by Pete Sampras
Sometimes when the court was brown and hard, the ball would skid or leap the way it might on a fast hard court. But even then, if the ball hit certain areas of the court, I found I had a better look. This is a pretty good example of the way court speed is a more complex, tricky issue than it may appear. Our generalizations about “slow” and “fast” are influenced by other factors, including spin and stroking mechanics.
My shots flowed freely in that second set, and I was able to use my entire arsenal. We played highly entertaining tennis, but Andre was unable to get back that early break and I won the set 6–4. The third set was another exhibition of great shotmaking by both of us, with Andre hanging in there all the way. Unfortunately for him, I was as close to unstoppable as I would ever be. I won the third set with commanding tennis 7–5.
The fact that I’d tied Emerson’s record didn’t mean all that much to me in that moment. There had been so much talk and speculation about the issue by then that I felt tapped out. To me, it was just another feature of the match, like how many aces I’d hit, or how the result affected my career head-to-head record with Andre. But I did take pride in producing tennis that was as close to perfect as I felt I could get.
By this stage in my career, I’d even come to enjoy the once-dreaded Champions Ball that takes place on the night of the men’s final (both singles champions are expected to attend, although the days when they shared the first dance are long gone). At first, the ball seemed a real drag—the last thing I wanted to do after the stress and effort of winning Wimbledon was to get dressed up in a tuxedo and hobnob with elderly British gents and ladies who belonged to the All England Club. Also, giving a speech of any kind had been a daunting challenge for me ever since I was a kid, and the champions were expected to speak. I never had any idea what to say, and I worried that I had to come up with something special instead of just speaking from the heart.
But over time I came to understand that going to the Champions Ball was part of the whole package; it was a sign of respect for the tournament, as well as those who put it on. Over time, I became friendly with John Curry (the former head of the AEC) and his wife, as well as some of the other club members. Sometimes I’d have a glass of champagne or a glass of wine, and one time I smoked a cigar with John. Eventually, I came to enjoy the ball, and attending was a way that I could express my gratitude toward the club. Besides, I was a disciplined, clean-living athlete. It wasn’t like I was dying to rush out of Centre Court after the final to hit the London clubs.
One thing about the Champions Ball that always struck me as funny was that after the speeches, various dignitaries (like the heads of various affiliates of the International Tennis Federation) invariably got to ask for pictures or autographs. This was kind of weird; here were all of these bigwigs, some of them twice my age, and most of them very successful in their own right, acting more like star-struck kids than adults. One year, I had the pleasure of meeting the iconic actor Charlton Heston, who was a member of the AEC. I was genuinely touched when he praised my attitude and style of play with strong, heartfelt words. Some others were just blowing smoke and mostly wanted a picture with me so they could hang it on the office wall. I didn’t mind. It’s part of a champion’s job.
After I beat Andre in 1999, I spoke to the crowd at the Champions Ball from my heart, and for once it was an easy speech to deliver. I basically said that the match I’d played was less of a tribute to me than to Wimbledon, and the kind of tennis the place could inspire me to play.
The match with Andre also completed my 180-degree swing in the public eye. I had morphed from boring, bullying pariah into the best thing to hit grass-court tennis in twenty years. Yet I knew it was all because Andre had pulled it together and played up to his potential in making the final. After a few years of overpowering performances, I was able to show that I wasn’t just overpowering; I could beat a baseliner of the highest order, using tools other than my big serve.
I don’t want this to sound bitter, because I don’t feel bitter at all. What I am, really, is bemused. The bottom line on my “image” at Wimbledon is that I really didn’t change that much over the years, and neither did my game. The thing that changed was my opponents (and the games they played), and the perception of me and my game. The lesson in all of this is hard and it isn’t pretty, and I’m not sure how you teach it to your kids, or how I’ll teach it to mine. But if you win enough, people are going to come around.
That’s the one thing everyone ultimately understands and respects: winning.
