But Seriously

by John McEnroe

  Djokovic improved his game in so many ways to become the number one player in the world. He made himself unbelievably mentally resilient, compared to how he was, and he also became a much better attacker. He and Murray were born within a week of each other, but what helped Djokovic pull ahead in the early years of their time in the top four was that Novak was more attuned to the need to close things out, his second serve was better, and he attacked more on key points. At that level, those tiny differences are all it takes. For me, the turning point in his career, the moment he figured out how to get himself out of even the toughest of situations, was that match against Troicki. Later that year, he and his fellow Serbian teammates won the Davis Cup for the first time, and Novak went on to win three out of the next four Slams and become the number one player in the world. But there’s no way of knowing if that would still have happened if he’d lost that low-key first-round match against his less well-known fellow countryman.

  The semi-final of the 2011 US Open, in which Novak took on Roger Federer at that critical stage of the tournament for the second year running, illustrated perfectly why tennis is such a mental boxing match, and also how big a part the crowd can play in deciding a match’s outcome. In 2010 Djokovic had edged Federer in five close sets after saving two match points. This time around, it looked like Roger was going to get his revenge when he went two sets to love up. Novak, who was world number one by this time, clearly thought differently, and fought his way back to two sets all.

  As usual, the crowd—all 23,000 of them—were rooting for Roger as they went into the fifth. At 4–3, he broke Novak to love. At 5–3, 40–15, with two match points? This was it, we all thought. He looks as good as home. Roger doesn’t choke. Then came an insane forehand cross-court return winner from Djokovic, played almost casually, as if he was playing a game in the park. Some of the crowd applauded, but given what a totally crazy shot it was at that stage of the match, it should have brought the house down. What did Novak do? Instead of getting on with preparing for the next point, he put his arms up and gestured to the crowd as if to say, “Come on, guys, give me a bit of credit for that incredible shot—what do I have to do to get you on my side?” Best of all, he managed to smile while he did it.

  That one gesture was all it took to turn the tide. He’d helped the crowd realize that he too deserved some admiration for what he was doing, and some of them started rooting for him. Suddenly, it was Roger’s turn to look rattled, and before long Novak had won the next four games and, for the second year in a row, edged him 7–5 in the fifth.

  I was calling the match for CBS, and I remember thinking, “Wow, Novak has learned something I never managed to do myself out there.” He turned what was pretty much the end-game into a situation where some of the crowd got behind him—not all of them, because they still mostly wanted Roger to win, but enough to break the Federer spell. And I had to admire the way he’d changed the delicate balance that there is between a player, the opponent and the crowd.

  After Novak made that big forehand, Roger lost the next match point when he hit his forehand out. We were back to deuce and it was like this calmness suddenly overcame Novak. That’s when I realized he was going to pull it out of the bag, and it’s that strength of mind that has subsequently made him not just a champion, but one of the all-time greats.

  16

  “No, John, being number one is the only thing that matters”

  Björn Borg

  I was happy to be accompanied by Patty as we walked the red carpet for the premiere of Fire & Ice, the sixty-minute documentary that HBO made about me and Björn Borg. The 2011 film turned out to be something I was very proud of, although I admit I was apprehensive beforehand because you never know how these things will pan out. I’d had to do a bit of persuading to even get Björn to take part because he was—understandably—wary. “Look, it won’t be a hatchet job as I’m somewhat involved in the production,” I’d reassured him. So I was relieved that there were no nasty shocks in the final cut. It was a pity Björn didn’t make it over for the screening, which took place in front of a couple of hundred people at the School of Visual Arts Theater in Manhattan, but he felt it was a long way to come for just one hour, even though I think he would have enjoyed it. I knew Björn well enough to realize there was no point in trying to persuade him to get on a plane, but I tried anyway, and he still didn’t come.

  People think Björn and I are polar opposites—hence the title of the film—and in some ways we are. That’s what made our rivalry so special. It was so intense that people often misremember and think that it carried on for years. But, sorry to correct you, we only played fourteen times, and all between 1978 and 1981 (to put this in perspective, Djokovic and Nadal have played more than forty times, and Evert and Navratilova met twice that many). There was something about our matches that sparked people’s emotions, and created a special atmosphere. As with Roger and Rafa (and also with Novak Djokovic, who it has to be said is a very different player from those two as well), we were such contrasting characters, with totally opposite styles of play, and those differences made for good and at times great tennis. Everyone knew what side they were on: that was what drew the crowds. You were either a Borg or a McEnroe fan. A supporter of the Ice Man or of the Superbrat, as those London tabloids liked to call me, among other things!

  Borg was the ultimate tennis player, fitter and faster than anyone else on the circuit. He also had this incredible aura about him, that Viking god look; his skin-tight Fila outfits were the equivalent of a Superman caped crusader costume—no giant S on the chest, just a little F—and with that armor on it was like he became this extraordinary player, one who never ever showed any emotion on court.

