The Outsider: A Memoir

by Jimmy Connors

  On the final point of the match, Borg hits his service return long and leaves Louis Armstrong Stadium almost immediately, not even waiting for Mac’s trophy ceremony.

  He never plays another Grand Slam.

  In the fall of 1981, Borg announced he was taking a break. He said that he was exhausted from too many matches and that he would only commit to seven tournaments the next year. Under the rules of the Men’s International Professional Tennis Council, the governing body, seven tournaments wouldn’t be enough for him to gain automatic entry into Grand Prix events, including the Slams. If he stayed away, he’d have to go through the qualifying process. He tried that in Monte Carlo and again at the Alan King Classic, in Vegas, but he failed both times. In tennis, you needed to play to keep your game up; Borg was entering too few tournaments to compete at a high level. Björn Borg officially retired at 26 years of age.

  I never understood why he did it. It took everyone by surprise and disrupted the rivalry that the fans had been enjoying among the three best players—Mac, Borg, and me. What caused him at such a young age to just walk away from a sport he was so good at? He had so much success early on that maybe he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—keep working as hard to stay on top. If it was a case of burnout, though, that’s something I will never understand. Did I miss Borg when he walked away? Hell, yeah. I wish he’d stuck around a lot longer. There was no way to replace the excitement and competitiveness of the matches we played.

  I could never do what Borg did, not even after that Open, when the press wrote me off. You know, Connors had made only eight Grand Slam semifinals out of nine over three years, and no finals. Connors used to be number one, but not anymore.

  I wasn’t giving up. I still had a job to do and one that I loved more than anything in the world, except being a husband and a father.

  I reinvented myself on Sunday, November 15, 1981, at Wembley, London, in the final of the Benson & Hedges Championships, broadcast live on television. Connors versus McEnroe. It wasn’t just that I won, but how: from two sets down against McEnroe, the best player in the world.

  I walked off that court that night, knowing one thing for sure: I was back.

  15

  CRACKS IN THE FOUNDATION

  Immediately after beating Mac at Wembley in 1981, I flew to Tel Aviv to play a tournament. During that week, Gerry (who knew Israel well and had helped build their tennis stadium) arranged for Nasty and me to go on a private sightseeing tour on one of our days off. The Wailing Wall, an incredible place, was crowded with men in their shawls, rocking back and forth in prayer, some with their foreheads and hands touching the wall. The stones had been polished by untold numbers of people who had been there before them. Like most visitors to the wall, I’d written a few thoughts on a piece of paper and slipped it between the cracks of the stones. It was an honor to have been a guest and a part of that sacred tradition, and I left with a feeling of awe.

  In January 1982, I found myself in a very different climate: minus-20-degree weather in Rosemont, Illinois, to play the Michelob Light Challenge of Champions. I knew at that point that my game was back where it should be, and Mac and I pretty much picked up where we’d left off at Wembley, carrying the fight to the tennis fans. Almost literally.

  The stadium was sold out and the fans applauded, booed, heckled, and cheered for over four and a half hours for great tennis—plus the bonus of seeing the Mac & Connors Show—as the score and penalty points swung one way and then the other.

  In the second set, at 0-4 down, I took a courtside seat for a few minutes after the umpire, Art Leighton (who’d been removed from his chair during one of my earlier matches in the tournament), overturned a line call when Mac’s ball was clearly out. “Mr. Connors, penalty point.” I graciously decided to return to the court when it was withdrawn.

  At 4-4 in the set, Mac just can’t stop wasting time, and I’ve had enough. When we played, we usually got in each other’s faces—on and off the court. So I climb over the net to see if Mac needs some personal counseling. Something I think we both could have used.

  The crowd boos as I point my finger at him, inches from his nose, and give him a few choice words of “advice.”

  Mac swats my hand away. I back off for a second to get my temper under control and then move back in as two officials step between us. I guess the officials have decided they don’t want any Irish blood on their court.

