by Pete Sampras
The Aussies have a great tennis tradition, yet even their icons tended to be regular, plainspoken, understated guys, somewhat like me. That was an immediate affinity I felt with Australia. The Australians also are a friendly, easygoing people, and the atmosphere at their major is laid-back; that also suited me. You could get gut-shot in the street there and if you crawled up to a guy for help he’d probably say, “No worries, mate!”—and then do all he could to help. The facilities at Melbourne Park, including Rod Laver Arena, are modern and first-class. You don’t have that feeling of chaos and crowding that characterizes the other majors; even the media presence is considerably smaller. So you have a little less of that intensity and crazy pressure.
My beef with the Australian Open started with the balls. The balls always seemed to play a little differently down under. It was like they couldn’t decide whether they wanted a fast, hard ball or a soft, slow one—one that fuzzed up like a kitten, or had a tighter, shorter nap and flew faster. One year the balls left little black marks on the composite surface, like you see on a squash court.
In Melbourne, you could always count on a few days when the temperature pushes the one-hundred-degree mark, and even though it isn’t very humid, the heat can be draining. It was a special problem for me, because I secretly suffered from thalassemia, a mild disease common to men of Mediterranean descent. It’s basically a blood-iron deficiency that causes anemia, and those who have it are prone to wilting in intense heat. I knew thalassemia ran in my family, but chose not to deal with it until fairly late in my career. Curiously, the guys who did best down under were the Swedes—people from a cold northern climate who appreciate and love the sun and its heat in the winter. The Russians are usually competitive there, too.
Another unpredictable thing about the courts at Melbourne Park was the Rebound Ace surface (which was replaced by Plexicushion for 2008). Rebound Ace was a rubber compound that they painted over the typical hard-court base of asphalt. The surface provided a little cushioning and slowed the bounce, but it did strange things in the heat. It was so hot in Melbourne one year that a TV crew cracked an egg on a court and, using time-lapse photography, recorded it frying. The heat made the Rebound Ace very sticky. Gabriela Sabatini once blew out an entire tennis shoe while making a change of direction (the shoe stuck and tore as she pushed off). Others took nasty tumbles and turned ankles.
Yet the conditions in Oz can change in the blink of an eye. The difference between playing day and night matches there is huge (the Australian and U.S. opens are the only two majors that have night tennis, and the retractable roof over the Laver Arena means you can have night indoor tennis). The surface reacted easily to ambient changes of any kind; it was simply a different court when the temperature was a comfortable seventy-five or eighty degrees—which was often the case during the night matches that followed scorching afternoons. To me, the Australian major was a crapshoot in the areas where I most preferred consistency—the surface, the balls, and the ambient conditions.
In Australia in 1996, on the anniversary of Tim’s collapse, all the old wounds associated with that event were reopened. So I didn’t really mind leaving Melbourne and putting all that behind me. Back at home, Tim was going downhill fast. I frequently found myself taking stock and realizing what I was losing.
When you’re a top player instead of just a guy hell-bent on improving and figuring out your game, you are not hiring a coach purely for his command of the x’s and o’s. Those are usually sorted out in the first six or eight months. After that, it’s all about how you interact with and influence each other; it’s about the confidence and trust you build, and about loyalty.
By the time Tim collapsed, our relationship was about things other than how to return on grass, or how to throw your chest out in a Grand Slam final. But I didn’t really think about that part until after he became ill. Tim had gradually become my stability—the guy I talked to (to whatever degree I talked), and in whom I confided in my own limited way.
I was troubled in the winter of 1996, and a little dispirited, but I did win two indoor winter tournaments after my failed Australian campaign, San Jose and Memphis. In the former, I rolled through Andre 6–2 and 6–3. But after Memphis in ’96, it’s all a blur. Tim was dying; by then it was a matter of “when” not “if.” I sleepwalked through the big outdoor hard-court events in the States, and earned my appearance fees in Hong Kong and Tokyo by winning both—much to my own surprise.
