A Champion’s Mind

by Pete Sampras

  Lleyton was tough, too—street-fighter tough. But I never had trouble with that. Psychologically, this is a pretty rough game, and Lleyton’s intensity rubbed a lot of guys the wrong way. He was always yelling, “Come awwwwwn!” I didn’t mind that—it was his own energy he was wasting. For a period I felt that Lleyton might really dominate. His game translated well from surface to surface, and the guys had a hard time figuring out a strategy against him. He won the U.S. Open and followed it up with a win at Wimbledon, but then a few things happened.

  For one, Roger Federer improved, and he figured Lleyton out cold. The game in general also improved while Lleyton was at the top. Guys were playing with a little more power, partly thanks to advances in racket technology, but fewer of them were playing into Hewitt’s hands. Lleyton liked having a target, but in his era guys stopped coming to the net. Hewitt was a victim of his time.

  As Lleyton became more and more vulnerable, he was having to work harder and harder to win matches. When you play with a grinder’s mentality like Lleyton did, you rely a lot on mental intensity. But no matter how tough you are, it’s hard to keep up that hardworking, patient style, week in, week out. Eventually it catches up with you and you get a little burned out. Then the vultures gather.

  GORAN IVANISEVIC (12–6) . . . Goran’s greatest asset was that huge lefty serve. It was just too damned good most of the time, especially on grass. It wasn’t even a matter of that heavy slice a lefty can produce. Goran hit his serve with a fast, almost rushed action, and the result was a quick, heavy ball that stayed low.

  Goran was smart—he knew that he wasn’t going to win many baseline rallies, or even volley his way to titles the way Stefan Edberg could. He designed his entire game plan around that serve, and he designed it to win Wimbledon—the tournament where my own game worked best. Goran’s second delivery was big, but I always felt I could find it, get some stick on it. That was partly because I wasn’t that worried about Goran’s second shot. I could play my return a little safer and still think I had a chance, which wasn’t the case with a Rafter or an Edberg.

  YEVGENY KAFELNIKOV (11–2) . . . I loved playing Yevgeny—except for that match in 1996 in Paris, where he beat me in the semifinals at Roland Garros. It may stand as the most damaging if not the most painful loss of my career. Yevgeny had nothing to hurt me with, although he rode herd on guys who were at all uncertain or intimidated by him. That ugly forehand was better than it looked, and his backhand was smooth.

  PETR KORDA (12–5) . . . Korda was a little like Ferreira, except even more flashy and unpredictable. When he was off his game, he could lose to anybody. But he seemed to feel less pressure against top guys than his peers. It was like he had nothing to lose against players like me. He just swung from the heels, and if he was making his shots, you were in trouble,

  RICHARD KRAJICEK (4–6) . . . I never really liked big servers, the guys who could do to me what I routinely did to them. Returning serve and hitting passing shots were not my strengths. I was okay with them, but having to do that over and over took me out of my comfort zone. Krajicek could really put the pressure on; if he had his serve going, he was very tough to break, and that put more pressure on my service games. Richard was inconsistent, mentally, on a week-in, week-out basis, but somehow he seemed pretty pulled together against me most of the time. He blew hot and cold, but against me it was always hot.

  GUSTAVO KUERTEN (2–1) . . . Kuerten came out of Brazil, a nation with a very weak pro tennis tradition, and rocketed all the way to the top. He was a nice guy, and like most players with exceptional talent, he had his window. It opened for Gustavo in 2000, when he ended up going into the ATP Championships with a chance to fight his way to the prized year-end number one ranking.

  “Guga” had to beat me in that event, and then take down Andre Agassi in the final in order to clinch the number one position. It was spelled out in black and white. He did it, and on a fast indoor court, where he had undistinguished results for most of his career. It’s one of the all-time great efforts, in a situation that couldn’t have contained more pressure.