  Fourth set, 5-5, Mac down 30-40 and he hammers his racquet into the ground. “Mr. McEnroe, penalty point.” Mac pulls on his tracksuit and stalks toward the locker room. I follow and persuade him to resume the match. I hold serve to win the fourth set 7-5. Into the fifth we go.

  With a sold-out stadium of 14,000 crazed fans, we can’t just leave it hanging. One of us has to walk out of here with a winner’s check. A break up at 4-2, in the seventh game, Mac gets another penalty point for smashing a ball into the roof in anger when he can’t reach my crosscourt winner. With the score 15-40, I would have won the game and evened up the break, but Mac walks off (again) in disgust. I like to win my matches, not to be handed them by an umpire. I refuse the penalty point, Mac’s back, and I win the game and go on to finish the set and the match 6-4.

  That’s tennis when Mac and I are in town.

  He got his revenge at the Masters later that month, when I lost to him and then to Roscoe Tanner, and again at the US Pro Indoor in Philadelphia, where I picked up a $1,000 fine and a 21-day suspension for an obscene gesture during my semifinal against Chip Hooper. You can’t grab your nuts? I didn’t get that memo.

  All those people who wrote me off? I didn’t want to make them eat their words; I wanted to ram them down their throats.

  I’ve run into an old friend from Mexico whom I haven’t seen in a while. We’re at a craps table in Vegas. Not my best idea.

  “Come on, buddy, give the man a marker. He’s good for it,” says my friend.

  I shake my head.

  It’s Wednesday, April 21, 1982. Earlier in the day I had beaten Hank Pfister 6-3, 6-1 in the first round of the Alan King Classic, on the heels of beating Johan Kriek in Monterey after my suspension, and then, at the Los Angeles Tennis Club, taking Mel Purcell for my third Pacific Southwest title.

  “No, thanks, son. I’m done. Really. I only play what’s in my pocket,” I said.

  “Come on, take a marker, man, and let’s play,” my Mexican friend insists. “Another hour. You’ve gotta win some of that back.”

  I’m already down five figures. And I never, ever, take markers. But my friend has a point. I’m not playing until later tomorrow.

  “All right. Five thousand bucks, that’s it. One hour, maximum, then I’m out of here.”

  Over the next 60 minutes I’m up, then down, up again, and I can’t get a break.

  “Mr. Connors, another marker?”

  “Sure, what the hell.”

  Three hours later, as I’m signing out, the cashier looks up at me, as he totals my markers. There’s not a flicker of emotion. I guess they’ve seen it all before. Much worse.

  “That’s sixty thousand dollars, Mr. Connors. Do you wish to settle up now?”

  “OK if I leave it to the end of the tournament?”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Connors. Have a good night.” Oh, yeah, thanks. And sleep well.

  I just lost a lot of money. But fuck it, I like this life and it feels good being part of the action again. I love the buzz, even when it costs me 60 grand. You can’t beat it. But, hell, I’m gonna have to win the tournament now to pay my debt. Smart move, Jimmy, just what you need. More pressure.

  My toughest challenge in the Alan King Classic comes in the semis against Sandy Mayer, when I have to come from a set down to win, setting up a meeting with his brother Gene in the finals. When they hand me the winner’s check for $60,000 on Sunday, after my opponent has been forced to retire with an injured ankle, it should have been made out to Caesars Palace, because that’s where it goes. I sign it over at the casino later that evening. Pro
blem solved. For now.

  Two weeks later I receive a phone call. From Mom. All my winnings go through the business she oversees.

  “Jimmy, I’m expecting that check from the Alan King tournament, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

  Yeah, about that check. After I danced around the issue she backed off and did the math. Vegas + Connors + missing check. Hmmm.

  June 1982, the Stella Artois championships at the Queen’s Club. I’ve just beat Mac in the finals and I’m feeling a little superstitious. Last year, Mac had been the only one in the Open Era who had managed back-to-back Queen’s and Wimbledon victories, and that’s what I wanted to take back from him.

  During the week I took it easy in practice, sometimes only going out there 15 minutes a day to check how I was feeling. I didn’t want to wear myself out. I also wanted to stay eager to play, just like Mom had taught me.

