The Outsider: A Memoir

by Jimmy Connors

  I beat my good friend and lifelong rival, the great Adriano Panatta, of Italy, in the third round before losing in the quarters to Nasty, the second seed, in straight sets. It wasn’t bad for my first visit to Wimbledon, and Chrissie, on her debut, made it through to the semis, where she lost to Evonne Goolagong, the young Australian champion, in a much-anticipated match.

  I may not have won the tournament, but I did leave London with a girlfriend.

  I gave a less than dazzling display on the grass of the 1972 US Open, losing in the first round to Tom Gorman in five sets (Nasty went on to win his first Slam, beating Ashe in the finals), but that major disappointment was offset by three more tournament victories, in Columbus, Cincinnati, and Albany, taking my career total to six by the end of the year. They were pretty decent results and more than justified my decision to turn pro. If only Two-Mom had been there to see it.

  The new year then brought a string of wins on the Riordan circuit, which I was determined to use as a springboard for my second trip to Europe. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out the way I wanted, especially not in Paris. If it hadn’t been for the doubles, I’d have been on a boat back across the English Channel straight after my first-round loss to the unseeded Mexican Raúl Ramírez, a defeat I marked by hurling a couple of racquets across my hotel room in disgust. I’d given a lousy performance. In one respect I was lucky: My aim hadn’t improved from earlier in the day. If it had, I’d have been adding the cost of a new lamp to my hotel bill.

  Nasty and I made it through to the doubles finals, where we lost to Tom Okker and John Newcombe in a tight five-set match. Given that Nasty also had the singles final to play (he defeated Niki Pilic, of Yugoslavia, in straight sets), it was no great surprise that we ran out of steam. In fact, Nasty didn’t drop a set the entire tournament, except when he was playing with me. I’m not reading anything into that. Well, not much.

  The contractual dispute between the WCT and the ILTF had resulted in several players being barred from taking their place at Wimbledon the previous year, and in 1973, matters deteriorated further still. At the center of the controversy this time was Nasty’s opponent in the French finals, Pilic. It wasn’t clear whether he had refused to play in a Davis Cup tie or wasn’t allowed to play, but the consequences were that his national authority suspended him. The ITLF backed the decision, and Pilic was dropped from the Wimbledon draw. In protest, most of the ATP members withdrew from the tournament, leaving just a few top players like Nasty, Jan Kodes, and Roger Taylor, of England. This watered-down field played a part in my promotion to sixth seed, and my target was a place in the semis, if not the finals.

  I coasted through the first four rounds, dropping only one set, on the way to a meeting with Alex Metreveli, of the Soviet Union, in the quarterfinals. There, I ran smack into an Iron Curtain. Bang! I was gone, but at least Nasty and I were alive in the doubles.

  Nasty, the number one seed, had gotten dumped from the singles in the fourth round by American Sandy Mayer, and afterward he called me at my hotel.

  “Jimmy, Nikki wants to leave. She’s had enough.” His wife, Dominique, didn’t want to hang around for what she saw as the sideshow of the doubles.

  “I get it, Nasty, don’t worry. If you don’t want to play, no big deal. It’s not worth it.”

  Maybe he didn’t want to let me down—after all, it was only my second Wimbledon—or maybe he didn’t want anyone to think he was giving in to Dominique too easily, I don’t know, but Nasty decided to stick around.

  We laughed and joked our way to the finals, where we faced the Australians, John Cooper and Neale Fraser. We decided that every chance we got, whenever Cooper and Fraser got anywhere near the net, we’d hit lobs, over and over again, and no one played like that on grass. They were quality players who probably didn’t think this was nearly as funny as Nasty and I did, and they fought hard, taking us all the way to the fifth set before we eventually won. It was my first Grand Slam title, and although it was only in doubles, I couldn’t wait for the formal presentation in front of the Centre Court crowd.

  But by the time the officials were ready to present, it was no longer us, only me. Dominique had eventually had her way and told Nasty he couldn’t hang out after our victory. The crowd applauded when I walked, alone, out onto the sacred grass, with an awkward grin on my face, and as I held up the twin trophies, I imagined Nasty laughing as he sipped his first drink on the flight home to Romania.

