious comeback, I felt no panic. No fear.
When you let a guy off the hook, like I had Ivan, you might hear this little voice: You had him, you’re in trouble now. . . . Don’t panic, but this is kind of scary. . . . Play safe . . . play aggressive .
. . forget your game, listen to me; we’ve got to do something! Listening to that voice is the downfall of a competitor, and if I’d paid attention to it, I would’ve lost that match. No doubt in my mind. And if I had lost that match, chances are I would pick up that dialogue again in similar circumstances in the future. It’s true what they say about winning being a habit. Once you open that Pandora’s box of doubt, all kinds of nasty things come flying out. I can’t stress how important it is to train yourself to seek clarity at moments of doubt. You have to stay calm and have complete faith in your abilities. It takes a strong mind.
I was able to do that, and it helped me establish a career precedent. With aces pouring off my racket, I won the fifth set going away, 6–2. In the end, it was my game that got me through that situation, not my heart or my mind. But neither of those two organs intervened to screw things up, either. When it was all over, I found myself on a higher plateau as a competitor. It was the match that launched the Sports Illustrated headline A STAR IS BORN.
At the time, though, I was oblivious. I just focused on getting ready for a semifinal rematch with McEnroe. I had a day off to prepare, during which I did a few interviews. But I still felt no pressure. It was ironic—as a kid I had been wide-eyed about the prospect of playing on a stage like the U.S. Open, but when I got there, it didn’t really feel much different to me than Cincinnati or Toronto. It’s a measure of how off the radar I was that McEnroe, on the eve of the match, said, “I can’t ask any more than to be playing Pete Sampras in the semis.” He didn’t mean it as an insult, and I didn’t take it as one. Lendl owned Flushing Meadows, and he was now out of the way for McEnroe. I was a stripling, happy with anything the tournament gave me.
It was a godsend that at some level I really didn’t know what I was doing. I was simply focused on the job at hand, and unaware of the ramifications my success might have. I didn’t have any desperate hunger to be a celebrity or the toast of the town. I liked playing tennis, I felt comfortable playing tennis, and I saw no reason why you shouldn’t, or couldn’t, play the same way on one court as you did on another. I just thought, Well, here I am, doing what I’ve always wanted to do. . . . I’m just going to throw the ball up, serve as hard as I can, and hope I hit the line. Sports psychologists make a living trying to teach athletes to adopt that attitude, but to me it came naturally. I doubt whether it can be taught, or learned.
I played Mac in the third and final match of Super Saturday, and picked up right where I had left off with Lendl. In the McEnroe match, I hit a few of those jump-shot overheads, which would become a trademark of sorts. But overall, I was popping aces, serving and volleying effectively, and hitting my backhand return really well—and that’s always a key to success against a lefty, especially one like McEnroe, who had that vicious southpaw slice that curves away from a righty in the advantage court. I won the first two sets comfortably, he started coming back a little in the third and won it 6–3, but I didn’t feel he was getting to my game at all. I still felt in complete control and rolled through him 6–3 in the fourth.
The only good thing about Super Saturday, which for most of my career consisted of the two men’s semifinals sandwiched around the women’s final, was that it didn’t leave you time to overthink the final. Sometimes you had to play that final less than twenty-four hours after the end of your semi, but I was lucky in ’90. I wasn’t exhausted by the McEnroe match. I did my press chores after that match and ended up staying up pretty late. When I woke up the next day, it was almost time to go out there and play the last match of the tournament.
The guy on the other side of the net the late afternoon of September 9, 1990, was Andre Agassi—a kid, just like me. And he was easy to find over there in his wild, fluorescent, lime green outfit, and big hair.
I couldn’t know it at the time, but Andre and I would have a historic rivalry and both wind up in the International Tennis Hall of Fame. In fact, up to that point in our young lives, Andre and I had met on a court just four previous times. We were unfamiliar with each other’s games because Andre had played most of his tennis in Florida, while I was a California guy.
The first time we played was on a hard court in a twelve-and-under junior tournament in Northridge, California. Neither of us can remember who won that match, but I still have a strong visual memory of Andre. He rolled up with his dad, Mike, in a huge green Cadillac worthy of a mobster. It was fitting, because the Agassis lived in Las Vegas and Mike worked as a pit boss in Caesar’s Palace. Way back then, Andre already had this junior rock star thing going. He was skinny as a rail, but so was I. He already had that big forehand and those quick, happy feet.