Fueled by my dream Wimbledon, I was looking to break the Grand Slam singles title record at home, at the U.S. Open. I was probably at the absolute height of my tennis powers, and secretly felt that my game had quietly jumped a notch in the mid-1990s. My second serve, in particular, had improved, and I felt I could hold my own from the baseline with anyone long enough to strike with my forehand and attack.
I tore it up on the early hard-court circuit after Wimbledon, winning two events. Then, in Indianapolis, I suffered a minor leg injury in a quarterfinal match with Vince Spadea. I didn’t want to jeopardize my chances at the U.S. Open, so I retired when we were even at a set apiece.
That was all right. My hard-court game was dialed in, so I had no plans to play any more tune-up events before the Open. On the Friday before it started, I went out to practice at Louis Armstrong Stadium with Gustavo Kuerten. I hit a serve, stretched to hit a backhand off the return, and felt a twinge in my back. I shook it off and tried to play on.
But the twinge became a sharp pain, and after a few more points it was agonizing. I left the court and went straight to a doctor. Over the next two days, I tried the usual anti-inflammatory injections and remedies, but they didn’t really help. The doctor said I should get an MRI, and it revealed a herniated disk.
I was floored. I felt confident that I would win the U.S. Open. I was on the cusp of breaking the Grand Slam singles title record. And I might have added a seventh year to my streak of finishes at number one—this time, without having to undertake another fall death march in Europe. All of it was now going up in smoke. I was looking at being off the tour for months, with the kind of injury that had permanently laid low many great players, from the Aussie icon Lew Hoad to that smooth Slovakian former U.S. Open finalist Miloslav “Big Cat” Mecir.
I felt like I’d been blindsided, because I’d rarely missed a major. I could hardly believe my bad luck. Thankfully, Paul Annacone had a long history of back trouble, and he walked me through what I might expect.
Dealing with injury is one of the toughest things for a professional athlete accustomed to the roar and din of the arena and the adrenaline rush of competition. It’s a very depressing experience, and it takes all your willpower and faith not to sink into a bad place, mentally and even physically. I left New York and went back to Los Angeles, looking at a few months of therapy and, basically, laying around on the couch, alone.
My condition was so bad that at first I could barely walk; I was literally house-bound. And when all you’re supposed to do all day is lay around watching TV or reading, it’s pretty easy to let yourself go. The fridge, full of ice cream and pop, is nearby, and so is the telephone, the instrument that was invented so people could order pizza with ten toppings. I vowed not to slack off, though, and immediately started to take treatment that was heavy on icing and electrostimulation twice a day. That was followed by a regimen of exercises and therapy meant to strengthen my back muscles. It was tedious, painful, hard work. It was also a real wake-up call, telling me to take greater care of my body. I worked and worked, fighting off depression, mostly in the silence of my empty home.
But there was a bright spot to that otherwise terrible late summer—my injury was indirectly responsible for my wife and me meeting. While I was hurt, I was watching this movie, Love Stinks, with a friend, John Black. Bridgette Wilson, an actress in the film, caught my eye. Actually, she blew me away when I saw her. I thought she was stunning. John is a pretty well-connected gu
y, so I told him, kind of sarcastically, that if he really wanted to impress me with how much pull he had around Hollywood, he would have to get me a date with that Wilson girl.
A few days later, John called and told me it was a done deal—he had gotten Bridgette’s number from her publicist, whom he knew. “Sure,” I said, wary that this was going to be some kind of prank. I called Bridgette a few days later. She was very shy on the phone. I asked her out, and she suggested meeting at my place. I guess she wanted to check me out and not give away too much about herself.
Our first meeting was almost painful, it was so awkward. We were both tongue-tied, and we barely made eye contact. It was comical, or at least it would have been to anyone who wasn’t either of us. Very soon after she arrived, she asked to use the bathroom, and as soon as she left the room, this is exactly what I thought: Wow, she’s really beautiful. If she can put two words together, I want to marry her.
