by Pete Sampras
Paul knew that different people need to be handled in different ways. He could coach me, or he could coach Andre. He was a good reader of character and temperament, knowing what I needed to hear and how to say it. And that is a huge—repeat, huge—part of being a high-level coach. You have to understand a guy and work within his comfort zone, avoiding the temptation to change him or make him conform to how you want him to be—even when you know that kind of change would be beneficial. His bedside manner was great.
Paul didn’t have to say a lot, although he had a lot to say; he chose his words carefully and never overcomplicated things. He was a good reader of character, and he quickly figured out that I didn’t really like to talk about my tennis a lot—I was kind of possessive about the game. He also knew that I didn’t like to make a bigger deal out of things than necessary, partly because he was like-minded in that way.
It was tough for Paul to keep himself in the background while Tim was ill, for the simple reason that the press was always after him to talk, and Paul didn’t want to overshadow Tim. What might have been even harder for him was to hang back in deference to Tim when it came to coaching me. Paul had his own thoughts about my game, but he was careful to avoid conflict with Tim. He had been supremely loyal, to Tim and to me. He kept the faith.
Paul was a great tactician, although I often resisted his strong emphasis on attacking tennis. That was because I took a lot of pride in my all-court abilities. Paul always wanted me to be aware of how I was losing points—not just after but during matches (which can be very difficult to do in the heat of battle). I think he believed that the awareness would lead me to play more forcefully and aggressively.
Tim was great when it came to my game; Paul was great when it came to the games of guys I would have to beat. His strategic solutions to the problems various players presented were gems of perception, a remarkable combination of simple yet subtle. He would suggest or say the kind of things that might make you want to smack your forehead and think, Now why didn’t I think of that?
For example, against Andre Agassi, Paul felt I should play to Andre’s forehand side—go to the forehand to open up the backhand court. In fact, that was always my key to beating Andre. But in order to work his forehand, I had to threaten his backhand—I had to soften up that side. So Paul always wanted me to start a match by establishing the wide serve on that ad side to the backhand. That would make Andre think a little about protecting that wing, opening up the serve down the center stripe. The overarching idea was to prevent Andre from employing his favorite strategy—smacking back a forcing return that enabled him to set up shop near the middle of the court, with the intention of dictating with his forehand.
Paul tried to get me to chip and charge more, not at 4–all, but at 1–all, even against Andre and his awesome passing shots. Paul felt it wasn’t worth the risk chipping and charging on big points against a quality passer, but he wanted me to plant that seed in Andre’s head, make him think that I might attack at any time. This became a recurring theme no matter whom I played. He basically said, “Show him that you’re Pete Sampras, and that you can attack at will.”
I did take some pleasure in beating guys at their own games—dominating a baseline grinder from the backcourt, that kind of thing. Sometimes that drove Paul nuts, because there were times when it made my own life a lot harder than it needed to be. I would get into these long rallies, maybe lose the match, and Paul would later just say, “You know, you looked awful good—losing.”
It wasn’t exactly the same as my dad saying I played “lousy,” but I felt the rebuke in that comment. I looked good . . . losing. The key wasn’t “looked good,” it was . . . “losing.” He used that word intentionally. Early in our relationship I told Paul, “Don’t sugarcoat things. You’ve got to be honest with me.” He did that, but in his own way, which always was intended less to make me feel bad than to make me think.
Paul was adamant about keeping me from becoming a predictable player, even while he encouraged me to establish my straightforward “big game” against every opponent. So at times it was a fine line to walk between playing serve-and-volley on autopilot and mixing up my game. Paul always wanted me to establish a tough, low-percentage shot, the backhand up the line (it’s much safer and easier to go crosscourt, partly because the net is lower at the center). He felt I was technically sound enough to do that. Because of the quality of my second serve, he also wanted me to serve and volley with it more than I did.
On grass courts, Paul believed that my key to winning was the way I returned second serves. He was especially forceful about that when it came to guys like Goran, or Richard Krajicek. He often said, “If you return his second serve well, you’ll beat him, no matter how many aces he hits. You’ll wear him down. If Goran serves three aces in a row in a game, so be it. Move on, forget it. Don’t get discouraged, and just keep looking for that second serve, because it’s going to come, and it will give you an opening.”
Paul impressed that on me so strongly that after a while, when I saw a second serve at Wimbledon I was like, Wow, this is it—it was as if I was looking at a winning lottery ticket. So I would attack the second serve, often with great results. I overcame the temptation to play it safe, which means I also overcame the fear of blowing a big opportunity.
On my own service games, Paul wanted me to put the hammer down as hard and often as I could. I guess this was part of Tim’s legacy, that “Green Bay Packers power sweep” thing. Serving at 40–love, you can take a point off if you want, but Paul was big on me winning a game like that at love. The better you served, he reasoned, the more pressure you put on an opponent. He really wanted me to eliminate the sloppy double fault or shanked volley, even when I could afford to make the error. And he was right. I know that when a Goran or Krajicek or Michael Stich got to 40–love and held easily, I would always think, Sheesh, this guy is tough; I didn’t have a sniff at that service game and it went by in a flash. I’d better make sure I hold here.
