by Pete Sampras
Andre probably felt deflated momentarily; the situation was like our last Wimbledon final all over again. And I knew, at an instinctive level, that this was my moment. I had spent an entire career honing the ability to recognize and exploit moments like these, when for an instant my opponent’s attention or resolve flickered. I was ready. Suddenly, I was in touch with my long-lost friend, the Gift. And it felt great. I broke Andre.
Minutes earlier, I had been in desperate straits, filled with foreboding as a fifth set loomed in the gathering twilight. Now, improbably but most definitely, I was serving for the match. I knew what to do next. I ended it swiftly, with a sequence of points that ended with an ace followed by a backhand volley winner.
I dropped the racket and slowly raised my arms. It was over, over and done, over and done for good. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was my last U.S. Open title as well as my last match as a pro. My last match with Andre, as well as my last Grand Slam appearance. It was my last moment in a special sun that was fading as fast as the one that descended into the haze of a late-summer afternoon in New York.
I had been given a rare opportunity to go out on my own terms. I took it.
As I threw my arms in the air after winning what would be my last Grand Slam, I let out a primal simple scream that nobody seemingly heard or noticed. I hollered, “I f***ing did it!”
The match had proven to be the final and most daunting hurdle of my career. I’d experienced two years of adversity with people breathing down my neck. And I’d found one last ticket to that place where I was completely focused and sufficiently confident to get the job done. When it was over, I felt great. The first person I looked to was my wife, Bridgette, up in the player guest box. I had to get up there; she’d been such a critical part of my final push. I wanted to share the moment with her, and I also wanted the world to see me doing it.
I felt great. This was vindication, pure and simple. Weeks later, the late publisher of Tennis Week, Gene Scott, would write: “It just goes to show that at the end of the day, we didn’t know who Pete Sampras was.” Gene later told me that he meant that as a reference to the depth of my competitive character. I was very proud when I read those words.
I felt great. I had beaten my greatest rival on one of the biggest stages in tennis to win the title I would come to cherish most. As it turned out, Andre would have a little more fuel in his tank than I did, but he’d bought himself a few extra years by relaxing and taking a few breaks from the game in his prime. Andre would play deep into 2006, but my candle burned out quicker.
After that last major final, Andre and I agreed to stay in contact—just in life. We agreed that it would be a shame, after all we’d been through together, to lose touch. Besides, we had a lot of things in common, including two kids each. We’d been players since the age of seven. We had a lot of history, a lot of life—a certain kind of life—in common.
My sister Stella and her husband were at the 2002 Open, and they joined our small core group, along with my trainer, Brett “Moose” Stevens, in a small victory celebration back at our hotel. We ordered a big room-service meal and drank champagne, and I felt great. That same night, Bridgette and I flew back to Los Angeles.
For the next two months, I woke up every day with a smile on my face. In just three months, I had gone from absolute misery—despite all that I had to feel great about—to absolute contentment. This was some example of closure, although I didn’t think of it that way at the time. In fact, in the following weeks, I idly wondered what was next for me. I never thought I was done as a player. I felt I was still in great shape. I had no doubts about contending. I didn’t feel like I was burned out. But as the weeks passed, I discovered I had no desire to play, and pulled out of all the fall tournaments on my schedule.
By the time the Christmas holidays rolled around, I was getting used to hearing the happy squeals of our infant son Christian. Paul Annacone, who was still my coach, made sure I got out to hit a few balls every few days, but soon it was time to think seriously about getting in shape for the Australian Open. I realized I wasn’t motivated to do that, and I pulled out of that, too.
I made no decision or announcement about my future; I wanted to be sure that when I was done, I was done for good with no second thoughts. Two weeks before the 2003 Wimbledon, Paul and I started to practice. I thought maybe I would play it again. But after a few days of hitting, I knew I was finished. I had no urge to compete at Wimbledon, or even to go and see the old place that had been so good to me. I had no fuel left in the tank, and it seemed like the work couldn’t be worth the potential reward. I knew it was time to call it a career.
