Exhibitions were real matches. Players like Nasty, Vilas, Mac, Vitas, Borg, and, later, Yannick Noah all wanted to win. Our reputations were on the line, so there was no chance we were going to cruise through the matches. But the fans were also paying to be entertained.
I remember a four-match tour with Petr Korda and Goran Ivanisevic in Prague and Budapest and ending up in Italy. When Ivanisevic had to pull out because of an injury, we called on Noah, the former French Open champion, for the last match. The event was being televised and the promoters had sold twice as many tickets as the stadium would hold. There was almost a riot when half the fans didn’t have seats, but they packed them in anyway. Standing room only. The crowd was on top of us, and the atmosphere was buzzing. Just the way we liked it.
Noah was a wreck when he flew in that afternoon. Tennis wasn’t his priority, and playing at that level was something he wasn’t used to doing at that point. And when he saw the size of the crowd and the number of cameras, his nerves started to take over.
In the locker room Noah pulled a bottle of Courvoisier out of his bag and took a drink.
“Better take it easy on that stuff, Yannick,” I cautioned.
“Don’t worry, Jeemy. It’s just to calm me down.”
By the time we started to play, Noah was tipsy. Watching Yannick in the warm-up was something to behold. He was a mess.
“Listen, Yannick,” I said. “Don’t worry about the match. It’s all good.”
On the first point he serves, I send back an easy return and he follows up with an approach to the net. I make like I have to stretch to reach his shot and deliberately set it up perfectly for an easy volley, which he puts away. Thank God. Noah relaxes immediately.
“OK, Jeemy,” he slurs at me from across the net. “I get it. I’ll be OK now.”
Well, sometimes that’s how it goes. We have to make it work. That’s what we were getting paid for.
Needless to say, one of the downsides of an exhibition schedule like mine was jet lag. Once, after finishing a match in São Paulo, Brazil, my friend Bill Lelly, who traveled with me, and I were getting ready to go home when we got a call from Onni Nordstrom, the former NHL player and now a sports agent and promoter.
“Can you guys make it to Helsinki by tomorrow night? We’ve got a tournament and Boris Becker’s opponent has just pulled out. We’ll pay for the flights. And what else will it take?” We made a deal in five minutes.
Hell, yeah. So we hopped on the plane for a 7,000-mile flight, crossing God knows how many time zones.
When we arrive in Finland at 11 o’clock that night, I go up to my hotel room and find a feast waiting for me. Nasty, who was also playing, had brought foie gras, caviar, and smoked salmon, from Paris. My kind of welcome.
The next morning, I hit some balls, attended a couple of corporate events in the afternoon, went to a cocktail party that evening (now dead on my feet from jet lag), and still managed to play a couple of matches over the next two days.
Another time, I agree to an exhibition match in Ecuador against the local favorite, Andrés Gómez. It’s near Christmas, my game’s a little rusty, and I think that the best-of-three set match will start preparing me for the year to come. The president of Ecuador is going to be in attendance.
However, on the flight down with my friend Gerry Goldberg, when there’s no turning back, the promoter tells me, “Oh, by the way, this is three out of five sets.” Oh, boy. Suddenly, my mood takes a sharp downturn. And it doesn’t improve when the crowd goes crazy for Gómez, the local hero, and the line judges are helping him out any chance they get. And the temperature’s over 100 degrees and humid. I’m hot and tired and playing on red clay. I swear at the officials, throw my racquet around at all the bad calls, and grab my crotch whenever I win a point, just to piss people off. Not my brightest move.
At a changeover, I hear Goldberg shouting at me, “Cool it, Connors!”
When I sit down, he fills me in.
“Lay off the crotch,” he says, “or you’re going to jail. The head of security has just had a word with me. You’re offending the president of Ecuador. Listen, they’re gonna put us both in jail if you do it again!” Well, at least I’ll have some company.
And to answer your question, no, I didn’t do it again. That’s all I needed: to be in an Ecuadorean prison in my tight white shorts.
I think the hardest thing for me during this period of combining the main tour with exhibitions wasn’t jet lag or the threat of Ecuadorean jail but the challenge of trying to balance tennis and my family life. In 1985, the reality of just how difficult that was came crashing home to me.