  Kuerten won at just one Grand Slam location, Roland Garros. But he won there three times to stake a legitimate claim as one of the Open era’s finest clay-courters. He was a great athlete, with a pretty big first serve and a great forehand. But Kuerten had two big disadvantages on fast surfaces—his long backswing and how far back he liked to play. I always had good luck with guys who stayed well back of the baseline, even great shotmakers and counterpunchers like Kuerten. I had plenty of time to play my shots, and I could attack at leisure. I always felt I could attack and pressure Guga, especially on the backhand side, hence my positive head-to-head record with him.

  I always liked Kuerten’s attitude. He was easygoing and always seemed to be in a good mood, with a big smile on his face. His career was prematurely cut short by a serious hip injury.

  IVAN LENDL (5–3) . . . It’s not really accurate to call Ivan a rival, because he was on his way out of the game when I was on my way in. But I got to know him pretty well, and I consider him one of the greatest—and most underrated—players of all time.

  The first few times I played Ivan I was overwhelmed by his sledgehammer game. He made me feel rushed, and at that early stage in my career I could be pushed back and kind of outmuscled by him. His forehand was huge and so was his serve. He hit with either slice or topspin on the backhand side. But by the time I played him in the U.S. Open in 1990, I was pretty strong myself, and felt I could handle his pace. He was still better in the backcourt, but even there he didn’t have that big an edge. I felt I had a shot if I served well and found a way to squeeze out a break.

  TODD MARTIN (18–4) . . . My pal Todd was one of those interesting guys who was tall (six-six) and had a big serve and good volley—all the makings of a great grass-court game. But grass also exposed his biggest physical drawback—he didn’t move that well. Todd did well on hard courts and even clay because he had that extra second or two to get into position, and when he had that extra time to set himself up for the shot he wanted to hit, he was deadly. He hit an extremely clean, fairly flat ball.

  Todd was also a very smart tennis player who knew his own possibilities and limitations. The rest of us were lucky that Todd was a little injury-prone, because that might’ve been the main reason he never won a Grand Slam title. He came awfully close a few times. He had one heartbreaking collapse, against Mal Washington in the 1994 Wimbledon semifinals. He could have used a little more confidence, but he had enough game to win a major. It just never quite worked out.

  Todd was a gentleman, too, a straight-and-narrow guy with very high moral standards complimented by a wicked, dry sense of humor. He was a good friend, and one of my favorite Davis Cup partners. It was always a pleasure to play Todd—except for the fact that he gave me trouble. Todd was able to kick that second serve high enough to my backhand to make me uncomfortable.

  Despite his size, Todd didn’t really have a big weapon. His first serve was fine, but his second serve, while pretty big, wasn’t huge. His forehand wasn’t quite powerful enough to compensate for his relative lack of mobility. The backhand was solid. Like Michael Chang, Todd was a good barometer for me; when I beat Todd in straight sets, I knew I was playing well.

  TOMAS MUSTER (9–2) . . . This blond Austrian was a real workhorse, and you had to respect him for the way he came back from one of the most devastating injuries that ever befell a tennis player: In Miami in 1989, a courtesy car backed into him and all but crippled him for life. It was amazing that he was able to come back and become the number one player in the world, even though he held that ranking only briefly.

  Muster was a model clay-court grinder with a big, one-handed topspin backhand and an effective forehand. He didn’t do much on faster surfaces, though. I always felt there was a little gamesmanship involved when Tomas played. One year in Cincinnati, he would exhale forcefully and audibly right before I hit my serve. The sound distracted me—it was like a loco
motive letting off steam. He would do that every time, right before I struck the ball.

  The mannerism eventually got under my skin. On a changeover, I asked the chair umpire if he could hear Tomas blowing—because it was loud enough for the chair to hear. I said it loud enough for Tomas to hear me, too, and he must have, because that was the end of it. He didn’t do it anymore.