  I’d been putting money on myself to win Wimbledon since 1972, but as I walked into Ladbrokes this year to place my bet, there were some raised eyebrows. I can’t say I blame them. I’d competed in Wimbledon for 10 years and won just once. And I hadn’t won a Grand Slam since 1978, so I wasn’t exactly seen as a big threat to John P. McEnroe’s run of victories. Eight years between titles is a long time, and the odds on me to win were 16-1. That didn’t bother me, so, gambler that I am, I opened a vein and laid down a large bet on me to win. I’m pretty sure the guys at Ladbrokes thought it was money in the bank for them. Et tu, Ladbrokes?

  That June, Patti, Brett, and I were back at the Inn on the Park where they knew what it took to keep us happy. My mini-bar was always stocked with plenty of Snickers bars (or Marathons, as they were known in the UK) and Pepsis.

  It’s a first-class hotel with every luxury you can imagine, but Mom and I had originally decided to stay there because of its location, and then kept coming back because of how well we were treated. In the first couple of years, Mom used to wash my tennis clothes by hand in the bathtub after every match. Then, after I became Wimbledon champion, the hotel manager agreed to let her use the hotel washing machines and dryers. Mom didn’t trust anyone else to do the job right, but Patti had a different take on the laundry situation.

  “Patti, they have a service here,” I said. “If you ask them, they’ll wash my clothes. Every night.”

  “Are you nuts?! They charge four bucks a sock. I’m not paying that. If you add in Brett’s clothes, it’ll cost us more than the room. Anyway, they’ll only end up shrinking your shirts. Someone told me there’s a laundromat in Knightsbridge. I can go there every morning and I can have breakfast in a local café while I wait.”

  “Whatever you say.” See, guys, those are the first three words you learn to say when you’re married if you want to stay happy.

  I wasn’t about to try and change Patti’s mind about the laundry. The way she saw it, I had my job to do and she had hers. She didn’t tell me how to hit the ball and I didn’t tell her how to run the details of our family. It worked out well for both of us.

  I think of that period between the two London tournaments of 1982 as being one of the most relaxed I’ve enjoyed in my life.

  We had no idea of the cracks that would soon appear in the foundation of our relationship, or their terrible consequences for our little family.

  In the three years that Patti had been with me at Wimbledon, she had become good friends with the legendary Ted Tinling. Ted had a short career as a tennis player before becoming the personal umpire to the fabled French player Suzanne Lenglen (who won 31 championship titles between 1914 and 1926), umpiring more than a hundred of her matches. He then became a Wimbledon Player Liaison until 1949, when he designed the famous lace tennis panties that Gussie Moran wore at the All-England Club. Because of the scandal those panties created, Ted was asked to resign.

  From the 1950s to the 1970s, Ted designed daring, fashionable tennis outfits for stars like Maureen Connolly, Evonne Goolagong, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, and Martina Navratilova, just to name a few, while at the same time acting as chief of protocol for the International Tennis Federation. In 1980, Ted designed the dress for Patti’s great friend Mariana Borg, for her and Björn’s wedding. He also created Chrissie’s wedding gown when she married John Lloyd. I know that only because Patti told me. I wasn’t invited.

  So at Wimbledon in 1982, at the age of 72, Ted was the official player liaison, and one of his more challenging jobs was to make sure Mac and I stayed out of trouble, after the fireworks of the semis in 1981. We took it easy on him because we liked him.

  Also, just before Wimbledon, Ted had to have surgery on his leg. Patti went to visit him while he was recovering in the hospital and returned to the hotel still laughing at a story that Ted, who was openly gay, had told her.

  A couple of nights before, Ted had been asleep when he was awakened in the early hours by the sound of someone in his room. “Patti,” he told her, “all my life I have wanted to wake up with a gorgeous guy standing over me, and then it finally happened. The only problem was that he was there to rob me! What sort of luck is that?”

  “Don’t worry, Jimmy,” Patti said, “the thief ran off and Ted’s OK.”