Pop had been in an assisted-living facility near Mom in Belleville. He’d been in good shape, still driving, still taking his daily walk to the cigar store, but at Christmas his health took a serious turn for the worse, so I made a plan to take baby Aubree and the rest of my family to see him in early spring. If his health kept deteriorating, I couldn’t stand the thought that he wouldn’t have had a chance to hold his great granddaughter. But I was in Europe getting ready for the French Open and Wimbledon when I got the call from Mom.
“Pop’s passed, Jimmy. It was peaceful.”
“I’m coming home, Mom. Tomorrow. First flight I can get.”
“No, you’re not. Pop made me promise to say this before he left us. He said, ‘Tell Jimmy not to come back for the funeral. I don’t want him interrupting what he’s doing just for me. Promise me you won’t let him, Glo.’ That’s exactly what he told me, and that is what’s going to happen. You finish your business there. I’ll take care of everything else here.”
I felt brokenhearted and alone. Pop had been such an influence in my life and on my career, and wasn’t that just like him to say, “Finish your business”?
So I wasn’t there when my Pop died, and I wasn’t at his funeral, and even though that’s what he wanted, it still hurt. It was another two months before I stood at his graveside to say goodbye and thank him for everything he’d done for me.
Between the exhibitions and the tour, I was away from home for long stretches, for up to half the year. It was hard on Patti, but she never made a big deal about it. When I’d call and ask how things were going, she’d always say, “Fine, Jimmy, no problems.” The work she did during those years allowed me to concentrate on the tennis.
But it was the same old story: When I was home, I wanted to be playing tennis, and when I was playing tennis, I wanted to be home. I’d arrive back in Santa Ynez and feel like I didn’t fit in, because Patti and the kids didn’t stop whatever they were doing the moment I walked through the door. I felt like a visitor in my own home.
I knew my family was always happy to see me, but they had an established routine of mealtimes, homework, soccer practice, dance lessons, tutoring, and their friends. I had to get with the program or go back on the road, and it was always a little unsettling.
My homecomings turned into a good opportunity for the kids to dance around Patti’s rules and get me to do what they wanted. Patti would have said no to something, but then the kids would hit me up. “Can we go to a movie, Dad?” “Can we go to McDonald’s?” I’d feel guilty for being away, so I’d give in. “Yeah, sure, let’s go.” After a few days of this I’d be off again, leaving Patti to pick up the pieces. I’m no dummy.
On occasion, I would take Brett out of elementary school early for summer so he could come along for some of the tournaments. Aubree was too young, and she stayed home with Patti while I traveled with Brett to Europe.
He was a natural traveler, but there were still times when he gave me a few early gray hairs.
I was playing a special event in Frankfurt and 20,000 German fans were cheering their homeboy, Boris Becker. Brett seemed perfectly happy soaking up the atmosphere, and I figured the worst that could happen was that I’d lose the match. Then, at a changeover, he was gone. His seat was empty and the bottle of water he’d been drinking was knocked over next to the chair.
I panicked. I cal
led over my friend who was supposed to be watching Brett.
“You haven’t seen my son, have you?”
“Oh, my God, I don’t know. He was there a minute ago.”
I was frantically looking everywhere at the same time they were telling me that my match was about to start. The event was being televised, so I went back onto the court to play, putting my faith in the German authorities to FIND MY SON! Two games later, on the changeover, they had located him—under my bench on the court, taking a nap. The travel had finally caught up with him.
A few years later in Argentina, Brett learned about work when he had to get down on his hands and knees to save a match that Guillermo Vilas had arranged way out in the country, west of Mendoza.
We were shocked at the venue when we arrived. It was a big tin barn. Right next to it was an old bus, which I had the horrible feeling was our locker room. Nothing but the finest for you, Jimmy.
“Are you sure this is the right place, Willy?” I ask, using my nickname for Guillermo.
He shrugs his shoulders and nods.
It’s freezing inside. This is winter in Argentina and the “stadium” doesn’t have heating. Instead, the organizers placed huge metal drums in each corner of the barn and started fires in each of them. The smoke is billowing up onto the roof.