We very rarely analyzed potential opponents in a complex, by-the-numbers way. I can only remember one time that we actually watched a tape of a match—it was before I played Vladimir Voltchkov, a surprise semifinalist at Wimbledon in 2000. And it was only because neither of us even knew if the guy was a lefty or righty, never mind what his game was like. We didn’t have formal strategy sessions. If there was something on my mind, I would just bring it up over dinner, or after a practice session. Just throw it out there to see what Paul had to say. I would sometimes ask what Paul thought an opponent was going to try to do against me, and found he was very good at those predictions.
Tim Gullikson always wanted me to hold my head high and show no weakness to opponents, but Paul took it one step further and liked for me to be slightly arrogant—you know, take that attitude, I’m Pete Sampras and you’re not. He felt I was too self-effacing, too nice. He would say, “These guys are afraid of you, and you need to know that and exploit it.” He was right. I never went out there afraid of anybody, but I didn’t always take full advantage of my reputation and presence, either.
I could go either way on that issue. It wasn’t like me to be more assertive, and I was uncomfortable consciously trying to cultivate the image that I was. I didn’t want to misrepresent myself, and I never wanted to be perceived as cocky. I also felt there was a definite value in being so low-key that it made my opponents nervous, made them just look and wonder what I might be thinking. The way a Boris Becker strode around the court with this natural air of entitlement probably motivated guys to try to beat him. I didn’t want to intimidate guys; it was just as valuable, in my mind, to make them nervous.
Besides, if I didn’t act like I owned the world, it was more likely that I wouldn’t feel that I did. It was important for me to do that, because by the time Paul was my full-time coach, one of the big dangers for me was letting my own press clippings go to my head. I took special care to play every tournament, week after week, as if it really mattered. I always went out t
here taking nothing for granted, feeling like I had to prove myself. I actually enjoyed that, maybe because it ended up giving me some extra positive reinforcement when I did win. I never felt blasé after beating someone.
There were periods, of course, when I became a little tired or bored with the typical pro’s routine, and I wanted Paul to be hard on me if he thought I was slacking off. A few times I hit a plateau, careerwise, and started taking shortcuts. It just happens; you need to go on autopilot once in a while. Paul recognized when that was the case, and called me on it. He knew my mind, even though a champion’s mind isn’t always that easy to know.
Like I’ve said, Paul never got the credit he deserved. But in the end, I know what he did for me. I won ten of my fourteen Grand Slams with him, and he guided me with a firm hand through some of the most heartbreaking, challenging moments of my career.
As much of a blow as it was to lose in Paris, there was always Wimbledon. When Paul and I arrived in England a few days after losing in the French, I appreciated the cool climate and those beautiful grass courts. It was like deleting every recent file on my mental hard drive and starting over. I really needed to regroup after the shocking collapse in Paris. The year was halfway over and, like most years, I would judge it a success or failure depending on whether or not I won a major.
I skipped all the warm-up tournaments for Wimbledon in 1996, hoping to regain my stores of stamina and energy. Things started to click for me when the tournament began, and although I lost a set to my Davis Cup buddy Richey Reneberg in the first round, pretty soon I was firing on all cylinders. I hammered Mark Philippoussis in straight sets in the round of 16. I rolled through Cédric Pioline, losing just ten games. In the quarterfinals, I would be playing Richard Krajicek, the rangy, tall, hard-serving Dutchman who was always a threat on fast surfaces. He could pop up at any time and win a tournament, looking like the second coming of Pancho Gonzalez. At other times, he was just another big guy with a good serve who didn’t seem to have the confidence or drive to win, week in, week out.
I felt that Richard was a little nervous as we warmed up under leaden skies. But he held his own through the first seven or eight games, each of us taking care of his serve. Everything was fine, in my book. I was making him work on his service games, and I was getting pretty good looks at his second serves. I had break points here and there, which was encouraging even when I didn’t convert them. I had played many matches like this before on grass. The trick was to stay alert, focused, and confident, because my chance would come. I was getting to him, I felt pretty sure about that. It was just a matter of time.
But before we could finish the set, the rains came. We had a break of a few hours, and that gave both of us a little time to think and regroup. When we returned to the court, he was a different player. He was suddenly going for his shots, especially his second serve. Whether he knew it or not, he was taking me into the territory I least liked to visit. My m.o. called for me to approach even the most lethal serve-and-volleyers with the expectation that I’ll get a good look at some second serves. If that happened, I could beat them. The strategy worked against Goran Ivanisevic, it worked against Boris Becker, and it worked against Stefan Edberg. But when it became harder for me to get a sniff at a second serve, it created a chain reaction. If I couldn’t get to his serve, that put more pressure on mine. I think Richard sensed that, and his own excellent serving freed up the rest of his game, especially his return game. And that’s how it almost always works.
Krajicek won the first set 7–5, breaking me once. It emboldened him, and suddenly he was getting hold of my serves with his backhand return. Plus, his passing shots were impeccable. I lost the second set 6–4, and was relieved when it started to sprinkle again, because the light was fading. I knew we would never finish the match that day, and I really needed to regroup.