Guys retire for different reasons. Sometimes their bodies don’t hold up. Sometimes the game passes them by and forces them out. Sometimes they’re just mentally fried and tired of the grind. Sometimes family figures into it. For me, it was none of the above. My game was still there. My wife was so supportive that if I’d laced up and run out a week after winning that last major, she would have been 100 percent supportive. She even said to me, “I hope you don’t feel like you have to quit now that you’ve got a wife and family.”
It may sound odd, coming from a guy who was often said to lack emotion, but my decision to quit was an emotional one. The love of the battle was gone from my heart.
The USTA had been in close contact with Paul, and after I pulled out of Wimbledon, they asked him if I planned to play the U.S. Open. If not, they said they’d like to give me a retirement ceremony. It seemed like the right time and place. I’d be able to take my family and say good-bye to tennis on my home soil, in front of some of my greatest fans, in a dignified and appropriate way.
So Bridgette and our families traveled to New York in August and booked into the Plaza. The magnitude of the occasion didn’t really hit me until we went out to the National Tennis Center on the day of the ceremony—opening day of the U.S. Open. When I got there, it really hit me at gut level. I saw Arthur Ashe Stadium again, and I saw all the guys, practicing and milling around. I thought, Wow, I’m really into this, just being here and having a chance to go out this way is a great honor. . . . It really is over.
I became emotional during the ceremony that evening, but I didn’t want to lose it so I kept my comments brief and low-key. I was touched and honored to see so many of my rivals present—Boris Becker had flown in from Germany just for the ceremony. It was like I was staring my entire career right in the face. The words Jim Courier, Boris, Andre, and others said felt really good. Andre was there, even though he had other things on his mind—like winning another U.S. Open title. I understood that—boy, did I ever. I really appreciated Andre’s taking part.
All of the emotions of the previous twelve months hit me then. I was happy that I planned only a short speech because I also wanted to enjoy and savor the sights and sounds, almost like a spectator would. The more I drank in the atmosphere, the more convinced I was that I’d done the right thing. At moments I also felt a twinge of sadness, knowing that it really was over.
The next day, former president Bill Clinton called me, and I did one last round of media appearances on talk shows and such. Then we returned to Los Angeles. I didn’t return to New York again until July of 2007, after my induction into the International Tennis Hall of Fame.
I still play and watch tennis. I’m partial to Roger Federer, although I respect the grit and courage of Rafael Nadal, too. I miss Wimbledon, but I knew I would. In 2007, officials of the club contacted me and asked if I wanted a wild card into the tournament. I politely declined. I felt I could still win matches there, but I didn’t like the idea of going out to play guys I’d never even seen play before.
Late in 2007, I played a three-city exhibition tour with Roger Federer, who had closed to within two Grand Slam titles of my fourteen. Much to the surprise of pretty much everyone, I actually won the third match of the series. I enjoyed the occasion; it was a great chance for both of us to strut our stuff and give fans a glimpse of how we might have ma
tched up. And I had a great time sitting around comparing notes and talking tennis with Roger. If I have a legacy, I hope it’s that of a guy who gave his all to the game and fought with a champion’s heart, a player who represented solid, enduring values, and demonstrated a great respect for the history and traditions of the game. It’s nice to see that the mind-set didn’t fade away with me; Roger has clearly taken up the torch.
I miss the majors—ten years from now I’ll still miss them. I have so many great memories to draw on, and can still recall what it felt like to be playing matches at Wimbledon. In fact, I can easily conjure up the physical sensation of walking out onto Centre Court to play a final. I can sit here and think about it, resurrect all the emotions, sights, and sounds, and can actually get nervous all over again.
But don’t worry, I can handle it. I always handled nervous pretty well.
