by John McEnroe
That caught me up short. He was right. So I agreed to take my dad off my mother’s hands for a while. Unfortunately, I tore my hamstring badly the week before in a match against Michael Chang in Toronto. It was the most painful injury I’d ever had, and it took me months and months before I was fully back to normal. So in Knokke-Heist, because playing was out of the question, I spent the week limping around, doing the promotional stuff.
Soon after we arrived, I had to do a press conference to talk about the tournament and the charity it was supporting, linked to a children’s hospital. To be honest, it was a typical, uninspiring press conference, but there was still a lot of media there. We were just winding it up when the organizers asked for one final question.
Suddenly, my dad, who’d been sitting at the back of the room, stood up and said, “I don’t have a question but I have a comment.” “Well, go ahead,” I said, sarcastically, with a “be my guest” sweep of the hand. All the cameras swiveled around to my dad. “I’ve never said this to John before,” he began ominously. I froze. I had no idea what he was going to come out with, but I knew from past experience that it could be just about anything. Hell, he might even break into song. “I think it’s probably well known by everybody in this room that my son, John McEnroe, was born in Wiesbaden, Germany, in February 1959, when I was stationed there for my military service. But I’m here to tell you what you don’t know: which is that John’s mother, Kay, and I came here to Brussels in 1958 to see the World’s Fair. We had a great time. Beer, chocolates, lots of fun. And well, John McEnroe might have been born in Wiesbaden… But he was made in Brussels!” News to me too, folks, John McEnroe is part Belgian!
Everyone thought that was really funny—or at least they laughed, which is not necessarily the same thing—while I sat there as embarrassed as a teenager whose parents have suddenly started making out in front of them. “It’s going to be a long four days,” I thought.
That’s the thing, though. You hate yourself for feeling embarrassed or angry at having to take time out of your busy schedule to attend to your parents (“Hey, how about remembering that that’s what they did for you when the tables were turned and you were young?” you tell yourself, feeling like an ungrateful jerk).
I’m very aware that most people my age have lost one, if not both their parents. So I am grateful for the fact that both of mine were around for so long, even though we didn’t see each other as much as we should have.
Oh, and by the way, my dad somehow managed to have a great time in Knokke, despite his son’s presence.
17
“You remember, we met once?”
Olga Korbut
Andy Murray’s decision to appoint my old friend Ivan Lendl to be his coach was not one of my favorite surprises of 2012. At first I was thinking, “Ah, no way, he hired Lendl. It’s not going to work.” Then I realized, “Oh my God, it is going to work.” That was even worse.
Andy had tried Brad Gilbert a few years before and that hadn’t worked out. I wonder why! One time when Marat Safin was struggling for one reason or another, Gilbert was all over him, trying to coach him—understandably, because Safin is really talented—but I remember Marat saying to me, “I’d rather be one hundred in the world on my own than number one in the world with Gilbert!” That was exactly how I felt, too.
Brad was no different when he was still playing, in fact he was pretty much the most annoying opponent known to man (and part of me says that as a compliment). When I lost to him at the Masters in January 1986—the one time out of the fourteen times we played that he ever beat me—I was so disgusted with myself that I stopped playing for six months. What Gilbert lacked in talent (“And he lacked a lot in natural ability,” Andy Roddick said a few years back), he made up for with his unbelievable tenacity. “Winning Ugly,” Brad called it, and he later wrote a bestselling book with that title. But Brad became an undeniably great coach. He got Andre Agassi back up to number one in the world and was in Roddick’s corner when he won the US Open. So credit to the guy, he knows what he’s talking about.
In fact, you can certainly say that about him, because he’s known as a world-class talker. And coming from me, that’s saying something. If there’s ever a silence, he’ll fill it and then never stop—I swear he talks in his sleep—which may be why he’s never been hired by the BBC. He is one of ESPN’s regulars, though, and a colleague of mine now that I work for them too. ESPN is the biggest sports broadcaster in the world, so I figure that if they didn’t like what Brad was doing, they’d have told him. He knows the game inside out, so he brings something to the party, but he’s got all these nicknames for the players which, to me, are unnecessary and distracting. Del Potro, for example, is “Delpo.” Djokovic is “The Joker,” Milos Raonic is “The Missile,” and on, and on and on. Please, Brad, don’t you think they’d like to be called by their real names once in a while? And why not try shutting up every now and again, so we can ride this gravy train together in peace for another ten years.
