by John McEnroe
Are you happy now?
AFTERWORD
The excitement of helping Milos go almost all the way at Wimbledon in 2016 brought my story full circle. It had been reaching the semi-finals of that tournament thirty-nine years before that changed my life forever. That was where the media, God bless them (and OK, I did give them a little help), built up an image of me which still shadows me every step I take to this day. The Brat became Superbrat, and wherever I went, expectations followed of what I might do or who I might be. I polarized opinion: people loved me or hated me. I’d say the establishment was freaked out by me, where the average sports fan liked what I did and what I stood for, but there were definitely exceptions on both sides.
A lot of people say they used to love me yelling at the chair umpire. It was almost as if I was doing it on their behalf: shouting at authority, fighting back, even representing the subconscious desire we all have to push against those people who make the rules, especially when those rules suck and are totally meaningless. But the level of petulance that might be indulged in a teenage athlete would not be such a good look on a fifty-eight-year-old man, so the big challenge for me in the years since I left the main tour has been managing to reinvent myself without—as they say in England—“throwing the baby out with the bathwater.”
Commentating definitely helped me in terms of public perceptions. Suddenly I was able to show a side of myself where I wasn’t so serious, I wasn’t screaming and, Holy Moses, it turned out I was quite a self-deprecating guy with a sense of humor. When the BBC came calling—and who would ever have thought I’d be hired by them?—even the Brits started seeing that I was reasonably articulate and that I could make the sport more fun and accessible. By then, I’d gone through some very public personal problems, and I think people could relate to the fact that I’d had some hard times. That helped them to see me more as a real person, not that curly-haired loudmouth cartoon character with the red headband.
Don’t laugh, but one area where I’ve definitely changed is on the anger front. Although I wouldn’t yet describe myself as a Zen master (are you crazy?!), the whole “angry man” image is one I’ve come to accept because it pays the bills. Cops, security guards, passport officers—anyone with a bit of authority, in other words—as well as the general public, they all go, before I’ve even said a word to them, “You’re not going to yell at me, are you?” Most people say it in a positive, funny way, but sometimes I think, “Oh my God, is this ever going to stop? Am I going to be a caricature of myself for life?”
I’m afraid I know the answer to that. If a whole day passed when someone didn’t say “You cannot be serious!” to me, that would be amazing. Half an hour going by without it sometimes seems unlikely. My feelings about that are a strange juxtaposition of embarrassment and pride: on the one hand, that this is what I represent to people; on the other, at least I represent something. Ultimately, pride wins out.
Funnily enough, the only time now when I play along somewhat and fake the anger thing is on court. When I was on the tour, every single complaint was totally authentic—or at least that’s what I told myself. Not one part of me was acting up for the crowd; unlike Nastase, for example, who I think sometimes did pull some stuff as part of “the Nasty show,” and his performances suffered as a result. Nowadays, when I question line calls when I’m playing seniors tennis, it can be a bit of a show because, while people are curious as to whether I can still play, they’re definitely more excited by the prospect of me getting mad at the umpire.
I’m very aware of how lucky I’ve been in life. As a player, I came along on the crest of a huge wave in tennis, one with enough power to allow some of us oldies to continue riding it long after we ever thought we would. Then I started commentating at exactly the time when the TV networks were looking for a less formal style, and I fit that bill perfectly, so that was another lucky break. Consequently, I count my blessings very regularly, believe me. I used to be a glass-half-empty person when I was younger, partly because I always felt I could play better and win more (with my mom’s words to my dad ringing in my ears, “If you’d worked harder…”). Now, I’m definitely in the glass-half-full camp. And I’m trying to get it to inch its way up to being a little fuller all the time.
One of the benefits of getting older (and I’m as surprised that there are some benefits as anyone else would be) is that you actually have to face down a lot of the things you thought were demons when you were younger, and then you find out that they’re not so terrifying after all. It’s not so much turning lemons into lemonade as realizing that maybe they weren’t even lemons in the first place, or that they were but you learned to appreciate the bitter taste. Either way, although commentating on a Grand Slam final can’t match the excitement of playing in one, it can still be fun. And helping to coach Milos Raonic has given me a new way to reconcile the individualism of tennis with working alongside other people, which was something I always loved about team sports. It turns out that being a small part of a bigger thing can be almost as satisfying—but perhaps even more enjoyable—than being out there on your own. Definitely so at this stage!