Over the years, I had to answer the call against a staggering array of rivals—dangerous players who were capable of giving me fits and worse. Some of their names might surprise you. And some of them may not have been given their due, or their full measure of credit, elsewhere in this book. There were also some impact players in my era who just didn’t figure heavily into my career high—or low—points. I’m including them as well, to try to give you an all-around sense of how I felt about most of the important players of my time. They’re listed alphabetically by name, and I’m adding my head-to-head record against each man, along with my comments.
BORIS BECKER (12–7) . . . Like Goran Ivanisevic, Boris could go toe-to-toe with me on grass or fast surfaces because of his big serve. But overall, I felt I did everything just a smidgen better than Boris did. It was that simple. I didn’t have any secret or special tactics. I knew we would go out and trade thunderbolts, and the player who was serving better, feeling the ball better, and playing with more confidence probably would win.
Two of Boris’s biggest assets were his personality and his ego. He was a hugely charismatic guy, and he also walked with a swagger, especially at Wimbledon. He was such an icon in his own time that journeymen were intimidated by his very presence. But there was no intimidation and certainly no animosity or mind games when we played. We respected each other, and that showed in the spirit and tone of our matches. Our rivalry was always about good, power-based attacking tennis—and little else.
SERGI BRUGUERA (2–3) . . . He’s one of the few guys I played more than once or twice who finished with a positive head-to-head against me. He once beat me on hard courts, I once beat him on clay. People tended to deride and dismiss Bruguera as a clay-court grinder, but he was better than that. He posed special problems that lifted him a healthy notch above the other baseliners. Sergi played from way back, which made him vulnerable to attack, but the guy moved like a deer. He was one of the best movers ever, and he could get to anything and take a good whack at it with a heavy, topspin forehand.
MICHAEL CHANG (12–8) . . . When we were juniors, Michael was the gold standard, and he really punished me when I abandoned the two-handed backhand. So I developed a mental block against Michael that lasted for quite a while. But also, right through my early years as a pro, I could be a little inconsistent, and that was the one unforgivable sin when you played Michael.
In those early years, Michael often made me hit that one extra ball that teased out an error, but over time, I became more consistent and I developed more power. Michael then became a kind of litmus test for me. If I was playing well, I could control and overpower him.
I beat Michael in one match that was absolutely huge—for him. That was the 1996 U.S. Open final. He was in the running for the number one ranking and it was his best chance to win a second major, thereby shedding the one-slam wonder label that some people applied to him. That label was unfair, of course, because of Michael’s great consistency. He was always in the mix at the top of the game, where a true one-slam wonder tends to pop up out of nowhere—and go back there after making his stunning statement.
JIM COURIER (16–4) . . . Jim was an interesting case because there were definitely strategic, tactical things I did to offset the threat represented by his big forehand and huge fighting spirit. Jim was a great player, and our lopsided head-to-head is a tribute to some tactical things I was able to figure out and use to great advantage.
The big thing for me with Jim was getting my backhand to his backhand in rallies. If I wasn’t really hitting my backhand well, he could push me back and I would end up fending off balls, hitting them up the middle where he could spank them with his forehand. When Jim got you into that bind, he was deadly tough. But that was the only way I felt he could hurt me.
What I really liked to do with Jim was hit my second serve out wide to his forehand—that’s right, his fearsome forehand. You could accomplish two things by serving to Jim’s forehand—force him out of his comfort zone, and get him off balance so that you could exploit that backhand. With Jim, like Andre, you had to keep that ball out of the middle of the court, from where he could dictate with his forehand.
Returning is different from rallying, and Jim didn’t like to hit that forehand return because he had less time to wind up and tag it like he could in a rally. This was such a gem of strategy that when Jose Higueras agreed to work with me near the end of my career, he confessed that I had been the first player to recognize and exploit that weakness in Jim’s game.