  I was definitely in the opposite camp in all those respects. I wasn’t insanely fit, I wasn’t a practice fanatic, and I felt it was somewhat healthier—for me anyway—to let those emotions out on court. Don’t laugh, but I remember several times in practice sessions trying to behave like Björn to see if it might help my game. Let me tell you, those were short-lived experiments!

  But alongside the contrasts there was also a symmetry to our relationship that not everyone understood. We’re a lot more alike than we initially appear. Our low-key, dry sense of humor is similar, and Björn wasn’t always the ice-man that people thought he was. The film showed that well, because they found footage of him imploding during a junior match and throwing his racket into the net in frustration and anger. Yes, we’re talking about Björn Borg. In fact, he was so bad when he was young that his father wouldn’t let him play for six months. That’s when, as Björn says, “I promised myself I’m not going to open my mouth on the tennis court as long as I live because I love it too much.” So don’t think he didn’t feel what was going on out there on court really deeply. He did, he just didn’t show it. Unlike me.

  Björn also explains in the film how his mental and physical strength are what made him special. “I never got tired in a tennis match,” he said (tell me about it!). Again, unlike me.

  When Björn walked out of tennis at age twenty-five, pretty much forever, after losing against me at the US Open in 1981, I had no idea that he’d never be back. But I never won another Slam either after the age of twenty-five, so there’s some more weird symmetry between us.

  By the time we played in that 1981 US Open final, it felt like I’d finally got his number. I’d beaten him the last couple of times we’d met, including the previous year’s final and the 1981 Wimbledon final. This time, though, Borg was up 4–2, with a break in the third set, after we’d split the first two sets, and he seemed to have an extra intensity about him. He’d never won this goddam tournament, even though this was his fourth time in the final. This was the one he really wanted, and it was now looking like it might actually happen. Trouble was, I badly wanted to win my third home title in a row too. Tennis matches do turn on single points—not always, but amazingly often—and after I’d sent a second winning topspin lob over his head in that game and broken b
ack, he suddenly started to look totally deflated, like the air had gone out of a balloon.

  That was (literally) the turning point. He lost his edge, he seemed to lose his desire, and by the time I’d won the fourth set 6–2 and with it the title, I felt Borg was doing something that I never imagined I would see him do: giving up. It wasn’t so blatant that he could be accused of tanking, but to me, he hadn’t seemed like he wanted to be there anymore. When the moment of defeat came for him, he walked up to the net, shook hands with me, and didn’t look particularly devastated, considering how badly he’d previously wanted to win the title. It was like the lights went out. He then calmly picked up his bag, walked off court and got into a waiting car. I received the winner’s trophy, and no mention was made of the fact that Björn had basically gone AWOL and not taken part in the ceremony.

  No one else has ever done that at the end of a tournament—either before or since. I was later told that he’d had a death threat against him, but I’ve never been too sure about that. After all, who would want to make a death threat against Björn Borg? The only possible suspect I could think of was Jimmy Connors. And to me, it felt more like the whole thing had been planned—as if he knew this was the end.

  A few years later, in 1985 to be precise, I was still on the tour, and Björn and I were playing some exhibitions (though he was still retired from tournament tennis). I’d just got bumped off the number one spot in the world by Lendl and at that point—anticipating what Larry David would tell me twenty years later—I suggested to Björn that being number two wasn’t that bad a deal.

  “No, John, number one is the only thing that matters,” he said in that soft, Swedish accent of his. “If you’re number two, you might as well be number three or one hundred—you’re nobody.” I was dumbstruck. I thought number two was pretty incredible. I still do. I mean, I’d take it any day over, say, number one hundred, or for that matter number six, right? But that was one of the big differences between him and me. He was like Roger Federer. The true greats, they don’t ever think, “Oh it’s boring for the spectators if I keep on winning.” No way. For them, they don’t care how boring it is, they want that victory. For Borg, if you can’t be number one, don’t even bother showing up.

  What’s incredible to me, though, was that even thirty years later, in Fire & Ice, Björn still couldn’t explain his decision to quit in 1981, at that moment and in that way. “The motivation to win is not there,” he said. “If someone could explain to me why, I would be very grateful.”

  You might think Björn’s retirement would’ve been good news for me, as it left the way open for me to consolidate my position as the number one player in the world, but it actually worked out pretty badly. In a strange way I felt that something was taken away from me: an opponent strong enough to push me on to better things. Björn and I had been a perfect match-up: he generally played better against me, and I upped my level against him. I would attack him, but I also provided him with a target at the net so he could try to pass me. I could be wrong, but I believe that if he’d stuck around a few more years we would each have continued to get better and moved tennis up to another level.

  Because of what he’d already achieved by the time I arrived on the circuit, I had great respect for Björn and for everything he stood for, so I never trash-talked him the way I did with Connors. And I rarely got annoyed at linesmen or umpires during our matches (not least because it would make me look even worse because he was so damn calm)—though God knows sometimes I wanted to. I just played. More than anything, I wanted to beat him, to show him that I belonged on the same court as him. He pushed me to achieve greater things, and when he walked away from the sport it left a hole in my life. I don’t want to say it was like a bereavement, but looking back, I think it definitely came close to that feeling of emptiness, of missing someone’s presence and their influence in your life. Plus it shook me up and made me question my own future in the game.

