The Outsider: A Memoir

by Jimmy Connors

  We knew we had to do something to stop all the rumors. It was starting to be a distraction, which neither of us needed. The day after her loss to Billie Jean, we issued a joint statement confirming that our wedding plans were now permanently off. As I said at the time, “She’s going out with other guys and I’m going out with other girls. But the most important thing for me is that Chrissie and I are still good friends.”

  What I said was true. If Chrissie had been upset with me for taking Susan to Wimbledon, do you think a few months later we would have been found sitting very publicly with each other making a date? OK, so it was not exactly a romantic date; this was on a staged TV show, where Chrissie asked me to play mixed doubles with her against Billie Jean and Marty Riessen for a CBS special called Love Doubles. I even gave Chrissie a kiss on the cheek when I said yes. Granted, it was pretty cheesy, but it showed that we were still friends and we had moved on.

  After my Wimbledon defeat (which I took pretty hard, by the way), I had a week off before I was thrown back into the circuit of summer tournaments leading up to the US Open. I was putting on a pound a day just thinking about it, but in the meantime I had to take time out to cut a hit record.

  Didn’t see that coming, did you?

  Flash back to the summer of 1974. Bill and I are sitting in a restaurant in Las Vegas, talking about—what else?—money. Specifically, we were discussing how to make more of it. The prize money in those days had a lot fewer zeros on the checks than they do today.

  “It’s show business, Jimmy,” Bill says. “Movies, TV, records, concerts. That’s where the real money is nowadays and that’s where you want to be.”

  “Well, what’s stopping us? I can sing a little.”

  “Show me.”

  I go through a few bars of “White Christmas.” All right, so under that kind of pressure I folded. They were the only lyrics I could remember.

  “You’re not half bad, kid. If you’re serious, I’ll see what I can do.” Really?

  “I’m willing to take a shot,” I say. “Go ahead.” I mean, how long could I play tennis? I’ve gotta think about my future. Anybody got a food stamp?

  Nine months later, following the Newcombe Challenge Match in Vegas, Bill and I are sitting next to Paul Anka’s cousin at dinner. The subject of me recording a song comes up and the cousin promises to introduce me to Anka. He was as good as his word and I met with Paul a week later. I didn’t even have to audition.

  “Yeah, sure, Jimmy, come on in. We’ll make a record.”

  Paul promised to write a couple of numbers, and when I was in New York for the US Open, I went into the studio and laid down the tracks: “Girl, You Turn Me On,” which, it seemed to me, Paul had written in 30 seconds, and “Guitar Man.” I was convinced I would be number one on Billboard in no time. I could even see myself on American Top 40 with Casey Kasem.

  Oh, yeah. Fat, drunk, and stupid. I can do anything.

  My singing debut would be broadcast nationwide from New York’s Ed Sullivan Theater on a new TV show, Saturday Night Live with Howard Cosell, two weeks after the US Open.

  “Always take care of your business, Jimmy.” Sure, Two-Mom, that’s what I’m doing.

  In 1975, Forest Hills decided to tear up their grass courts and replace them with the slower Har-Tru clay. What the hell were they thinking? The US Open was our national championship, and they decided to install a surface that was more familiar and beneficial to European and South American players. Didn’t they want homegrown winners?

  Doom and gloom dominated the lead-up to the tournament, with commentators predicting that no US player would even reach the quarterfinals on the new surface. They weren’t far from the truth—only Eddie Dibbs and I made it that far—and when Borg defeated Eddie, I was the only American in the men’s semis, facing Borg. He was coming off the second of his six French Open titles and about to play on his best surface, so he was widely considered the favorite. I felt otherwise. Earlier in the week, I had the good fortune of meeting up with Pancho when he came to New York, even though he was no longer officially my coach, and we sat down to discuss tactics. Pancho suggested patience against Borg.

  “Jimmy, I’ve been watching you on TV. You’re hitting the ball well off the ground, so stick with that. Borg with his topspin—the ball will bounce a little high, so move in and take the ball early, hitting hard and deep to the middle. Wait for the short reply and get to the net. Be patient and wait for your chance.”