As the European clay-court season loomed, time was running out for Tim. Our system of Tim being the coach and Paul being the messenger had completely disintegrated, because it had gotten to the point where Tim had lost his capacity to think clearly. It became tough to talk with him—about anything. The process was heart-wrenching. Although my emotional state affected my play, it had nothing to do with Tim no longer being able to function as a coach. I was very comfortable with Paul Annacone by then, and felt my game and approach were in great shape.
I visited Tim a number of times at his home in Chicago. The last time I saw him, just weeks before he died, was the hardest. He could barely hold himself erect in his wheelchair. His hair had fallen out, and he was all swollen up—basically, he was waiting to die. On our drive back to the airport, I sat in the backseat, while he was helped from his wheelchair into the front, beside the driver. Whenever the car made a turn, his body listed in the opposite direction; he had no strength left. When he talked to me, he had to move his whole body to face me. He struggled for words, remembering less and less. Everything that made Tim who he was just slowly and inexorably drained away. I remember getting on the plane and looking back, out the window, and seeing him there all by himself. I was alone, too. Slowly, tears started to roll down my cheeks.
Tim died on May 3, 1996. It was the first time in my life that I’d lost someone who was like a family member; I had never even attended a funeral. Tom Gullikson asked me to speak at the memorial service, but I didn’t want to do it. I told Tom, “I don’t know what I’m going to be like at the funeral. I don’t want to break down again in public, and I don’t want to see this ceremony become about me, so I’m going to say no for now.” But when I was at the funeral, surrounded by so many of our shared friends and loved ones, I knew I had to speak. It was the right thing to do.
I told a story about Tim’s extremism when it came to his hobbies and interests. He was always reading different books that had self-help or spiritual overtones; he read about fasting, the Tao, Zen, and stuff like that. So once when we were at my home in Tampa, Tim spontaneously declared that he was going to lose ten pounds in seven days. He had read about how to do it somewhere. So he went to the local GNC store and got this awful, dark green stuff that you were supposed to mix with water and drink. It looked like pond scum, some kind of algae or something—and this was a guy who was addicted to Diet Coke. From 7 A.M. to 10 P.M. every day we were together for six years, Tim seemed to have a can of Coke in his hand.
So Tim slammed back the pond scum. A few moments later, he got up and went into the other room. I figured he needed to make a phone call or something. But over the noise of the television in the living room I heard this awful noise and realized it was Tim, throwing up. I ran to the other room and there he was, slouched against the wall, white as a sheet, and still puking up this vile green stuff.
Rome was coming up fast, but I needed time to mourn Tim, so I pulled out. I did enter the World Team Cup event just to get a little match play before the French Open, and I lost two matches: one to Bohdan Ulihrach, the other to Yevgeny Kafelnikov. So I went into the French Open without a single win in a clay-court match that year, while my rivals in Paris had battled their way through the entire European clay-court circuit, from Barcelona to Monte Carlo to Rome to Hamburg.
When the draw came out for Roland Garros, I just looked at it and went, “Wow.” It was as tough as it could get. On form, I would play two recent French Open champs, starting in the second round with two-time winner Sergi Bruguera. It was time
to step up; I knew that’s what Tim would have wanted me to do. Paul wanted me to attack relentlessly, and the conditions for that strategy were good. It was hot and dry and the court would be playing fast. I might be able to attack and pressure Bruguera, although he was a great defender and could run down anything.
The Parisians are astute fans and tennis aesthetes; they like players who are stylish, daring, or flamboyant. They understood what a coup it would have been for me, a serve-and-volley player who played a relatively clean, elegant game, to win the ultimate clay-court title—and the only Grand Slam that had eluded me up to that point. But most important, they were well aware that I had just lost Tim, and their sympathy for me was obvious. Their press, led by that great sports daily L’Équipe, was all over the story. Tim had just died, yet because of all the publicity and the endless questions, he was more alive in my mind than at any time since before he became ill.