When she returned, I quickly realized that in order to make things less awkward we ought to go out. I suggested dinner at an Italian restaurant. The change of scenery—and getting onto neutral turf in a public place—helped. Gradually, we loosened up and had a wonderful dinner. Back at home after our first date, I was smitten—I knew she was the one. We started going out. I went from being down in the dumps about my injury to feeling great about pretty much everything, including my tennis future.
After a long, slow recovery, I found myself still eligible for the year-end ATP World Championships; I had clinched one of the eight highly coveted spots by August. I had just one match going into the year-end championships, a 7–6 in the third win over Francisco Clavet at the Paris Indoors—a result that wasn’t exactly promising. In fact, I had to pull out of my next match (against Tommy Haas) in Paris because of back spasms—a minor problem that was linked to my long layoff.
I came within a few points of bombing out of the ATP Championships, because my first opponent in the round-robin was Andre, and he beat me like a drum (6–2, 6–2). Nicolas Lapentti took me to two tiebreakers in my next match, but I toughed out both of them to stay alive in the round-robin. I notched a win over Gustavo Kuerten in my final round-robin match, and that qualified me for the knockout semifinals. After beating Nicolas Kiefer in my first match, I faced Andre—less than a week after he had tagged me two and two. I surprised him, winning in straight sets.
Despite my win in Hanover, Andre finished 1999 at number one, ending my record run. It was a well-earned coup. Andre had come back from the dead that year, careerwise, to win the French Open. He also bagged the U.S. Open while I lay on my sofa in L.A. nursing my sore back. We didn’t really know it, but we were entering the last and greatest stage of our rivalry.
Andre certified that early in 2000, when he knocked me out in the semifinals of the Australian Open. Although I cared about each and every major, the loss didn’t hurt that much. The truth is, I was starting to save myself and choose my spots like never before. A host of talented young players, including Pat Rafter, Lleyton Hewitt, Roger Federer, Carlos Moya, and Marat Safin were starting to develop dangerous games, and those new guys would be giving fits to old dogs like me, Andre, Boris, Goran, Jim, and Michael Chang. I still had majors in me, of that I had no doubt. Emerson’s record was still unfinished business. But I was on the downhill side of my career, and I knew it.
I won Miami again in 2000, but it was my only title before the spring clay-court circuit. In Paris, Mark Philippoussis took me out in the first round, 8–6 in the fifth; I had not survived the second round at Roland Garros since 1997. Those good years, when I would battle guys like Sergi Bruguera and Jim Courier straight up, in tough, hard-fought matches, were a thing of the past.
My Wimbledon campaign in 2000 got off on the wrong foot. Somehow, while preparing for the tournament, I pulled something in my shin and developed a little inflammation and fluid under my skin. Also, Paul had picked up some new running shoes for me, and working out in them may have aggravated the condition. It was annoying, but seemingly nothing major—until I played and won my second round against Karol Kucera. In that match, I felt pain every time I put weight on my right foot. That night I had an MRI and the bad news was that I was having a fluid buildup in the irritated area.
I made a reference to the injury in the presser after the Kucera match, and the media were all over it. I felt enough pain and discomfort to consider pulling out of the tournament; it would have been crazy to jeopardize my longevity in a desperate attempt to break Emerson’s record. On the other hand, memories of my enforced fall hiatus and the frustrations I experienced in Australia and France had me keyed up and unwilling to withdraw. I talked to former Wimbledon champ Pat Cash, and he recommended an acupuncturist he used. I also decided that if necessary, I would get shot up with cortisone, too. The drug knocks out inflammation and soreness, but it’s also dangerous to use with any frequency or in large doses.
After my second-round match, I no longer practiced on the alternate off days for the rest of the tournament. I paid frequent visits to the acupuncturist, even though I didn’t notice much of a change after the sessions, and I had myself shot up before matches. At times I still considered pulling out, but when I looked at the draw, I liked what I saw. It just kept opening up for me.