  Not long after, Spencer Segura and I went to Romania ourselves, for an exhibition match in Bucharest. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Remember, Romania during this time was behind the Iron Curtain, yet when we arrived, even as two young Americans, we didn’t have to clear customs. We were treated as VIPs because we were with Mr. Nastase, and normal rules did not apply.

  Driving from the airport to the hotel meant passing through numerous military checkpoints. Normally, this would have meant having our papers scrutinized, or maybe even a search of the car, but not for us. Each time we approached one of those security posts, the officers in charge would recognize Nasty’s car and immediately raise the barrier and move off to one side, standing stiff and proper in their huge gray coats, saluting as we passed. All Nasty could do was smile.

  We weren’t kidding ourselves that we were seeing the real country, however. This was Romania for the 1 percent, and Nasty was their superstar. He took his responsibilities to his countrymen seriously. He didn’t hide himself away. He walked the streets, waving to the crowds and talking to anyone who approached him. The only glimpse Spencer and I ever had of the real Romania was at the airport, when we were leaving. Waiting at the gate to board our flight back to London, we were surrounded by a group of locals, pleading for help.

  “You are American, you help us get on the plane, please?”

  “Here, take this piece of paper. It has my name and address. Please, when you are back at home, arrange a visa for me to leave here.”

  “Can you buy me an American passport? Please, I must have one.”

  It upset me that we couldn’t do anything to help. Once we were on board, I looked out of the window across the runway, where a dozen men were clearing the snow off the tarmac with brooms. By one of the hangars I could see airport workers huddled around the flames of a fire they had lit in an old oil drum. Away from the glamour of Nasty’s Bucharest, Romania reminded me of those old black-and-white newsreels of the Great Depression, where people lost everything and yet still kept going.

  Nasty had the language and the temper of the devil but a face that plenty of women loved. At the same time, he recognized the important position he held, representing Romanian culture and promoting his country as best as he could. He was charming, funny, and caring. He loved to party and stay out late, but drinking and gambling were not his thing, and I never saw him take drugs. As I said, for Nasty, it was all about the women, scores of them, each more beautiful than the next. Nasty claimed in his autobiography that he’d slept with over 2,500 women. I couldn’t tell you if he was exaggerating, since I was only around for 1,500 of them. His strength and stamina both on and off the court were impressive, to say the least.

  Once, when Spencer and I were in London, Nasty wanted to go out with us. You know this is only going to lead to trouble. As always, Nasty attracted a gorgeous woman, and he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. So back to the hotel we went, where Nasty stashed his handful in my room, which was right next door to the room he was sharing with his wife, Nikki. Spencer and I played checkers in the corner (two out of three of us were losers), and now all of a sudden Nasty’s trying to be quiet since he remembered that his, um . . . wife was next door. He opens the door to walk out into the hallway, tells us goodnight, turns, and is face to face with Nikki. How he got himself out of that I’ll never know. Oh, and I forgot about that one. Make it 1,501.

  I wasn’t a bad doubles player, but playing with Nasty helped show me where I needed to improve. The quick-fire rallies sharpened my volleys, and each se
t was like a master class in the art of the topspin lob.

  I didn’t have his natural topspin, but that didn’t keep me from trying to figure out a way to incorporate some of it into my game. Topspinners use a Western-style grip, with their palm under the handle, allowing them to roll the racquet easier. My hand fits more comfortably toward the side of the handle, which is great for hitting the ball flat. If I tried to copy Nasty’s stroke, I would have blown out my wrist in a second, but studying his technique did give me another weapon in my arsenal.

  Nasty and I continued to play doubles together through 1975, when we won the US Open. After that I was pretty much done. I was playing in too many singles matches by then, and I didn’t want to hang around stadiums all day long waiting for the late-night doubles. Other players took an opposite view; John McEnroe, for instance, viewed doubles as good practice, and his partnership with Peter Fleming brought him countless Grand Slam doubles titles, but I didn’t need that. I was wary of burning myself out with too much tennis. I thrived on staying hungry.