It’s funny that after all these years of chasing other possible identities—as an art dealer, a rock guitarist, a TV talk-show host, even a politician—here I am, back where I started, finding new ways to compete with Ivan Lendl! “John McEnroe, Mr. Tennis.” But if that’s my destiny, then I’m happy with it.
Around Halloween of 2016, my father became very ill and had to go into the hospital in New York. He never came out. Over the next three months or so, I managed to fulfill my commitments while struggling to come to grips with what was seemingly inevitably going to happen. I played my seniors matches, flew to Korea, went to the Australian Open in January, but whatever I did it felt like my heart wasn’t fully in it. Yet at that first Grand Slam tournament of 2017, I was privileged to experience another demonstration of the power great sport can have to elevate you out of your circumstances.
Whatever the odds were at the start of the Australian Open on the first Serena versus Venus final in more than a decade, and Roger Federer playing his first tournament of any kind since Milos had beaten him at Wimbledon, and actually beating Rafa in the final, I guarantee you that no one was taking them. Serena beating Steffi Graf’s record to become the all-time biggest Grand Slam winner in the women’s game and Roger achieving something so spectacular that I don’t think even he would’ve predicted it was a truly historic combination in the open tennis era.
The excitement of watching these events unfold brought me—albeit temporarily—out of the sadness of my dad’s illness and back into the excitement of the moment. As I walked the hallways of the Rod Laver Arena, I found myself hugging Rod himself on a number of occasions, in fact, almost every time I bumped into him. I even hugged Ken Rosewall, who I used to dislike because he was my hero Laver’s great rival. Why? I guess just because I could, and maybe because I needed to, given the state of my father’s health. Flashing back to 1976, I remember getting whipped 6–4, 6–3, 6–2 by Rosewall in a practice match at Madison Square Garden. I was only seventeen at the time, and I recall being amazed to realize afterward that Ken was then six months older than my father (he’d won the Australian Open when he was two years older than Federer is now!) and yet still able to play at this incredible level.
Flying back to New York after Federer’s amazing victory, I felt like I’d been in suspended animation. However small our phones and other electronic devices can make the world feel at times, I was very conscious of having been on the other side of the planet. And the sad reality of my dad’s deteriorating health situation brought me crashing back to earth.
On my fifty-eighth birthday, I went to see him in the hospital with my son Kevin. We asked if he’d watched any of the Australian Open, and my dad just looked back at us blankly. Knowing how much he loved tennis, that was the point when I knew it was nearly over for him. It was tough to take, but my dad’s answer to Kevin’s follow-up question b
rought us smiles through the tears.
Kevin asked, “Did you see me and Dad at the New York Knicks game on the TV?” My dad’s reply was barely audible, so we both leaned in closer to hear it. “Not ‘me and Dad,’” he corrected, “‘my father and I.’”
Well, that’s Dad. He was never going to change—still correcting our grammar until the very end. And sadly, that was pretty much the last thing we’d hear him say. Two days later, he was gone—the man without whom I wouldn’t have been writing this book (or at least, if I was, you wouldn’t want to be reading it), the man who made me what I am—for better and worse… but mainly better.
Thanks, Dad, for everything. You were a good man, a good agent, a good singer (for a lawyer!), a good storyteller—if maybe a little too prolific—but above all, to me at least, a great dad. I’ll love you always.
“Dad”
by Emily McEnroe
Oh dad, my dad
When was the last time I told you I loved you dad?
7:15 every morning you wake up to your alarm clock.
You come into my room “Good morning,” you always say
I push your face away.
You try to talk to me to wake me up and I scream, “get out!”
You open the blinds and I pull my blankets over my head.
You have to go through so much just to wake me up.