  That’s exactly how it worked out. I kept my concentration and broke him once in each set to win 7-5, 7-5, 7-5. I had beaten the clay-court champ, defying the odds, and I took all the positives from that into the final against Manuel Orantes, of Spain.

  Pancho told me to concentrate on two things with Orantes: the weakness of his forehand, and to rush the net whenever he was preparing to make a shot.

  “He puts so much slice on it that it comes over high. Pounce on it, take it out of the air before he has time to react.”

  I didn’t listen. Going up against Orantes in the US Open final was, to be honest, a day I would like to forget.

  With Orantes having come back from an almost impossible position, down two sets to love against Guillermo Vilas in the semis, I thought he would be worn out. His match had finished so late that night that I don’t think he even went back to the hotel, and I was convinced that would work to my advantage. The opposite was true. Orantes may have been exhausted, but he’d just played the match of his life, was full of confidence and adrenaline, and he ran me ragged. And in a lot of ways the match highlighted a major problem that had plagued me all year. Carrying those extra 20 pounds of weight was starting to take its toll on me. If I could reach the ball, I could hit it pretty good, but getting to it was a hell of a struggle.

  Orantes beat me in straight sets, 6-4, 6-3, 6-3, and the whole time all I could hear from the stands was “Olé! Olé! Olé!” I should have been used to that by now, the home crowd cheering for the foreign player, and it was the third time in a year that the crowd was rooting for my opponent in the final of a Slam. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me at the Open in 1975. It made me mad and even more determined to win the fans over the next chance I got. At the same time, I told myself that I didn’t care what the fans thought. Why? Because I knew I was about to be Sinatra’s opening act. Yeah, baby, the Chairman of the Board and me.

  The big night arrived, September 20, with Howard Cosell introducing his famous musical guests: Sinatra, Shirley Bassey, John Denver, the cast from the Broadway hit The Wiz, plus a new Scottish pop group called the Bay City Rollers, who were making their first appearance on US television. ABC had pulled out all the stops to make sure that Howard’s pilot was a ratings bonanza. Oh, wait, I forgot, I was there, too.

  Nervous? Let’s put it this way: I’d played tennis in front of thousands of people live and millions on TV and hardly broke a sweat, but a few seconds before I was about to stroll out in front of the cameras, microphone in hand, and strike a casual pose against the piano, I had already changed my shirt three times just from the anticipation of doing something outside my comfort zone. Well, what could you do? I went out there wearing jeans, clogs, and pit stains the size of tennis balls. You know, Mr. Cool.

  To make matters worse, a few minutes before my big entrance, Paul Anka had presented me with a contract, which I assumed was to cover my “show-business career.” I was happy to sign up with him, to sing his songs, and appreciative of all the help he had given me. It just so happened that my buddy Spencer was there in the studio.

  “Spence, take a look at this,” I said, handing him the contract. “I’m sure it’s fine, but since you’re here, let me know what you think.”

  Spencer had just been accepted to law school, and it took him all of 15 seconds to give me his opinion.

  “You can’t sign this. It has a clause that includes income from some of your tennis-related activities.”

  Oops.

  “So,” I asked him, “is that a bad
thing?”

  “Ya think?” Spencer grinned.

  I can’t say for sure if Mr. Anka was trying to pull a fast one—maybe he thought he was offering me a good deal—but I wasn’t impressed. I guess I don’t have to tell you that we haven’t stayed in touch since.

  As for my high-profile debut in the company of all those show-biz giants, well, Howard Cosell’s new show lasted barely three months before it was cancelled, which was two and three quarter months longer than my singing career. “Girl, You Turn Me On” was never released, and my new singing career was over when I hit the last note. I took that show down in a hurry. But remember Riordan’s words: “Any publicity . . .”

  Right after Wimbledon I had managed to persuade Bill to quietly withdraw the Arthur Ashe libel suit. Then a week before the US Open, after hours locked away in discussions with the ATP, Jack Kramer, Donald Dell, and Bill settled our dispute with them.