  That sort of summed up Ted; he always found something to laugh about, even when things weren’t going his way. After he was released from the hospital, he invited Patti to the annual Women’s Tennis Association pre-Wimbledon party at the Kensington Roof Garden. As Patti tells it, she was the only non–tennis player there, and Ted loved showing her off. After Patti’s date with Ted, he would call us every morning just to see if we (and by that I mean Patti) needed anything, and if we did, it was done. He was a great guy, and I wondered why it took the All-England Club only 30 years to realize what a contribution Ted had made to tennis—not just his innovative designs, but also his encyclopedic knowledge of the game.

  It was a very sad day for us when Ted died, in 1990. He’d become a good friend and we still miss him. Oh, and by the way, we found out after his death that he had been a British Intelligence spy during WWII in Algiers and Germany.

  Because of rain, I didn’t end up playing my third round until the second week of Wimbledon. I beat South African Mike Myburg and Australian John Alexander, then faced Californian Drew Gitlin, ranked 185th in world. That turned out to be a pretty interesting match, because he played out of his skin. In the fourth set, with the match going on three hours and the fans calling for a postponement because it was too dark for them to see the ball, I finished him off in the tiebreaker with a lucky return. Man, was I happy to be back in my hotel room that night, without worrying about resuming the match the next day.

  The telephone by my bed rings early the next morning. Still half asleep, I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Jimmy, what are you doing?” It’s my brother’s voice.

  “I’m still in bed, I’m not playing today. What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I’m in the lobby.”

  “What?”

  It turns out that Mom, who was in Belleville, had called Johnny over the weekend and told him to fly to London to help me out, without even asking me if I needed him. Although I didn’t know it at the time, he was there for a reason.

  I think Mom was still trying to look out for my best interests, and she probably wasn’t aware that sending Johnny to Wimbledon would just put more pressure on me. With Patti, I was already well taken care of. She kept me grounded, helped me relax and escape from tennis—which was exactly what I needed if I was going to succeed in proving my critics wrong. Johnny’s arrival was a minor inconvenience, but I was happy to see him. So Ted arranged for two cars.

  However, all too quickly I got into a pattern of riding with the guys in one car—me, Johnny, and Lornie, who had come with us to London—while Patti, Brett, and Adela rode in the other. Patti was being pushed aside, and I didn’t even notice. That proved to be the first crack in my relationship with Patti.

  After I defeated Paul McNamee on my way to a quarterfinal match with Gene Ma
yer, I had a conversation with Mac. It had been raining hard throughout the first week of Wimbledon, and I’d been practicing with him off and on since the Queen’s. We might have had our differences, but we weren’t stupid. We knew hitting together made us both better.

  After my match with McNamee, I bump into Mac in the locker room.

  “Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll hit some balls, OK?”

  “No, no, no. I don’t think we should hit anymore,” he says to me, looking uncomfortable. I can guess why. It probably just dawned on him that he might have to play me in the finals.

  “What?” I say. “We’ve been practicing together for three weeks. You think it’s going to make a difference now? Well, if that’s what you want. See you around.”

  Connors is a one-dimensional player, whose only stroke is his two-fisted backhand.

  I don’t know how many times I heard or read that about myself over the years. It used to just make me smile because anyone who said it knew nothing about tennis. As I’ve said, I had adapted and adjusted elements of my game over the years to try to find a way to win. The 1982 Wimbledon final against Mac was no different. I was climbing out of a four-year slump and was about to face the best player in the world at the time. To be the best, you have to beat the best.

  My game was in place—I knew it, even if no one else did—but that wasn’t going to be enough. Mac was going to attack me every chance he got, looking to take the ball out of the air to counter the unpredictable bounce of the Wimbledon grass. I had to come up with a way to pin him to the baseline. The answer was clear: change my serve by putting more juice on it, flattening it out, hitting it deeper. If he managed to get his racquet on it, my forward momentum would allow me to get to the net quicker. He wouldn’t be expecting that. If I could rattle Mac and keep the match close, I could beat him. My confidence in the improvements I’d made in my game would only grow.