  I was young and impressionable, and a lot of what I saw from Nasty rubbed off on me. The good the bad and the truly ugly. On the court he could be completely out of control, like the time in 1976 when he called the German player Hans-Jürgen Pohmann “Hitler.” That was one of the more controversial matches in US Open history. Sometimes I’d watch him swearing at umpires, throwing his racquet, giving the finger to a line judge, or threatening to smash photographers’ cameras and I would cringe. Then two tournaments later, I’d be doing exactly the same thing. But I would also watch the way Nasty moved, gliding across the court in anticipation of the next shot. The way he played tennis made him the best show in town, and whatever else you got was just an added bonus. That’s why every time he played, the stadium was packed—you never knew what you were going to get.

  I matched my Wimbledon performance by reaching the quarterfinals of the US Open in September 1973, with a significant win against Tom Okker in the fourth round. Tom had been in the world’s top 10 for years and was lightning-fast around the court. As always, Pancho had been analyzing my opponents and devised a strategy for me to follow.

  “He can volley, Jimmy, and he rushes the net very fast. Hit the ball flat and keep it low, and when you see him coming to the net, make sure you mix up your passing shots. Don’t forget the lob; that will catch even Okker off guard.”

  The lessons I learned on the doubles courts with Nasty came in handy in that match, especially my improved lob. I had Tom confused, reluctant to commit himself to the net but unable to contend with my groundstrokes when it came to battling it out from the baseline. It took him out of his comfort zone, and a 6-3, 6-2, 6-4 victory set up my first meeting with the great John Newcombe in the quarters. Although I was beaten in straight sets, it was tight. I lost tiebreakers in the second and the third, and while I was disappointed, I knew the distance between me and the man who was to become that year’s champion was getting increasingly closer. I respected him, but I didn’t fear him.

  My big breakthrough as a singles player came in the fall of 1973, at the US Pro championships, at the Longwood Cricket Club, in Boston. Longwood was full of talented players. This is my opportunity to move to the next stage, I thought. Bring it on.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  In the first round, I was drawn against world number one and top seed Stan Smith. I attacked him with my groundstrokes—I don’t think he knew what hit him—and won in straight sets. I then beat Ray Moore, Dick Stockton, and Cliff Richey to reach the finals, where number two seed Arthur Ashe stood in my way.

  Pancho knew Ashe well—they were friends from his days at Beverly Hills—and he had plenty to say to me just before the match.

  “Jimbo, he’s good, but you are better. He plays quiet, confident, so rattle him. Attack his serve from the start by returning hard and deep down the middle. Cut off his angles and be aggressive.”

  I followed Pancho’s advice, jumping on Arthur’s serve at every opportunity. I had to, because the match would hinge on the ability of one of us to come up with something out of the ordinary. I kept at it, never letting him settle into a rhythm, and it paid off. We battled for three hours before I won, 6-3, 4-6, 6-4, 3-6, 6-2. That first big win not only felt overdue but good—really good.

  Before that triumph, I had heard whispers from certain members of the press that I was just Chris Evert’s boyfriend. It seemed that our relationship was getting more attention than the tournaments I was winning. What the hell? It was just another distraction I had to deal with. I was the US Pro champion now. Screw ’em. I was starting to make my own name now.

  Chrissie and I tried to see as much of each other as possible, but it was hard with our separate tour commitments. When we were together, everything was good, but long-distance relationships are tough. When you’re 5,000 miles apart, doubt enters your mind, and things can be taken out of context. We’d disagree about the little stuff that didn’t really matter and we’d end up blowing it out of proportion. When that happens, there’s only one place for the conversation to go, and that’s downhill. We’d end up arguing and then all kinds of accusations would fly, and I would think, “Really? Is that good for a relationship?” Better to hang up before things get out of hand.