Yet instead of thinking, Tomorrow’s a new day, I’ll get back on track—no way he can stay hot like that . . . I had a strange sense of foreboding. I didn’t feel good about the way the match was going, and knew I was in a big, big hole. Paul worked double time that night to get me back up, to restore my confidence, but he couldn’t pull me out of it. Although I was still in the match, I was feeling negative.
When we returned to play the next day, we just continued where we left off. Richard came out bombing away, and I immediately got discouraged, thinking, Hey, this is what I do to people on grass. Long story short, he closed me out. All the credit to Richard for getting the job done. He played a great match, technically and mentally. And it was some balm for me to see him go on to win the tournament—if you’re going to lose, you may as well lose to the guy who’s going to run the table. I’ve never watched that match on tape, but I’d be curious—just to see if Richard’s game really did change as much as I believe it did after the rain delay.
At the end of that day, three of the majors were gone, and I had yet to win one. Although I wasn’t exactly thinking I had to win a Slam for Tim, others frequently brought up the subject. To me, though, that wasn’t the point. It was simple: win or lose, the French Open had been “our” major—the Tim major. I fell short of honoring Tim with a win, so the movie didn’t end the way everyone expected. But that didn’t change the magical moments or emotions I experienced at Roland Garros, and it didn’t change the way I felt about Tim or the right way to honor his memory. When I won my next major, I could make a pretty speech about “winning one for Tim.” It was what everyone wanted to hear. But I wasn’t going to do that; it would have been phony. And I kept that promise to myself.
The summer hard-court season leading up to the U.S. Open was always low-key. As hectic as the Open is, the tournaments leading up to it are laid-back affairs of the heartland. Indianapolis and Cincinnati are two of the biggest events, yet you can drive from one venue to the other in an afternoon, and each one has a little bit of that air of a county fair. Some of us players had a running joke when we got to Indy or Cincy. We’d just look at each other, shrug, and say, “Same shit, different year.”
Although I lost in the quarterfinals at Cincinnati to Thomas Enqvist, I won Indianapolis, improving my career record against Goran to 8–6. Going into New York, I felt good about extending my streak of winning at least one major per year to four. And the draw opened up nicely for me. The only name player I would meet before the quarterfinals was Mark Philippoussis, whom I handled in straight sets. That put me into the quarterfinals against Alex Corretja, who was known primarily as a clay-court grinder, but who also put up some good results on hard courts. I expected a tough match.
There was very little backstory going into the match. Most people, at least in the States, figured I was a shoo-in to beat Corretja. But at the quarterfinal stage, I always worried about anyone I played, and I took nothing for granted. The one thing that may have helped shape the day was the fact that I went out there low on fuel. I remember that I ate lunch in the players’ lounge, but then the match before mine went unexpectedly long. It was just about 4 P.M. by the time I got on court. I should have snacked more—consumed a cookie, a banana, a hunk of bread—before taking the court.
It was a pretty warm day, but nothing like the real corkers you sometimes get at the Open. I was sweating a lot, though, and Alex was bringing plenty of game. He drew me into a baseline battle and made me work very hard. Alex was using the most basic strategy a grinder can bring to the fast-court game. He was just kicking in his first serve to my backhand to keep me from taking control of the point with an aggressive return.
When he did that, I was less likely to smoke the return, and he could immediately run around his backhand and engage me in a forehand (his) to backhand (mine) rally, keeping me pinned to the baseline. If I went bold and tried to go down the line with a big backhand to his open, forehand court (remember, he was standing way over on the backhand side), he could run over there and smack a winner crosscourt with his best shot. If I attacked, he would have a good look at a passing shot.
A grinder like Corret
ja really knows how to suck you into his game plan. That was something Paul took pains to stress: “This is what these guys like to do, this is what they love—it’s their only chance to beat guys like you or Becker or Edberg, and that’s why you have to disrupt that strategy. You have to chip and charge, or go for that big backhand down the line. You have to keep them out of their comfort zone, because if you don’t, they will keep you out of yours.”
But I was being stubborn against Corretja, ignoring Paul’s sound advice. I was playing into Alex’s hands and I knew it, but I was holding my own, and I was determined to beat the guy at his own game. For a long time, I was content to rally and wait for my opening to hit the big forehand. I built a lead of two sets to one, but early in the fourth set I was starting to feel uncomfortable. I didn’t like the way the points were going—Alex wasn’t backing off at all. I was having to work really hard to get to the net to finish points. As I tired, a little bit of panic started to creep in.
Alex had imposed a template on the game, and it was making me uneasy; I was stupid to have played along for such a long time. I was a bit mesmerized. I knew I should change something, but by then I was fatigued, feeling pressured and stressed, and unsure how to get out of the rhythm I had established. And when your mind fails, all you have to fall back on is your will and character.
Midway through the fourth set, I started losing my legs. They were heavy, with little of the usual spring left in them. When that happens, your game inevitably declines. You no longer get up as high when you serve, and you don’t get that explosive first step to the ball. You don’t move corner to corner effectively, or change direction that well. And when an opponent sees that, he uses it as emotional fuel, even if he’s also tired. This was shaping up as one of those matches that I would have to find some way to save—whatever it took.