Ultimately, my path to the final went through Justin Gimelstob (third round), Jonas Bjorkman, Jan-Michael Gambill, and Vladimir Voltchkov (one of the all-time Wimbledon surprise semifinalists). It appeared easy, but the journey was full of pain and stress. I went out for every match without having hit a ball in practice (other than in the match warm-up). That made me uneasy. The constant pain was wearing on me; pain has a way of breaking down your focus and confidence. It can put you out of sorts and pretty soon your game is all over the place.
Pat Rafter emerged as my opponent for the final. A late starter as a Grand Slam contender, Rafter was at the peak of his career, and his relentless attacking style was especially dangerous at Wimbledon. Pat had won two U.S. Open titles by then, and he had done a brief stint at number one. He reached the ultimate plateau in the summer of 1999, almost a year to the day before we met in the 2000 Wimbledon final.
Rafter was a popular, classy guy, although he was one of the very few rivals with whom I had—for a time—a testy relationship. It all started back in 1998 when Rafter beat me 6–4 in the third in the final at Cincinnati. In the press conference, someone asked me what the difference was between Pete Sampras and Pat Rafter, and I said, “Ten Grand Slam titles.” It was the wrong thing to say. I just got kind of uncharacteristically emotional there, following a tough loss. He took offense and I don’t blame him.
Rafter also tagged me in the semifinals of the U.S. Open, just weeks after that Cincinnati incident; I guess my snide put-down had him all fired up. Then, when he became number one, he made some remarks to the effect that it was great for tennis that I was no longer number one. Of course, the press were all over that, and they wanted my reaction. I took the high road, and just said that if Pat had an issue with me, he could talk to me face-to-face. The next day Pat called and apologized. He admitted he was being a little vindictive, and I told him that my own remarks in Cincinnati the previous year had been arrogant and ill conceived.
We got along fine after that, although his game continued to give me fits. Pat was extremely crafty, and he could put a lot of pressure on me with his relentless, kamikaze-like net rushing. I had a lot of trouble with Pat’s serve; it wasn’t the pace or weight of his shots, and it wasn’t the speed, because he hit the kicker (a relatively slow serve) almost all the time. It was the way he mixed up his serves, moved them around, and kept me guessing. He was an absolute master of picking his service locations. He’d kick one out wide, then the next one would be into the body. I’m glad he wasn’t a lefty, able to kick it high to my backhand in the ad court. My life would really have been miserable then.
My folks had flown to London the day before the final to attend one of my Grand Slam matches for just the second time. The first time
was for my 1992 U.S. Open with Stefan Edberg, so I can’t exactly say this was a good omen. Throughout my career, they had chosen to remain in the background, partly because the hoopla surrounding a big tournament didn’t suit them. I know they were very wary about being identified for the television audience. They felt that tennis was my deal, they were shy people, and they didn’t want to appear to be basking in my glory.
But this particular tournament was different; they wanted to be present for me, and to share in my potentially historic feat. I asked my parents what I could do for them in London, and they said they just wanted to talk to me to wish me luck before the match and wanted to stay off the television. I told them I could handle the first task, but I had no control over the second. We did find them seats in the crowd, but the NBC cameramen searched and found them in the stands anyway. So I ended up 1–1 on the wishes.
Pat had played a great semifinal to beat Andre, and he came into the championship match riding an emotional high. We both played well at the start, thrusting and parrying for about forty-five minutes, to 4–all and then 5–all before the rains came. The rain delay had special significance for me, because it meant that the cortisone shot would be wearing off earlier in the match than usual. At this point, I was so close to winning the event that I was willing to toss caution to the wind and get another injection to get me through the final. But the doctor was pretty adamant about not doing that; he said we had touched it enough already. So after the delay I went back out, feeling considerably more uncomfortable than when we had stopped.