  MARK PHILIPPOUSSIS (7–3) . . . Mark may be the most talented player of my time not to have won a major. He struggled with injuries; he blew his knee out one year against me at Wimbledon, after playing like a house on fire to win the first set. He beat me at the French Open and the Australian Open. Mark was a little bit in that Boris Becker mold. He had a massive game; his first and second serves were huge, his forehand was a big weapon, and he could really crank the backhand, too. He was also very comfortable attacking the net; that made him a really versatile, all-surface threat. But I didn’t think he was a great mover; that was his biggest weakness. Still, he should’ve won Wimbledon. Coulda, woulda, shoulda . . .

  Mark’s problem appeared to be that deep down, he just didn’t seem to want greatness badly enough. One year when he was rehabbing a knee with my trainer, Moose Stevens, Moose tried to set it up so that Mark and I could work out in L. A. But all Mark wanted to do was surf. Wavering dedication was a main theme in Mark’s career. He liked his fast-lane, casual lifestyle and he seemed to enjoy his playboy reputation. He was even featured in a dating reality show. Fair enough, it was his life, after all. But it was a shame to see that big, big game go unfulfilled. Maybe he just never grew up; or when he did, it was too late.

  PATRICK RAFTER (12–4) . . . Pat was a great volleyer who took me out of my comfort zone and forced me to hit too many passing shots and thread-the-needle service returns. In terms of hard-charging opponents, I preferred to play Stefan Edberg, even though Edberg won more Grand Slam titles and had a better record. With Edberg, you knew where the serve was going and you knew he was coming to the net. You knew what you had to do, and if you didn’t execute it well enough, you lost. End of story.

  With Pat it was different; he mixed it up a lot more, especially with his serve. He kept you on edge, made you get into guessing games. The serve to the body is one of the most neglected shots in tennis; everybody, including me, likes to smoke aces or unreturnables to the corners. But the kick serve to the body is a great tool, and Pat was a master at it. The way to beat Pat was to make him play. He liked set pieces—kicker to the backhand, first volley crosscourt, second volley (or overhead) for the winner. If you could disrupt the pattern and find a way to make him play points, you could get on top of him.

  Pat won the U.S. Open twice, and in one stretch at Wimbledon he made the semis followed by two straight finals (he lost to me in one, then became the foil for Goran Ivanisevic’s long-delayed triumph at Wimbledon). Pat retired—prematurely, many thought—shortly after that loss to Goran. But Pat was like one of those NFL running backs who averages six or seven yards per carry for five or six years and suddenly falls off the radar, averaging one and a half for the next few years. That happens because those backs just get beat up and softened up; they lose a little something. That’s what I think happened to Pat.

  Pat had to work very hard to win his matches, for reasons having to do with his style and technique. Many of the things I said about Lleyton Hewitt apply to Rafter as well, although they had very different styles and did their grinding in dramatically different ways. Rafter was a serve-and-volley daredevil, a great mover and athlete always flying around the court, lunging, spearing volleys, making those joint-bruising changes of direction. It’s just awfully difficult to work that hard for four or five years and keep coming back for more.

  Pat won matches by attacking the net and then, when receiving, scraping by from the backcourt, always looking for a way to get to the net. He hit his kicker with a lot of effort, kind of contorted. It wasn’t as limber and easy a delivery as Edberg’s. He worked very hard to hold, because even though he loved to rush the net, he didn’t have a huge serve—hence the reliance on the kicker (or American twist). Unlike other successful attackers, Pat couldn’t pop the aces and service winners to make his life easier. Pat fought and struggled for everything he got.

  MARCELO RIOS (2–0) . . . Rios was an odd one, a surly, strange sort of guy who had a lot of talent but seemed a misfit and an outsider on the tour. It’s hard to enjoy life and survive on the tour that way. Rios moved in an easy, natural way, with a terrific two-handed backhand and great shotmaking ability. He was like a left-handed Andre Agassi. He was a great striker of the ball and could take it early, but he didn’t serve as big as Andre and his game lacked the heft that made you feel like you were really in trouble. I always felt like Rios had nothing that could hurt me.