Andy Murray is always complaining about one thing or another on the court, but he doesn’t say too much the rest of the time, so he could’ve just been driven totally nuts by Brad’s constant chatter. Or maybe Brad was telling him stuff he didn’t want to hear? Whatever the reason, after a period of not having a coach at all, Murray appointed Lendl and, although I hate to say it, Ivan made a big difference to him. The biggest change was that he got Andy believing in himself more. He’d lost his first three Grand Slam finals and I’m guessing the thought of losing a fourth straight one was pretty unappealing. In fact, only Lendl would have known how that felt because he had been the only previous player to have lost his first four Slam finals (before beating guess who to finally nail down his first Grand Slam win in 1984).
Lendl is astute, so he would also have brought a few technical things into the mix. “Be more aggressive on the return,” “Try to take the court over,” and of course “Beef up that second serve.” I think Lendl also got Murray to take his fitness to a higher level. But the mental side was probably the key, and by the time Murray got to the Wimbledon final—the first British player to do that since Bunny Austin, who lost to the American Don Budge in 1938—he was as ready as he’d ever been to carry the weight of an entire nation’s expectation. No pressure, Andy.
Trouble was, he had Roger Federer on the other side of the net. And Roger was aiming to equal Pete Sampras’s record of seven Wimbledon wins and to reclaim the world number one spot. What did he care about the British people’s feelings?
I have to admit that there was a part of me that was pulling for Andy in that match, because of the absolute magnitude of what he was trying to achieve. I had to feel for the guy. Plus, as ever, I like the spoils to be divided up a bit.
Murray got a great start, won the first set and was playing with real positivity—something Lendl must have worked on with him—but if your name’s Roger Federer, you’re going to fight back, which is exactly what he did by winning the second set. Then the players had to go off to the locker room early in set three because of rain, and once they came back on, as so often when a match restarts, there was a definite shift in momentum. The added element was that the roof was now on. I was calling the match for ESPN and I remember watching Roger’s now perfect timing, and experiencing this faint tingle of jealousy that a Wimbledon final was being played indoors. It had always been my dream to have a Grand slam played indoors because you would get this pristine spectacle—tennis in its purest form, free from any interference from the elements. Roger was now getting that opportunity. He’s always so aesthetically beautiful in the way he plays that he makes his opponents look clumsy, no matter who they are, and there was an inevitability about the result once that roof went on.
By winning his seventh Wimbledon that day, Roger equaled Pete Sampras’s record number of wins there. He’d also now won seventeen Grand Slam titles, three more than Pete, who was at that stage number two on the all-time list. That’s an insane amount of titles. But he s
till shed some tears when he realized his name was going on the trophy again. God knows, Roger has cried more than any other top player, but they are genuine tears. No faking emotions there, it really means that much to him. I never cried when I won. I cried on other occasions on court—under a towel, no one ever saw me—when my first marriage was breaking up, when the outside stresses of life were taking over my mind and affecting my tennis so much I could hardly play, but I never cried from relief at winning. I guess that’s one more reason why Roger is so special: after all these years, he’s still insatiably hungry for more titles.
As for Andy Murray, he didn’t win that day in 2012, but he did something that was perhaps even more appreciated by the British public: he cried, too. God knows the British love an underdog, but one who shows a human side when they lose with grace? Perfect.
Sue Barker had to do the usual post-match on-court interview with Andy, which is never easy when you’re facing the losing finalist. I’ve been on both sides of the microphone for that one, and let me tell you, it sucks, whether you’re asking or answering those questions. Sue is a real professional, she’s a natural in front of the camera, she’s funny, she’s got empathy, and she’s done an impressive job over the years. But this time around, she only needed to stand there because Andy did this incredibly emotional speech, most of it in tears, while the public suddenly discovered he was human after all. Crying that day was possibly the single best thing he’s ever done for his image—and I’m including all the big titles he then went on to win. Maybe I should’ve taken the towel off my head once or twice so people could see I had a heart, too.