Inspired by the outpouring of concern, respect, and support, I beat Bruguera 6–3 in the fifth. I know Tim would have been proud of the way I attacked and kept the pressure on. I kept my head up for the entire match, and I really felt Tim—and the French crowd—pushing me through the rough parts of that battle. In the next round, I beat my friend and Davis Cup doubles partner Todd Martin, and I lucked out a bit to get Aussie Scott Draper in the fourth round—Aussie attackers just didn’t pose the kinds of problems on clay as the European grinders did.
But in the quarters, I was up against Jim Courier, who played extremely well on clay, especially Parisian clay. He was a two-time champ at Roland Garros, and a dominant guy there for half a decade. I lost the first two sets, which was suicidal given the quality of my opponent. But I felt oddly confident and calm, as if Tim were looking over my shoulder, telling me that it was okay, everything was going to work out. And in reality, I was striking the ball well and putting myself in position to win points. I was getting my backhand to his backhand, which was always the key to playing Jim, who loved to dictate with his forehand. I felt I was outplaying him, but for one thing: I was missing a few volleys here and there, and generally failing to close.
Things changed in the third and fourth sets. I started to finish effectively, and everything else fell into place. Soon I was dominating, although I was also beginning to feel the physical toll. But emotion and inspiration pulled me through. After I won the match, I said something in the press interview about feeling that Tim was watching and helping me. I stated that as fact, and it just added to the developing story. Beating Jim gave me a semifinal berth opposite Yevgeny Kafelnikov, and I liked my chances in that one. I liked them a lot.
But a weird thing happened in the forty-eight hours before I played the semi. I had cravings—unbelievable cravings—for grease. I would have killed for an old-fashioned cheeseburger, or a big pizza, or even just a couple of sunny-side-up eggs. For two nights, I had trouble sleeping, the desire was so powerful. It was truly bizarre, and as I think back, the only logical answer is that I was lacking something critical in my diet—probably fat. I may have needed to replenish something I’d lost over a week and a half of tough matches, sweating under a strong sun. Maybe I lacked salt. I know an ultramarathoner who stops after twenty miles and inhales a burger or a pizza. He told me his body needs it, so that’s what he does. Looking back, I know I should have found a Pizza Hut in Paris and feasted on a greasy pie.
But, disciplined guy that I am, I held out. I kept to my typical, healthy playing diet right down to limiting myself to one cup of coffee. Then I would go to the tournament site, practice, and, if I was playing late in the day, have a sandwich (usually turkey) and maybe eat a banana. That usually did it for the day, with a light pasta dish, perhaps with chicken on the side, for dinner.
When Friday rolled around, I was scheduled to play the early semifinal match. Playing the first semi in Paris is a drag. It’s a late crowd in Paris, especially in the choice seats gobbled up by corporations. Frenchmen are not likely to pass up a long, lavish lunch in the corporate hospitality area just to catch the first hour or two of what is usually at least a six-hour center-court program. So in Paris, you can find yourself playing a Grand Slam semifinal that has all the atmosphere of a second-round day match in Indianapolis or Lyon. It’s a bummer to play for a place in a Grand Slam final under those conditions.
The upshot of the scheduling was that I didn’t have that great atmosphere to pull me through. The serious and passionate fans who come during the early rounds are scarcer when the corporate crowd decides to start paying attention (usually from the quarterfinals on). The lack of atmosphere threw me, and so did the conditions. It was hot; the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky, and there wasn’t the slightest breeze. Of course, a fast, sun-baked court would help my game, but the heat could also drain me in a long clay-court grind.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about stamina. I served well at the start, picked my spots to attack, and made good use of my forehand to force the action. Kafelnikov hung in there without worrying me. We went to the first-set tiebreaker and it was close, but I lost it—theoretically, no big deal. And then everything just imploded. I didn’t get a game in the next set, and won just two in the third. It was by far my most puzzling and distressing Grand Slam loss, and it occurred against a guy with a tendency to get tight in big matches—especially against me.