  Still, Rios was very creative and “handsy”—he could change direction and pace on his shots with ease, and he just had a nice feel for the ball, and the game in general. Some people touted Rios as the Second Coming, but I never saw that. He was extremely talented, but that took you only so far. Rios held the number one ranking briefly, although he never won a major. He made my life truly miserable in 1998 when I was trying to lock up that record sixth-straight year-end-number-one ranking.

  MARAT SAFIN (3–4) . . . Marat played a great match against me in the U.S. Open final of 2000 to put up one of the most impressive Grand Slam wins in ages. Marat is a big, powerful guy who moves awfully well for a man of his size. His forehand is huge and his backhand is heavy and solid. He can volley, and probably should attack more than he does on fast surfaces. When he’s on, he’s just fierce; for a while, he was the only guy who could give Roger Federer a run for his money—and he could do it on most surfaces. But Marat has always blown hot and cold; he has the whole package except for the mental part.

  There’s a bit of Goran in Marat, both in his personality and in his big, go-for-broke game. He just never liked grinding, although sometimes you need to grind if you’re going to win a lot of matches. Marat opened a huge window for himself when he made that statement by beating me in the 2000 U.S. Open, but he jumped right out of the window and didn’t win another major until the Australian Open in 2005. For a guy with his talent, it was too long a time between big wins.

  MICHAEL STICH (4–5) . . . Out of all the guys who were real or potential rivals, Stich was the one who scared me the most—just look at his superior head-to-head record. I didn’t play Stich a lot—he didn’t seem to enjoy life at the top, so he left the game at a relatively young age. But if he had played a little longer, and wanted it as badly as I did, he would have been extremely tough.

  Stich had a huge first serve and a big second serve that he could come in behind confidently, because he was a gifted volleyer. He moved very well and could do it all—stay back, chip and charge, serve and volley. He really had an all-court game and, among all the guys I played, the best combination of power, movement, and mental strength. Unfortunately for Stich, Germany was in love with his contemporary, Boris Becker. The rivalry between them was bitter and intense.

  I always measured guys by the quality of their second serve, and that was the big difference between Stich and the other guys who could hurt me. He had a really easy, natural service motion, and while the Beckers and Krajiceks and Ivanisevics had days when their second serve was deadly, Stich was the one who seemed able to do it most consistently. It’s a pity he quit the game so soon, although it made me breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  That about does it, although you may be wondering whose strokes I would use to create the ultimate tennis player. Let me give it a shot. If you were building a composite player out of the guys who were my main rivals, I’d say you’d take Agassi’s backhand and Ivanisevic’s first serve. Throw in Stich’s second serve, Rafter’s or Edberg’s volley, and Hewitt’s or Chang’s speed. The forehand would be Ferreira’s, Becker’s, or Agassi’s. I’d take Jim Courier’s mentality, although Chang and Edberg (late in his career) were mentally tough as well. For an all-court game,
I like Becker or Stich. I’d go with Agassi’s service return, although I would take a really close look at Hewitt’s and even Chang’s, too.

  I would like to thank my parents, Sam and Georgia, and my siblings, Gus, Stella, and Marion, for their never-ending love and support.

  I would like to thank my coaches Paul Annacone and the late Tim Gullikson for being such instrumental figures in my career—as well as true friends.

  I would like to thank my team during the heart of my career, which included my racket stringer and tuner, Nate Ferguson; my fitness trainer, Pat Etcheberry; my physio, Todd Snyder; and my personal trainer, Brett “Moose” Stevens.

  I’d also like to thank my coauthor, Peter Bodo, for understanding my personality and game and for making the job of “opening up” so much easier for me.

  And finally, to my fans . . . thank you for your continued support throughout my entire career. I have and always will appreciate you!

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