  I know I strayed, several times, over the two years we were together, both at home in California and on tour. I was young, hanging out with buddies like Nasty, Spencer, Dino Martin, David Schneider, and Vitas Gerulaitis. What do you think happened? After every match, we’d be surrounded by women, Chrissie would be in a different state or country, and the two of us might have had another fight on the phone. It happened. I’m not proud of it, but that’s what I did.

  Attitudes toward sex had changed. It was after the pill (and before AIDS), and women were enjoying their sexual freedom. If they wanted to chase you, they would, and sometimes I didn’t run very fast. One-night stands were common on tour, and I had my fair share. That shy, laid-back approach worked pretty well for me.

  Chrissie might not want to admit it, but America’s Sweetheart was no angel, either. It’s hard to keep secrets in the tennis world.

  I wanted to make it work between us, and I’m sure she did too, but I guess we both saw our relationship as a temporary thing, two kids sowing their wild oats before settling down. Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime.

  The reality was that if I wanted to see Chrissie, I had to get on a plane, so I’d call Bill Riordan and ask him to arrange a flight to wherever she was that week. I was doing all of the running around, and it began to have a detrimental effect on my game.

  To remedy the situation, we decided to play some mixed doubles. We’d competed at the US Open in 1972 and had done pretty well, reaching the quarterfinals. Over the next two years in New York, we went one better each time, getting to the semis in 1973 and the finals in 1974. We also paired up at Wimbledon, where we reached the quarterfinals in 1973 and the third round in 1974, before withdrawing because of our singles commitments.

  It wasn’t a bad record, but that really wasn’t the point as far as I was concerned. Although for me mixed doubles was about having some fun with Chrissie, she took it very seriously, finding it almost impossible to rein in her competitive spirit. I certainly understood, but there’s a point where you have to let go. Mixed doubles just didn’t matter enough in my world, and I didn’t think it should have in Chrissie’s, not compared with her success in singles. Still, who was I to make that decision? Chrissie saw things differently. It was as though she felt that losing was a sign of weakness, which could give her rivals on the tour an advantage in future tournaments.

  Our different attitudes would clash on the court. In mixed doubles, no matter what tournament it is, who I’m playing against, or what round it is, I’ve always refused to blast the ball at my female opponent, even if the other guy is aiming at my partner. When that happened, I’d give the guy some shit, but I would never take my anger out on his teammate. Chrissie wasn’t particularly happy abo
ut that and said she thought I should go ahead and bury the other woman. I would just shrug and get on with the game, and that made her even madder.

  Everyone has his or her insecurities; I had mine and Chrissie had hers. In the often claustrophobic, intense world of tennis, you can feel as though everything revolves around you, and her need to be the center of attention at all times became too much.

  Believe it or not, there were moments when the spotlight didn’t belong to either one of us, and I relished those. Remember how much I loved westerns as a kid? Well, having a chance to meet and spend time with John Wayne was an opportunity I just couldn’t let pass.

  Lornie Kuhle is one of my oldest friends, going back to when we were just youngsters playing tournaments in Illinois. When we hooked up again, after I moved to Beverly Hills, Lornie was married to John Wayne’s daughter Aissa, and Chrissie and I went to Mr. Wayne’s house on a number of occasions.

  The Duke enjoyed his tennis, and we’d play at one of his local clubs in Newport Beach. In the evening, after dinner, there was usually some betting action on the backgammon board, and he talked just like he did in the movies. Whenever he took a pip off the board, he would say in that slow drawl, “Let’s get that guy on outta here.” I loved that! John Fuckin’ Wayne! Are you kidding me? Backgammon with John Wayne! But Chrissie always wanted to go home early, no matter how much fun I was having, and she usually got her way. All the Duke could do was wink at me and say, “Well, good luck, pilgrim.”

  A phrase I used to hear a lot—not from Chrissie but from the people around her—was “We’ve got to do what’s right for Chris.” I got the point, but I had enough on my hands taking care of my own business. When you have two people in a relationship who both want to be number one, it’s tough. The math doesn’t work. You both expect to be treated in a certain way, and that’s impossible, because someone has to concede. For most of our relationship, that person tended to be me.