by John McEnroe
After the practice session, when I went back to shower and get changed, the guard on the door barred me from going in. “A security threat, Mr. McEnroe,” I was told. You’ve gotta be kidding! I’ve had my issues with the people who run Wimbledon over the years, but I’d never been called that before. (I could see why they were jumpier than usual as this was the first Wimbledon after the 7/7 London bombings, but come on! This was me… if it was Jimmy Connors, I could understand.) I was due on camera shortly to commentate on the first semi, and as I was still sweating profusely after playing Rafa, the “on camera” wasn’t shaping up too well, even if I managed to reclaim my suit. “Look, those are my clothes there, I can see them,” I said, pointing through the open door. Eventually, after a bit of persuasion, I was allowed in, but that’s Wimbledon for you. Rules are rules. You won here three times, you say? I don’t care. You could still be a terrorist.
Truth be told, I didn’t mind looking like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News on camera because I’d just hit with Rafael Nadal. My bigger worry was whether my practice with him had given him enough of a workout before his semi. I sat through the first match, a one-sided win by Federer, hoping that Rafa didn’t have a bad start, because then it would feel like, “Jesus, why did I ever play with him? What was I thinking?” Then he won the first set 6–1 and I relaxed.
Clearly, I hadn’t affected his chances. Nor in the final. Which turned out to be the best tennis match I had ever witnessed. When it finally ended, after nearly five hours and three rain delays, it was almost dark. With all the lights on around Centre Court, the atmosphere was electric as Rafa finally broke through to win the fifth set 9–7. Some people were ready to say it was a changing of the guard, and were already writing Roger off. I never believed that. For me, it was more a case of this guy Nadal being even better than any of us had thought. He proved that he was Roger’s equal, he won the gold at the Olympics in Beijing later that summer, and he showed everyone that he could basically win on any surface. As for Roger, he went on to win the US Open a couple of months later and, at the time of this writing, he’s just won his eighteenth major. Need I say more? So much for being written off in 2008!
Watching that final from the NBC commentary booth, I was in a situation where the less said in the fifth set, the better. I learned some time ago that less is often more behind the microphone, which is one reason I prefer not having three commentators in the booth, because it makes it more likely there’ll be someone who doesn’t know when to shut up. When the match is that good, you let it speak for itself. You don’t have to blab on, because it’s not about you, it’s about the players—their heart and will, and the absolute intensity of this one-on-one encounter.
It was also getting dark out there toward the end—the third time they came off for rain at 2–2 in the fifth, it was already almost 8 p.m. This was crazy, everyone was thinking, are they even going to finish or are we all coming back tomorrow? Incidentally, this was the last Wimbledon before the roof was installed, so that situation will never occur again. That’s good, if you ask me, but in this particular case it would’ve been bad, because the gathering gloom added to the unbelievable atmosphere, something that only occurs at Wimbledon. For those of us calling the match, it felt like a privilege to be witnessing such a titanic battle.
I had to go speak to the two players for NBC as they came off, straight after Sue Barker had done her on-court interview with them. I couldn’t help but start by thanking Roger for allowing us to be part of an amazing spectacle. I immediately saw that he was really emotional. His eyes were glistening. “It’s tough, it’s tough… it hurts,” was all this normally highly articulate player could say, before stopping abruptly. I’d heard the unmistakable tremble in his voice. I’d also seen that Rafa was lurking, in camera shot, just behind, waiting for his turn. Class act that he is, he soon ducked out of view, aware of the emotions of the moment. I had to improvise, because there was nothing I could ask at a time like this without spoiling the mood, plus I understood what Roger must have been going through, so I went on: “I know you’re feeling so much emotion right now, but come on, give me a hug.” It happened totally spontaneously, but at that point, as I hugged Roger, I could feel the tears were about to start flowing. Somehow—God knows how—he’d avoided crying on court with Sue, so I wound things up there and then: “Thank you, man, thank you, thank you so much, OK?,” I said, as Roger exited out of shot giving a brave thumbs-up. I too was emotional and almost lost for words. How would I have handled that losing finalist’s interview if I’d had to do one when I was in the same situation twenty-eight years earlier?