I still can’t really explain why the wheels fell off. I just hit an unexpected physical and mental wall. I was powerless to play better. I believe it had something to do with diet, which would help explain those bizarre cravings I’d had—and suppressed. Whatever the reason, I just had nothing left, and I knew it as those games rolled by. That’s truly a terrible feeling, especially when you’ve got twenty thousand people watching live, and millions more watching on television. Even more especially when the ongoing story of my unstated but very real desire to win it for Tim was such an obvious part of the plot. I had nothing in my legs, nothing in my head, nothing left anywhere. And when the mercy killing finally was over, it only felt worse. I felt empty like I never had before, utterly depleted.
I was stunned. Down deep, I’d felt that it was my time at the French Open, and that was all bound up with having lost Tim. I thought it was meant to be, especially after my wins over two worthy former champions. During that entire tournament, I felt like Tim was still alive. Tim and I were going to win the French—it was going to be another team effort, like getting over the hump and winning Wimbledon. I’d even had these conversations with him in my head during my matches at Roland Garros, and they helped pull me through.
During the Kafelnikov match, however, there was nothing but a resounding, deep silence. I didn’t think about this during the match, but I guess the silence probably settled in because my attempt to hold on to Tim, my fantasy that I could keep him alive, expired. Despite having been to Tim’s funeral, I hadn’t really faced up to or accepted the fact that he was gone. Two matches too soon, I had a devastating reality check.
When I hit the wall against Kafelnikov, and felt my dream—our dream—blow up in my face, it really did sink in. Tim was gone. Our dream was gone. It was gone for good.
If anything good came out of Tim being gone, it was that Paul was finally free to shed that “interim coach” label and carry on as my full-time coach, a job he had accepted when we discussed the subject in the last days of Tim’s life.
Paul had been a solid, crafty pro with an interesting game. He didn’t move all that well and his ground strokes were suspect; I always kidded him about having to recruit practice partners because he just couldn’t keep enough ground strokes in play to give me a workout. But Paul had a great feeling for the game, a fine serve, and a terrific volley. He lived by his wits, specializing in kamikaze tennis as a chip-and-charge player who was always betting that he could get to the net and make more volleys than an opponent could make great returns and passing shots. It was not an easy technique to execute; on a bad day, you could look downright foolish, kind of like a cavalry on horseback charg
ing a tank battalion. He was one of the last great practitioners of that style.
When chip-and-charge tennis worked, it was a bold and exciting thing to behold. It created enormous pressure and made guys very uncomfortable. In any event, you had to respect a guy who took big risks instead of sitting back and getting pounded 6–3, 6–3 by anyone who moved better or had more consistent groundies. Paul won three singles titles, a doubles major (the Australian Open, with Christo van Rensburg), and he climbed as high as number twelve in singles.
I had taken my last big strides as a player under the watchful eye of Tim, and under his tenure I grew from a boy into a man. What I needed in Paul was a companion and an adviser, an equal who understood me and my game, and who understood other players and their strengths and weaknesses. If Tim put the finishing touches on my technique (among other things), Paul focused on strategy, helping me figure out the best ways to deploy my weapons and neutralize those of my opponents.
Paul was less social than Tim. He was soft-spoken and reserved, although if he knew someone well enough he loved to talk about things—and always on a pretty high, philosophical level. Paul always thought before he spoke, and he was incredibly patient. He took the high road in any conflict or controversy. We were more similar in temperament than Tim and I had been, which by that time was an asset.
Paul never got the credit he deserved as my coach because of the level at which I was playing when he assumed the reins. Some people thought all Paul had to do was carry my rackets to the stringer, warm me up for matches, act as a go-between with the press, and make sure our dinner or plane reservations were in order. But I definitely needed—and got—a lot more than that from him, starting with the way he handled his role. Paul was very good at handling the media. He was both open to them and understanding of their jobs, but he wasn’t in love with the sound of his own voice, and he always downplayed his influence on me. He wasn’t a guy to pump up his own tires. Reporters liked and respected Paul, and that helped my cause with them, too.