  I won two more Wimbledons (in 1983 and ’84) and another US Open in 1984—beating Ivan Lendl in straight sets and to some extent avenging my French Open loss of earlier that year. In results terms, 1984 was my best year ever. I won thirteen out of the fifteen tournaments I entered, and started 1985 as the number one player in the world for the fourth consecutive year. But I also ended the year no happier. In fact, I felt a whole lot emptier than I ever would’ve thought possible, given the incredible success I’d had.

  Was this hollow feeling due to Björn quitting the tour? Or was it something about the pressure of being number one? Once you’ve reached the top, there’s only one way to go—down. Everyone is after you, and you’re suddenly caught in a paradox: you’re in an incredibly privileged position, one you’ve been working toward all your life, but also one that can leave you feeling paranoid and trapped. The isolation was worse for me, because unlike today’s top players who generally have a team of five or six people around them the whole time, I was totally on my own—I didn’t even have a traveling coach.

  Maybe Björn had understood that, back in 1981. He’d had to give up so much when he was young—he’d been on the tour since he was about fifteen—and he wasn’t prepared to keep making the sacrifices. I had a way to go before I understood that.

  At his peak, Björn was undoubtedly one of the most competitive people I’ve ever encountered. But the surprising thing is, whenever we play nowadays (and we’ve played about fifty times in exhibition matches and at senior level), I swear to God he doesn’t give a shit if he wins or not.

  Did he suddenly stop being competitive? Can that happen? Not to me, it hasn’t. Björn might make it look like he’s trying, but considering he’s one of the greatest players who ever lived, he’s got an abysmal record on the seniors tour. Here’s the thing: I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care. Go figure.

  When I’d started out on the main tour in the late seventies, being three years younger than Björn, I’d never seen a player like him. Not only how he played the game, and how he looked on court, but how he was off-court too. I certainly wanted a piece of what he was having—namely a lot of interest and a lot of girls. All of a sudden, being a tennis player was cool. Björn had the same effortless worldliness as Vitas Gerulaitis, my idol from my Port Washington Academy days. They both had the long blond hair, they both had an indefinable charisma, but they also shared a real work ethic. I didn’t feel I could compete, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to be like them and being totally elated when I first got to hang out with them. They seemed able to burn the candle at both ends without diminishing their athletic prowess, where I was never able to do that. I learned fast, but although I eventually equaled Björn and overtook Vitas in terms of my tennis results, I was never in their league off-court.

  My rivalry with Björn Borg was different from my rivalry with Lendl or Connors in one fundamental way: we actually liked each other. Sorry to disappoint any pop psychologists out there who believe that athletes have to hate their rivals. In fact, although I didn’t realize it at the time, in later years I understood that we have a unique and special connection that a lot of people would define as love, pure and simple. At one point in Fire & Ice, Björn says he loves me. Patty then turns to me and goes, “Did you tell him you love him too?” It’s not exactly something I find easy to say to another guy. But it’s true: there’s this feeling of love deep down, even though we’ve splintered off and have different lives now. We were so close in the nineties that he even came to Patty’s and my wedding, at Donald Fagen’s house in Maui, which was otherwise just family and a few friends.

  These days Björn lives near Stockholm in a great house, which surprisingly enough has a tennis court, and nearby he’s got a boat moored because there are a lot of small islands he can go out to and enjoy. He’s got a quiet life compared to what he used to, and he’s been happily married to Patricia since 2002. He’s had some well-documented ups and downs, personally and financially—I’ve had some well-documented stuff happen in the last thirty years too—but all I know
is that when we do meet up for various exhibitions, tournaments or commercial opportunities, he’s still that cool guy I’ve always known, and we hit it off as if we see each other every day. He always brings me some of his Björn Borg-branded underwear when he comes to America as well. It is both comfortable and stylish and I wear it all the time (except in bed—that would be weird).

  Beyond his contribution in terms of my intimate apparel, there was a further example of Björn’s positive influence on my life a couple of months after the Fire & Ice screening. We were both in St. Tropez, playing an exhibition, as guests of Johan Eliasch, the owner of sports manufacturer Head, and a great friend of Björn’s and now a good friend of mine. That evening, over dinner, my manager’s phone rang, and it was my dad, wanting to know if he could come with me to a tournament in Knokke-Heist, Belgium, a few weeks later. I was about to say absolutely not—I could foresee the problems that would involve—when Björn said, “Let me speak to him.” Björn had lost his own dad, Rune, three years before, and he’d been really upset because, like mine, his dad had been a huge influence in his life and a big factor in his success. After talking to my dad a bit, he ended the conversation by saying, “Don’t worry, JP, if John doesn’t bring you to Knokke-Heist, I will.” Jesus, thanks a bunch, Björn! But that’s when he turned to me and said solemnly, “He’s your father, John, you’ve only got one. Make the most of it, because it goes by so quickly. If he wants to go, you should let him.”