It’s weird how often in sports everything seems to come together at the right time, those kind of neat coincidences and circular connections that would seem phony if you saw them in a movie. In that 2008 final, Roger was aiming to break Björn Borg’s record five straight wins—and we’ll never know how Björn felt about that because he never had to find out. Back in 1980, when Björn himself achieved that incredible record fifth win by beating yours truly, well, not to toot my own horn too much, but that final wasn’t a bad match either.
That day, Saturday, July 5 (finals were still played on a Saturday back then), I’d blasted out of the starting blocks and wrapped up the first set 6–1, but I’d then lost sets two and three without really playing any worse. I’d just tightened up very slightly toward the end of the second because I’d felt like I was going to win that one too. Subconsciously, maybe I wasn’t ready for the final to be that easy for me. Or maybe Björn had upped his own intensity level. In any event, he served for the match at 5–4 in the fourth. But by the time I broke him and forced a tie-break, I could tell the crowd was clamoring for a fifth set. I don’t know whether they wanted me to win the whole thing or not—I don’t think they knew at that stage. They just wanted the match to go on. That can happen in tennis: a crowd can turn and switch their support from one player to the other—and even back again—within a couple of games. It’s scary, and it can make for some intense scenes, but crowd support can definitely be a factor in the outcome of a tennis match, and in this case the packed Centre Court was cheering for me.
The fourth set tie-break is the number one thing people remember and talk about from that final—and my career as a whole, for that matter—especially the fact that it went to 34 crazy points, including me saving 5 match points. Even at the time, I had a sort of out-of-body awareness that this was something special, that this was no ordinary moment in a match. There was this incredible mix of the crowd’s increasing hysteria as break points and set points came and went on alternate points, followed by the extreme quiet that came down when we were about to serve. Then there was a collective holding of breath before a huge explosion of noise at the end of each point, as the crowd’s tension was released. However much I was focused on winning each point, I could feel and hear the silence as much as the noise coming from the crowd.
When I won that fourth set tie-break after being down two sets to one, the momentum was back with me. So much so that a lot of people who talk to me about that match nowadays have the mistaken idea that I ended up winning it, which is funny in some ways. When I edged the tie-break 18–16, I too thought, “OK, that’s it now, he’s going to be totally destroyed at losing that set after all those match points, and I’m now going to win the match. Surely it’s mine for the taking.”
But I had no idea how strong Björn was, both mentally and physically. That’s when I finally understood that he wasn’t the same as the rest of us. This is a guy who says he’s “never been tired” in a tennis match—and I believe him. We were on serve throughout the set and the whole time I could see no sign at all that he was fading in any way. How was that even possible? “You’ve won this four times already,” I kept thinking. “Come on, isn’t enough enough?” Seeing him so resolute and unflappable just drained me—mentally and physically—until finally I got broken and lost 8–6. Game, set and match to Borg.
12
“John
McEnroe—bridging the worlds of art collecting and yelling”
Steve Martin in 30 Rock
In October of 2008 I shot an episode of the hit NBC show 30 Rock. Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin played producers on this big late-night comedy show that was based very loosely on Saturday Night Live, which Tina had previously worked on. I’d gotten to know Tina through a mutual friend—appropriately enough, SNL creator Lorne Michaels—and although I wouldn’t say I knew her well, I did end up doing four episodes of the show, all of which I enjoyed. But this one was potentially lining up to be the most fun because Steve Martin was due to appear. I’ve known Steve for some years. As well as being a great comedian, writer and actor, and playing a mean banjo (damn, he’s so multi-talented it makes me sick!) he’s also a passionate and serious art collector, so it’s that love of art which we have most in common whenever we meet. We’ve spent a fair amount of time together over the years, much of it spent in long discussions about which artists we’re following and what he or I might have bought recently. Steve’s got some incredible art—a Bacon, a great Edward Hopper, among many others. He’s so smart.