  “We’ve come out of a long, dark night,” he told the press. “We smashed the monopoly in tennis. Now it’s open tennis for everyone.”

  Was it worth it? Hope you got everything you wanted out of it, Bill. I, on the other hand, would have that hanging over me for life. See, we’re still talking about it. Here, let me simplify this for you: I was young. I didn’t understand it then, don’t understand it now.

  Bill said that we had won, but the reality was different. The whole episode had been an incredible waste of time, energy, and money; neither side came out on top. As I recall, we ended up getting nowhere near the level of damages claimed in the press (obviously, I didn’t see a penny of it), but it wasn’t the outcome that really mattered. It had all been an unwelcome sideshow. All I wanted to do was play tennis.

  With all the legal bullshit behind us, I was asked if I wanted to join the Davis Cup team for their upcoming match against Venezuela. Even though I found it hard to shake the association between the Davis Cup and Two-Mom’s passing—I had been practicing with the team in Jamaica when she died—I tentatively said yes; I didn’t want to make a full-time commitment. I’ve always been a little superstitious, and in my mind the Davis Cup represented bad luck. The main reason I never embraced the competition the way people thought I should have had nothing to do with money or giving up my time, and it wasn’t about deserting the US cause; it was just a very negative feeling deep inside that was hard for me to shake. In reality, my participation could have backfired for the team if my heart wasn’t in it. And that’s just what happened.

  In 1975, Tony Trabert had replaced Dennis Ralston as captain, and his approach suited me; he wasn’t always telling us what to do or how to behave. Our preparations were relaxed and I was happy to be sharing a room with my buddy Vitas. In addition, my friend Bill Norris, the ATP trainer, came along. So why not go play some tennis and hang out with a few of my buddies. How bad could it be?

  We defeated Venezuela comfortably, which set us on our way to a North American Zone elimination playoff against Mexico in December. But first I had to go back to London for the Dewar’s Cup, which was played at the famous Royal Albert Hall. I’d been offered a guarantee for my participation, a set amount of money I would take home, win or lose, which was not common practice in those days and had to be on the QT (although everybody did it). Just before the finals against Eddie Dibbs, one of the organizers came up to me in the locker room and handed me an envelope containing my guarantee. When I looked at the check, I blew my stack.

  “What the fuck is this?! We agreed the amount was going to be in pounds, and this is dollars?”

  The exchange rate at the time was about $2 to £1. Someone was trying to rip me off and I was really pissed. Even though I wanted to walk away, I couldn’t: The hall was full, and we were about to go onto the court. Despite all that, I started out strong, winning the first set with ease, but Dibbs, being the battler that he is, hung tough. The more difficult Eddie made it for me, the more I thought about being shortchanged. We played for three hours, and in the end I couldn’t keep my emotions together and lost in three sets.

  When the match ended, I stormed out of the stadium and back to my hotel to shower and change. Then the phone rang. It was Nasty.

  “Get back here. We’re in the doubles final.”

  I told him I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Come on, Connors boy, get back here. We’ll have some fun.”

  Because I always do what I’m told, I got in a cab and headed back to Albert Hall. When I walked into the locker room, I could see Nasty had taken care of everything.

  Nasty and I walked onto the court ready to play. We took off our jackets, and when the crowd saw that we were wearing tuxedo shirts and bow ties under them, the booing started. And it didn’t stop there.

  After the first game, Nasty goes and pulls out a magnum of champagne from an ice bucket he had placed by the side of the court. He shakes up the bottle, uncorks it, and sprays the crowd. You can imagine how happy they were to have their tuxedoes drenched in champagne, even if it was an expensive vintage. Then Nasty pours us each a glass; we toast, knock back our drinks, and return to the court.

  At the next changeover, we had another glass of bubbly. Now, remember, I’ve already played singles for three hours, I haven’t eaten, I’m tired, it’s hot inside the hall, and I’m drinking champagne. Tipsy time. Nasty and I were laughing so hard that neither of us could even see the ball. But we were the only two people laughing, and the crowd hadn’t stopped booing. Fuck it. We could take it, and, anyway, the match only lasted 35 minutes.