There was another reason to play Jim’s forehand more often than was advisable—his backhand, while vulnerable, became pretty good if you kept going to it and he got in a groove. Stefan Edberg learned that in their matches, although it was also true that Edberg didn’t serve big enough to hurt Jim.
Jim was toughest on clay, and his two French Open titles attest to it. But he wasn’t a great mover. He made up for it by playing from inside the court (unlike, say, a Bruguera, who ran swiftly, east to west, behind the baseline) and making the most of his power.
The main challenge against Jim on clay was making the big shot that could turn the tables in a rally. On hard courts, you can go from defense to offense with one good shot. On clay, you need a few shots to do that, and that makes it tougher. On hard courts, I could have a backhand-to-backhand rally with Jim and turn it around with one swing; on clay I couldn’t do that, so he had the upper hand. Jim’s inside-out forehand was awesome, and he was always looking to set it up with that big serve.
STEFAN EDBERG (8–6) . . . I really enjoyed playing Stefan; we had a similar sensibility, in that we always wanted to attack, especially behind our serve. The key to playing Stefan tough was getting a hold of his serve. If I could dial in and hit my returns so that he had tough first volleys, I was okay. It was critical to keep the backhand return down low off his serve. That was tough for one-handed-backhand players like me, because you had to get over the kicker to do that, and if you didn’t pull it off, he was all over the floater or above-the-net return. His volley was instruction-video grade, silky and biting at the same time.
In his prime, Edberg had a great serve—a big kicker that gave him plenty of time to get to the net, and once he was there it was tough to get the ball past him. He was always trying to rush you. The most deadly thing you can do to a guy is take away his time—make him rush or feel like you’re swarming all over him. Stefan was very good at that. His volley was superb, especially on the backhand side, and he was a tough guy to lob.
Stefan had a strange forehand that he hit with an odd shoveling motion. He didn’t have a lot of power on the forehand side, but he managed to keep the ball deep. He never developed the wrist action to get a lot of snap on the ball, but the funny thing is that the forehand was ten times better than it looked, and a lot of guys went down thinking they could attack that forehand and win.
By contrast, Stefan’s backhand was a work of art—smooth, solid, and versatile. There were times when Stefan actually ran around his forehand to hit a backhand. One of Stefan’s great assets was his self-knowledge. He knew what he could and couldn’t do, and as he got older he evo
lved into a very strong competitor. He knew that to beat me, he had to get to the net. To that end, he tried everything, including the chip-and-charge. He did that selectively, to keep me off balance. He would do it for a few points, than abandon the strategy for a few games, then come back to it. At times, it was very effective.
Over the years, I also came to feel that if I stayed with him, I could slowly overpower him—in the end, he was more of a finesse guy than a power guy.
WAYNE FERREIRA (7–6) . . . Now there’s a surprise for you, right? I’m not even sure why Ferreira gave me problems. He certainly never worried me the way some guys did. He moved well, returned well, and had a fine serve and a huge forehand, but most of all he came into matches with me with a really positive outlook.
The real question was why Ferreira could play me so tough but look so fragile, mentally, and falter against so many other, weaker, guys. But that’s one for him to answer. One thing was for sure—there was no pressure when he played me. It was all gravy for him. I apparently motivated him and made him a real warrior, mentally. He beat me on a few occasions when I was really playing well, and all I could do was shrug and say, “That’s Ferreira for you.”
LLEYTON HEWITT (4–5) . . . He loved players who served and volleyed and tried to pressure him, so I played right into his hands—as he demonstrated in that U.S. Open final of 2001. Lleyton was one of the few guys who really could resist the onslaught of a high-quality attacker. It was very tough to get the ball by him, or to ace him. He was quicker than Andre, and therefore passed a little better. Lleyton relied on foot speed and quickness to outmaneuver opponents, and he was young enough to run and concentrate all day if need be. He was a lot like Michael Chang, right down to the way he loved having a target—a guy at the net, forcing him to select a specific shot and placement.