Losing that final definitely helped Murray win the Olympic gold medal a month later back in London. One of the great things about the tennis event was that it was played at Wimbledon, but the players weren’t wearing white, and the vibe was totally different. The crowd wasn’t the usual bunch who go and have their Pimm’s or strawberries and cream, then watch a bit of tennis. In fact, I swear I didn’t see a single blazer during the whole tournament. Instead, there seemed to be a whole lot of people who never normally go to Wimbledon because they can’t get tickets. These people were there to support their players from whatever country they hailed from. So as well as the Brits, there were people from all over the world, with their flags, rooting for their players, and the place felt energized but relaxed and welcoming.
In the final—in which he basically killed Federer—Murray saw how much of a difference it can make to have the crowd on your side; plus, the power of those tears was still there. I think Federer was miffed not to have the majority of the crowd pulling for him; he’s so used to everyone loving him, it was a weird experience for him. It’s the Olympics and it’s in London, Roger, come on!
I was working for NBC but I was also hired by the BBC to appear on their late-night show with Gabby Logan, along with various other guests. Michael Johnson was another regular, and one evening we had Olga Korbut on the show, the tiny Russian gymnast some of us are old enough to remember winning her gold medals back in 1972. When a former athlete is on, you assume they’ve kept up with their sport and can comment on it. But shortly before we went live on-air, Olga announced, “Don’t ask me about gymnasts, I don’t know anybody!” Excuse me, isn’t that what you’re here for?
Gabby’s opening question was: “So, Olga, do you think it’s a golden age in gymnastics now?” “Ah, no, this era is going down,” Olga replied dismissively, in her broken English. “We need to find a new Olga to change to grace and more beautiful gymnastics, more passion, more smiles, more enjoy.”
Are you kidding me? I swear to God, it was as if I was on there saying, “These guys, Federer, Nadal, they suck compared to me.” She then turned to me and, without missing a beat, totally changed the subject. Like, end of discussion. “You remember, we met once?” “Yes, but only briefly, at an airport,” I felt like saying. Talk about going off script. But Olga just went off on a tangent, and it all became this crazy evening. It’s a sign of how good Gabby Logan is at her job that somehow she kept it all together. Afterward, though, as we were leaving the studio, even Michael Johnson, who is normally a pretty reserved guy, mouthed to her, “Well done!” We both had a good laugh about it both during and after the show, but only because we hadn’t been the ones in Gabby’s shoes!
My main job with NBC was to cover the tennis, but also to supposedly be a roving reporter. What happened in the end was that I did quite a lot of sitting around and not too much roving, which was frustrating for me because I like to be kept busy. I’d filmed a few pieces with various athletes before the Olympics, but during the actual events, although I did a couple of segments with the snowboarder Shaun White, and a fun Downton Abbey piece with one of the actors who plays a butler, I felt under-utilized. “You’re doing fine,” my producer Jackie Smith told me. Really? I’d been offered slots at previous Olympic Games but it never seemed worth doing. Like weightlifting at the 2004 Athens Olympics. Oh yeah, I know a lot about that. Or hockey, but not at the games, just hanging around interviewing people at a bar nearby. The London Olympics seemed a lot more appealing, because I love London—that was why I agreed to come over. But for most of the time, although it was a great experience being there, I was thinking, “Do they even need me?”
One day, Jackie had this idea that I should interview Usain Bolt. “Are you sure?” At last, an assignment I could get my teeth into! His people said yes, Bolt had won the 100 and 200 meters by then, he only had the relay to go, and I was told that he’d do an exclusive interview with me on the practice field. That in itself was interesting to me because, while I was waiting for Bolt to show, I was watching the dynamic of all these athletes warming up together, what they do, how it all works. Eventually the man himself arrived, all 6’5” of incredible muscle and speed. To give him his due, he was a cool guy, and respectful in the way he answered all my questions, even though they were somewhat lame, but he said all the right things and was extremely nice. There’d been a lot of waiting around to get the interview, and the whole segment got cut down to a few minutes on air, but it was sure fun to spend some time with the greatest track athlete in history.