I usually choose film or TV projects on the basis of whether I think they’re going to be fun, not necessarily for career-advancing purposes, so I was never going to say no to this particular opportunity. I mean, doing a scene with Steve Martin, as well as Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin? Unbelievable.
On the day of the shoot, I got up early, drove an hour north to Upstate New York, and got to the house where they were filming. The routine was the same as usual: hurry up and wait. All day. I must have been there for six, seven hours—hanging around, waiting to do my one scene with Steve Martin, Tina and Alec.
The character Steve plays in that episode is an agoraphobic. Being afraid to leave his house means he has to have people come to him, so he’s invited some interesting people over for a dinner party, including, he tells them—introducing me to the other guests—“John McEnroe—bridging the worlds of art collecting and yelling.”
When the time finally arrived for us to shoot our big scene, Steve came up to me—“John, take care, gotta go.” “Oh… really?” I was so taken aback and deflated, though I hope I didn’t make it that obvious. “Yeah, had a long day.” And off he went. Well, that sucked. But hey, the show must go on. Then Alec Baldwin came up to me. “Great to see you, John, but I gotta go.” “Oh… really?” “Yeah, I have an early call-time tomorrow.” And off he went too. That really sucked.
Still, at least Tina stayed. She probably felt so guilty or embarrassed that she had to. Or maybe not. In any case, I basically did the whole scene—and my usual four lines or so—with a couple of cardboard cut-outs as stand-ins for Steve and Alec. If it wasn’t so sad it would be funny. I’d been so psyched up about doing this thing with Steve that I was pretty bummed, but I’d learned another lesson about this acting thing: it really is all about make-believe. On the upside, I won an Emmy for that performance… and if you believe that, I’ll tell you another one.
Very different from tennis, you might think. Or maybe not. Newport, Rhode Island was the scene of a less stellar performance of mine a short time later. I was playing the first round-robin match in one of Jim Courier’s seniors tournaments when I came up against MaliVai Washington, a former Wimbledon finalist back in 1996. I don’t know why, but it seemed like we weren’t on the same page from the start of the match. Everything I said or did seemed to annoy him. If I said “shit,” he’d complain to the umpire. I felt like saying “Hey, sorry, that’s part of the act. I actually get away with this now.” Maybe MaliVai didn’t like being the Washington Generals to my Harlem Globetrotters routine, but that wasn’t my problem.
For some reason, on this one occasion, MaliVai was having none of it. Apparently, my behavior was outrageous and unprecedented—or so he kept telling the umpire. And the more he did that, the more I acted up—or down—to what he was saying. The more I wanted him to chill, the more agitated I got. I was stalling, cursing, the whole lot.
After winning the first set easily, I was 4–2 down in the second with Washington serving at ad-in. I was getting more and more irritable about the score, plus his complaining to the umpire, and on the next point I got seriously pissed about a bad line call. Suddenly, in the space of a couple of minutes, I got a warning, a point deducted, then a game. That gave the second set to my opponent. “What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed at the umpire. “You can’t do this!” Next thing I knew—when I’d reacted to someone throwing insults out from the crowd—the umpire announced, “Game, set and match Washington.” Defaulted. Just like that.
“Holy shit, one of the tournament’s main draws is now out! What do we do?” Luckily for Jim and the other tournament organizers, there was no rule to say that if you’re defaulted in a round-robin match you couldn’t compete in the other group matches, so they let me stay on—no surprises there. Hell, it was their rules in the first place! I thought it would be cool to be the first guy to get defaulted in a seniors tournament (and this was the first time that had ever happened on that circuit) but to go on and win it all the same. Unfortunately, Pat Cash had to ruin the party by beating me in the semi-final.