  To give our opponents—Karl Meiler, from West Germany, and Wojciech Fibak, from Poland—credit, they ignored us, kept their concentration, and won the match against the two clowns.

  By anyone else’s standards, my year would have been considered a success. Three Grand Slam finals plus a win in that WCT tournament in Denver that I entered at the last minute and three more victories in Bermuda, Hawaii, and North Conway, New Hampshire. But compared with 1974, it was disastrous. I had fallen into the trap of thinking I could do what I wanted off the court and still perform the way I needed to on it. Things were rapidly spinning out of control.

  My year was coming to an end and the only thing left was the Davis Cup tie in Mexico. I knew I needed to change some things personally and professionally.

  My relationship with Bill Riordan was heading in the wrong direction. He had already scheduled two winner-takes-all matches for the spring of 1976, but that was the extent of my obligations to him. We decided to go our separate ways.

  Unfortunately, there were a few financial discrepancies to resolve first, when the accountants discovered that some money I was owed from the Newcombe Challenge Match was missing. I thought it was probably just an oversight on the part of Caesars Palace; I knew the guys there and was certain they could help me straighten it out, so I told Mom I’d take care of it. But when I called Caesars Palace to ask about the check, they told me they’d sent it out months ago. After some investigating, we found out that the money had been mailed to Bill, but he had returned it straight to Caesars to settle his gambling debts.

  I was furious, but Bill claimed that the payment was rightfully his, and in May of 1976 he filed yet another lawsuit, this one aimed squarely at me. He said that he was owed 15 percent of all of my earnings since March 1972 for services as my exclusive personal manager. I’ve got to give him credit for being consistent.

  With Bill out of the picture, Mom took full control of the business. Every contract, sponsorship deal, and request to play in a tournament now went directly through her. At first I was glad; she’d always fought my battles off the court. A good thing, since if anyone approached me with a request, I’d usually agree, even settling on a fee myself, just because I don’t like to say no. Then I’d tell them they had to talk to Mom about the details. They would call Mom and she’d cut them off if she didn’t like their terms.

  As a result, most agents and promoters hated dealing with her. They would try to drive a wedge between us, but that was impossible. This wasn’t
just business; this was family. So they retaliated by ridiculing her achievements whenever they could, which only toughened her up and confirmed her belief: It’s us against them, Jimmy.

  Sure, in tournaments that mentality gave me an edge, fueling my killer instinct when playing a faceless opponent. That’s how I won my matches, but off the court there was a downside. I became wary of people, and, truthfully, I still am.

  Could I have made more money when I was at the top of my game if someone other than my mother had been looking after my business interests? The answer is yes. Mom had trust issues, and her management cost me financially because I didn’t establish enduring relationships within the tennis world. Now ask me if I give a damn? You can bet your life that I don’t. Every decision my mother made was with her heart in the right place, and that’s all that matters to me. Loyalty.

  Eventually I signed with IMG for a year, and during that year I won Wimbledon and the US Open and they made me nothing. Not a penny. Then I signed with Donald Dell’s ProServ agency and they made me a boatload of money, and I made them just as much. The difference was that during the time that Mom looked after my deals, when I had a week off, I really had a week off. With the management firms, it seemed that my time wasn’t really my own, and that was what Mom tried to protect me from.

  Acapulco in December should be paradise, right?

  After an unfortunate performance in Mexico City, I needed to get away. I had lost the deciding rubber match of the Davis Cup tie to Raúl Ramírez, in an atmosphere of total chaos. The Mexican supporters screamed for their hero and then swarmed onto the court to lift him onto their shoulders. It was a disaster, and the USA’s third exit in a row at that stage of the competition.

  So I’m on the Pacific coast, in Mexico’s most famous resort. I’ve earned almost $1 million this year, won nine tournaments, made it to three Grand Slam finals, played in the most-watched tennis matches ever televised, represented my country in the Davis Cup, and was even on the cover of Time magazine.

  I’m number one in the world, according to the ATP. So why do I feel like shit?