Again, only the best.
Guillermo and I go out to hit some balls as the crowd starts to filter in. Luckily, they hadn’t built the stands too high or fans would have been passing out from smoke inhalation.
I move to hit a return. Did I just feel something move under my feet?
I go to serve. There it is again. Man, the court is shifting. I call Billy Lelly over. Brett follows.
“Something’s up with the surface, Lelly. Can you take a look?”
It’s 10 minutes before showtime.
Lelly pokes at the corner of the court. Sure enough, it moves. He looks underneath. The sections have been glued together, but they’ve forgotten to attach it to the ground. It’s just sitting there on concrete. Play on this and one or both of us is going to break a leg. Guillermo just shrugs.
Brett and Lelly get busy with some tape they’ve found, scrambling around on all fours doing the best they can to stabilize the court as the spectators start to get restless. By the time they finish the place is literally rocking as the crowd stamp their feet and whistle. And it’s getting smokier.
We start the warm-up again. Guillermo can’t keep two consecutive balls in play. He’s out of condition, out of practice, and the crowd is out of patience.
I have a quick word with Brett and Lelly.
“Find some tacks or something. You’ve got to let the air out of the balls. Slow them down as much as you can so Guillermo can hit a few or we’ll be murdered in here.”
My eyes are stinging from the smoke and my throat is getting sore. Funny what you’ll do for a few bucks.
I make sure we have a few rallies and somehow we get through the match. I can’t tell if the fans are satisfied or not because I can barely see them through the smoke as we make a quick getaway.
When we get to Buenos Aires, Guillermo has a confession to make.
“Now, Jimmy, the reason I brought you out here, and I know you’re not going to mind this, is that I have to win here in my country’s capital.”
“So,” I say, “I get to win in a barn where we’re almost invisible, but you take all the glory in the big city, in front of 10,000 fans—is that it?”
Guillermo shrugs his shoulders. He’s good at that.
What can I say? It’s not like it’s a high-stakes match and Willy has assured me that it won’t be televised or anything. So I play along. For two and a half hours I run him all over the court and make him work harder than he has in years. I never hit a winner, only make him hit shots. If he’s going to win, he has to pay. He wins the first set and has me 5-4 in the second when I can see him struggling, starting to cramp. Now I’ve got him right where I want him. Suddenly he runs over to Lelly, holding up his hand, which looks like T. rex’s claw.
“Billy, Billy, pull my fingers apart, I can’t do it. Put my racquet in my palm and then close my fingers around it. Please.” Finally he’s doing something besides shrugging.
This is too much fun. I decide to win the next game, then back off and let him take the set 7-5. I can’t stop laughing as I walk to the net to carefully shake his hand. I’ve never seen a man move like that in my life, crouched over and twisted in pain. But he’s smiling. He’s won and the crowd is happy. And I enjoyed inflicting pain on him. After all, he’s my friend. That’s what it’s all about.
Next day at the airport, we’re waiting in the lounge for our flight home when I happen to glance over at a TV. It’s a tennis match. I take a closer look. It’s a rerun . . . of . . . of Connors versus Vilas, shown live last night! Am I a sucker or what? How’s that hand, Willy? Still cramping?
18
TORMENT
Mellowed.
I didn’t like that word when it was used to describe me in the 1980s and I don’t like it now. Growing older, having your own family, that’s all part of it, but even then you don’t change who you are deep down. I grew up having to battle to be the best, while all the time the press and the establishment were trying to shoot me down. I learned you either fold or fight. Turns out that fighting is more fun. That belief hadn’t changed by 1986. Mellowed? Screw that.
Boca Raton, Florida. The semifinal of the Lipton International Players Championships, Friday, February 21, 1986. Me versus Lendl, fifth set, Lendl up 3-2 and serving, 30-0.
Lendl hits a slice volley; it’s sailing over the baseline. It bounces out and I hit it away.
I don’t hear the line judge’s call. Maybe I just missed it. It’s noisy here.
“Forty-love.”
I glare at the line judge. “No, no, no! You’re wrong. Admit you’re wrong.”