Some people may find this hard to believe, but I only got defaulted once on the main tour, too (though I think I’m still the only player ever to be thrown out of a Grand Slam). I got tossed out of the 1990 Australian Open during my fourth-round match against Mikael Pernfors for various “audible obscenities,” as the ATP politely put it. The case for the defense on this occasion (this testimony may also be of interest to the prosecution) was that I hadn’t realized that the rule for defaulting a player had been changed not long before from four steps to three. In short, I’d miscalculated. I thought the fact that I was on my third penalty warning only meant losing a game (the first two steps being the verbal warning and the penalty point deduction). I’d figured I could afford to make the sacrifice at that stage of the match and then I wouldn’t let things get any crazier. Instead, the umpire simply defaulted me because—unbeknownst to me—the game deduction stage had been eliminated.
What does that tell you about my outbursts? It screams, loud and clear (almost as loudly and clearly as I did), that as a general rule I knew how far I could push that envelope. First, because I knew the tournament directors never had the nerve to default one of their star players. They weren’t stupid. Second, because I wasn’t stupid either. I wanted to win, and if I totally lost control, I knew it would be tough to recover.
In my early career, my problems with tennis officials were almost always to do with how bad I felt their decisions were. I’d always been brought up to tell the truth, so when a mistake affected me, I was going to say what I wanted to say, because why the hell should I let it go? The judging standards in those days was often pathetically low. These people—who were all amateurs—made horrible mistakes. But that’s only human—anyone can do that. The worst part of it was the way they looked at anyone who dared to challenge them as if they were total lowlifes, almost smirking in their superiority. That was what drove me nuts—“Admit you’re wrong, man!” That was the loudest and most oft-repeated mantra of the voice in my head. But they never did that.
When I was young, I was lucky to have the ability to keep my concentration on court the whole time, even though it sometimes looked like I’d lost it because I was going crazy over some line call or other. The funny thing was—although I don’t think I realized this back then—losing my cool initially helped me stay focused. As I got older, and life off the court started getting more complicated, that’s when I began to find it harder to keep my mind on the match I was playing.
As a way of combatting this, I would sometimes try things—in a completely calculated way—to mix the game up and make it more interesting for me. If I was 40–0 up and pretty much knew I was going to win the game anyway, I’d try to hit a second serve ace, just to keep my opponent off balance. Or when I was 0–40 down I might go for broke more than I would otherwise, to see
what happened.
It didn’t mean I wasn’t trying. Quite the reverse—it meant I was doing everything in my power to win. Sometimes, if I was 40–0 up, I’d also use that as an opportunity to wear the other guy down mentally and physically by extending a point on purpose, rather than ending it. I’d try to get it to a twenty-shot rally so that he’d be expending some energy, then he’d be breathing hard on the next point which, if I’d won the rally, would be the first of his service game. So he’d be at a disadvantage. Tennis is like a game of chess—a mind-game—and all these “games” were a way for me to avoid running on autopilot, to keep myself stimulated and engaged by throwing in something unusual.
Am I the first player in the history of the game to do this? No. In a long five-setter or three-setter, nobody is on fire the whole way through—although Rafael Nadal or Maria Sharapova give a pretty good impression of players whose intensity levels never drop below the maximum on the dial setting. This might bring a smile to the faces of Henri Leconte or Mansour Bahrami, but one of the reasons I never wanted to bring any humor to my matches on the main tour—and, don’t laugh, but actually my first instinct would often have been to say something funny in response to some line call or situation on court—was because I never wanted to risk losing that intensity, that edge, which I needed in order to stay competitive. Maybe that’s why I’ve sometimes gotten annoyed with the players that do clown around.
The most obvious way for me to keep engaged were the run-ins I had with tennis officials around the world. But as I got older, life problems started to get in the way of the tennis. I admit it, that’s when I sometimes started to lose control of what I said or did, but by then I was too big a draw for anyone to really call me out on it. A few fines, a few penalty points, a few suspensions—on my terms, not theirs—but that was it. Until that day in Australia. Should the authorities have done more? Probably. But if I wasn’t willing to take responsibility for my increasingly wayward actions, why should I expect anyone else to do that for me?