That year’s US Open final a month or so later brought Andy Murray up against Novak Djokovic. How many more times could Andy lose a Slam final? He was now equal with his coach in having lost his first four finals and I’m pretty sure he didn’t want to become a record-breaker and be the only guy to lose five. I’d read somewhere that when Ivan had come in, he brought a sense of humor to Andy’s life and that they had a lot of laughs. My God, can you imagine, Andy and Ivan having a blast? Maybe they laughed about all those losses.
The final was played in extremely difficult conditions because it was super windy. All week they’d had terrible weather, but Arthur Ashe Stadium is windier than any other stadium I know of so it’s tough for the players to play their best (though they finally put a roof on in 2016, so that should make things easier). Mentally, they’ve got to be very focused, and it’s almost impossible to do that straight through a long match, which explains why, at two sets to love up, Murray let Djokovic back in, and soon, they were tied at two sets all and going into the fifth with the momentum seemingly in Novak’s favor.
At that stage, it reminded me a little of my own 1980 final at Flushing Meadows when I’d been two sets up to Borg, had blown the next two, and it was like, “Oh no, I’ve just lost Wimbledon to him, am I seriously about to lose this one too?” That was definitely a potential outcome because, at the time, my fitness levels when I got into a fifth set could be a factor. I was pretty fit, but not as fit as Björn. For Murray, I thought the deciding edge would go to Djokovic, even though both guys were super-fit.
Here’s where winning the Olympics helped Murray (OK, perhaps Ivan helped a little, too). Finally, he now had absolute belief in himself. Plus, Novak faltered, just like Björn had with me. Maybe in both cases, it had taken them so much to get themselves back into the match that they relaxed that tiny bit and expecte
d the other guy to fall apart. But here’s the thing: neither I nor Murray did. In my case, losing another match I should have won was not an option. No way. In Murray’s case, I’m guessing he felt the same, because he went off for a bathroom break before the start of the fifth and apparently gave himself a lecture in front of the mirror while washing his hands. He came back out, took charge and showed that he wanted it more than Djokovic. As so often in sports, that margin between winning and being runner-up is tiny. Yet the consequences can be huge.
Winning that title was a major breakthrough for Murray, no doubt about it, and I was intrigued to know how much Ivan Lendl had contributed to it. Afterward, on the rare occasions that we’d see each other, I’d pepper Ivan with Murray questions, and from his replies I could tell he was on to everything, no stone was left unturned. He’d say stuff like, “There’s no reason why he can’t win eight majors.” That’s a good thing to have in your corner, someone with so much confidence, and Ivan helped Murray with that. Plus, they were a very similar age when they each won their first title, so Lendl could say to him, “Look, it took me five attempts, but I did it.”
Their styles weren’t dissimilar either, though by nature Murray is more of a “wait-and-see” player—a counter-puncher, like Mats Wilander was in my day—where Lendl was somewhere in between. His approach was more offensive—he realized he didn’t have to serve-volley, he could attack from the baseline, which is why he tried from the start to get Murray to play more like that too. Basically, there was a symmetry to their paths, Lendl had the credibility, and the timing was right; not only for Murray but for Lendl too. It was pure serendipity.
Ex-champions who come out of retirement to help current players have to feel they’ve got some connection beyond having some advice to contribute. That was obviously the case between Stefan Edberg and Federer when they worked together, and between Boris Becker and Novak Djokovic. I think it’s good that we’re now seeing some of these ex-players coming back, making that 5 percent difference. I respect Ivan for what he accomplished on the court, and I now accept that we made each other better players. So for him to come back into tennis, after he’d been out of the game for a long time, and achieve what he did with Murray, I’ve got to hand it to him. Truth be told, Ivan did a great job. Watching Murray win three majors with him, having won none without, made me wonder if I might ever take on some sort of similar advisory/coaching role? It would obviously depend on the player, and it wasn’t something that was at the forefront of my mind, but it could be something that would potentially be interesting, if the fit was right.