I get nothing back.
Jeremy Shales is in the chair. He’s been shafting me the whole match, giving me nothing and thinking he’s the show. It’s not the first time, and I’m not putting up with it anymore. That one was blatant. I charge over to him.
“You are overruling, right?”
“The ball was good, Mr. Connors. Play on.”
“You’re kidding me! The ball was that far out.” I show him: six inches at least.
“Play on, Mr. Connors. The score is 40-love.”
I’m snarling at him now, my blood boiling over in the steamy atmosphere. I can hear people shouting at me from the stands. What do I care? I’m standing up for my rights.
“No, you’re wrong,” I shout at Shales. “The ball was this far out. I’m not playing under these conditions. Get the supervisor out here.”
“Mr. Connors, you have 30 seconds to resume play or face a penalty point.”
“I’m not going to play under those conditions. Get the referee out here. And the supervisor. Call ’em out here. You’re the one wasting my time. Call ’em out here.” The crowd is booing louder and now I’m not sure if they’re for me or against me. I really don’t care at this point.
“Point penalty, Mr. Connors. Time violation. Game, Mr. Lendl. He leads 4-2, final set.”
“You’re the one wasting time. Get ’em out here!”
Just then Ken Farrar, the Tennis Council’s supervisor, and Alan Mills, the referee at Wimbledon, come out. They must have been watching from the side. The crowd starts to cheer. Seems like they’re on my side.
I approach Farrar. “I’ve been playing for three hours and 41 minutes, and if I’m going to stay out here and grind it out, then this is too much. That was not a judgment call. I didn’t even play the ball it was so far out.”
They try to calm me down. Like that’s gonna work. I see Lord God Almighty sitting up there in his chair looking at his stopwatch.
This is nuts. Turning back to Farrar and pointing up at Shales, I yell, “He has a job to do, and he isn’t doing it. This whole situation is fucked. I don’t want to play anym
ore, not if this is what it’s like. Are you gonna do something about it?”
“Jimmy,” Farrar says quietly, trying to reason with me, “you don’t want to go out like this. Let’s get back to the game.”
“Game penalty, Mr. Connors. Delaying the match. Mr. Lendl leads 5-2, final set.”
The crowd is now begging for blood. They are booing, swearing at Shales, and some of them are throwing things. I can see Patti, who’s shouting the loudest of all.
I am not backing down. No way.
“Game, set, and match, Mr. Lendl, by default.”
You know what? I don’t give a shit. I slam my racquet into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. As I do so I glance across to where Patti is sitting. I can’t help smiling.
She’s leaning forward out of her seat, a Coke in her hand, which she now launches at the umpire’s chair. Really? Well, I guess so. She was taught by the best. Despite all the crowd noise, I make out what she screams at Shales: “You bastard!”
Lendl’s victory brought him level with me in our career head-to-head, 13 matches each. More significantly, it was my eighth loss to him in a row. I hadn’t won since the Seiko Super Tennis tournament, in Tokyo in October 1984—my last tournament win up to that point, coincidentally. Number 105. The press was writing me off again. Like I wasn’t used to that.
The Lipton default cost me $25,000 in fines and a 10-week ban. How did I feel about that? The things you have to do to get some time off, right? Anyway, the suspension I received was an opportunity for me to play a couple of special events and half a dozen exhibitions. I made a hell of a lot more money than I would have playing the tournaments.
What did piss me off was the way Shales had umpired the match. I really didn’t think it was good enough. He wasn’t purposely targeting me initially (although I believe he was later, in the heat of the moment); he was simply incompetent. And he wasn’t the only one. I never argued with an umpire I didn’t think deserved it. We would be busting our guts out there with no instant replays to protect us. It’s no surprise that the players with hot tempers lose it from time to time. I think the authorities knew they weren’t delivering in the professional manner they should have been but refused to admit it. I’ll leave you with this statement from Butch Buchholz, tournament director at Boca Raton, which he made just after my default: “The officiating has been better than last year, but it’s an area we can improve. Eighteen years ago we got people out of the stands to call the lines. We’re now past that stage.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement.
The Outsider: A Memoir Page 28