Andre and I were supposed to meet at another junior event. In juniors, you often have to play two matches on the same day, and both of us had won our morning match. But for some reason, Andre and Mike disappeared—just up and left the site, enabling me to advance by default. In our first meeting as pros, on the red clay of Rome in 1989, Andre had waxed me, losing just three games. But I had played him even-up in that Philadelphia match I mentioned earlier.
Andre was the clear favorite in the U.S. final. He had shot up to number three in the world, and he had beaten Boris Becker to get to the final. He was an over-the-top showman, but pundits were questioning his ability to win big matches and suggesting that he was more image than substance. That was odd, because nothing was more clear-cut and substantial than scores and results. And by that measure, Andre was the real deal, even though he had been upset in the French Open final by first-time Grand Slam finalist Andres Gomez. The critics, ever ready to heap scorn on Andre in those days, went to town on him after that one. But I wasn’t really aware of all that Andre was going through at the time because I had my own fish to fry.
Our two previous pro meetings were not a good preview of the Open final, because my game had grown by leaps and bounds in the summer of 1990. Andre couldn’t have had a handle on it, which had to be a little spooky for him—if he was aware of it at all. I didn’t put much thought into such things—I was in the U.S. Open final and felt like I had nothing to lose. A great deal of what was going on was way over my head, and any payback that my blissful ignorance would demand—and it definitely would ask a price—was not even on my horizon.
The stadium was packed for our match, but I felt relaxed and comfortable. After the wins over Lendl and McEnroe, I was utterly at ease with the situation and with my game. I had lived a fairy-tale U.S. Open—the kind of tournament, really, that a kid would only invent in a fantasy. It was a saga that deserved a thrilling ending—an incredible see-saw battle, moments of realization, twists and turns in the flow of the match. But it wasn’t like that at all.
The match, at my end, was played in a fog of inevitability and invincibility. With my ground strokes working well, the final piece had fallen into place. I was in contact with the Gift. From the start, I was making Andre move around a lot, and he was missing quite a bit. Once again, I was serving huge—it was like I could hit an ace any time I wanted. To this day, I have a visceral memory of that feeling and rhythm. I could feel the ace coming before I hit it: All right, I’m gonna pop an ace, here it comes—boom! Ace!
And there it was.
I reached match point with Andre serving at 2–5 down in the third set and stood at the threshold of becoming the youngest U.S. Open winner in history. I looked across at him and he looked very small, very far away. Yet the balls I was swinging at looked as big as grapefruits, and I felt I had all the time in the world to make my shots. Things get a little bent and distorted in the zone.
Andre was bouncing the ball, getting ready to serve. His hair was a little stringy from perspiration and he was almost glowing in that loud, lime green outfit. I got into my receiving crouch. Being up at least one service break and having a match point with the other guy serving is the ideal way to finish a match. There’s not a lot of pressure. You’re in position to hold one or two more times and end the match. On a medium to fast court, you love your chances as long as yo
u have a solid serve—and don’t choke. You’re playing with house money; you can take a big cut on the return, risking nothing. Meanwhile, the guy serving to stay alive in the match is feeling the noose tighten.
Throughout his career, Andre generally played fast. He was all business. But at big moments, everything slows down a little—and if it doesn’t, you have to make it slow down. That’s one of the first and most important things you need to know if you want to close out matches. You need to be deliberate, because it takes great self-control to close matches.
Andre bounced the ball, looking at his shoes, no doubt wondering whether he should go for an aggressive serve to win the point or play it safe and make me win it with a good shot. It’s easy in that situation to get overcautious, or overeager. That is one of the oldest dilemmas in the book, but it’s still a dilemma I’ll take at any time. I want to be the one to control the last point, for better or worse.
Andre bounced the ball one last time and went into that quick service motion of his. I was ready. Some six thousand miles away, at a mall near my family’s home in Palos Verdes, a slight man of Greek descent was walking around in a shopping mall with his wife. That was my mom and dad; they were too nervous to watch the match, so they decided to go shopping instead.
Andre hit a good serve, and I returned with the backhand. It was a defensive, fend-off return that fell kind of short. He moved in to take a relatively easy forehand and he flubbed it, driving the ball into the net.
I put my arms in the air, and looked over at the player guest box. It was full of cheering people, but the only guy I knew in there was Joe Brandi. Across the continent, in that mall, my dad and mom were still wandering around, not knowing what had happened. It was some time before they strolled by an electronics store and saw that the televisions were all tuned to the U.S. Open trophy presentation ceremony.