A grapefruit is always waiting for me on the kitchen table to be eaten.
You’re truly the only one who can cut a grapefruit dad.
You take time every day to drive the whole crew to school.
You take me to school early on Tuesdays.
When was the last time I told you I loved you dad?
I go to school and come home to usually see you there to greet me.
“How was your day,” you always say. “Fine.”
Oh dad you really are a D A D
Doing Always Doing is you.
Always trying to do more for us more like.
You call me beautiful or shorty,
I like both of them but I prefer beautiful.
You take Anna and I to tennis on Fridays.
Tennis is your thing I guess.
Oh dad, my dad,
You were there when I first saw the world,
And said my first word,
You were at the hospital when I broke my arm,
and when I got my braces on.
You were there throughout the entire roller coaster of my life,
bumping around here and there but pretty much going in somewhat of a direction.
Oh yeah by the way
when was the last time I told you I loved you dad?
April 29, 2004
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Patty, for making my life better and better when, for an athlete, it usually gets worse and worse; to my kids for keeping me on my toes and making me realize there is no more rewarding and tougher job than parenting; to my mom and dad for making me the person I am today; to my brothers, Mark and Patrick, and my in-laws, nieces and nephews, for keeping the family name going. To all my friends who have helped make my life an incredible journey: you know who you are (I hope!), thank you and I love you all. Special shoutouts to Ron Perlman, Ron Delsner, Bjorn Borg, Matteo di Fontaine (you are a true inspiration), Milos Raonic (for making me think I can coach!), Ron Meyer, Tim Commerford, and Gary Swain, who has been with me every step of the way. To all my friends at the Malibu racquet club, and everyone that’s left of the Malibu mob: Chris Chelios, Nate Heydari, Don Wildman, John Mcginley, Marshall Coben. Everyone at Randall’s Island: Lawrence Klieger, Nate Emge, Ben Schlansky, Fritz Buehning; and all the pros who have beaten up on me, especially those who haven’t!, with a special shoutout to Jay Karl - thanks for taking such good care of me and my family. Everyone at InsideOut Sports & Entertainment, especially Jim Courier and Jon Venison, for giving me work and making me feel somewhat young! All my friends and cohorts who have taken such good care of me over the years on TV: John Mcguinness, Jackie Smith, Paul Davies, Jamie Reynolds, Bobby Feller, Caroline Davis, Bob Mansbach, Ken Solomon, Bob Wylie, Gordon Beck, Steve (‘Sticks’) Dinkes, Ted Robinson, Dick Enberg. All my music buddies and old, old friends: John Martorelli, Jimbo Malhame, Doug Saputo, Chris Scianni, and Andy Broderick, and the guys who tried to get in my band and couldn’t: Chris Cornell, Eddie Van Halen, Dave Grohl, Josh Homme, Eddie Vedder, Buddy Guy, Lars Ulrich, Keith Richards, Mick Jagger, Jimmy Buffett, and of course, Paul McCartney! The trainers and physios who have tried to keep me in one piece: Kimberly Caspare, Dr Rob de-Stefan, Mike Rollins, Clary Sniteman, and especially Pat Manoccia at La Palestra and Gary Kitchell. To my tennis and sports buddies, especially Peter Fleming and Chris Mullin. To everyone at MSG, I love you all and I love the place. Especially Ann-Marie Dunleavy. You’re the best. Thanks for taking such great care of me over the years.
And finally, to all the people who tried and helped get this book to the finish line: Alan Samson, Michael Stone, my son Kevin, Debbie Beckerman, Gillian Stern, Lucinda McNeile, Reagan Arthur, John Parsley, Sarah Wooldridge, Clare Reihill, and a special thanks to Ben Thompson for finally getting it done, a big hug to Chrissie Hynde for pushing me and recommending Ben, Patty for her writing expertise, and Michi Kakutani for her valuable insight and advice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John McEnroe is a former World No. 1 professional tennis player. He won seven Grand Slam singles titles, nine Grand Slam men’s doubles titles, and one Grand Slam mixed doubles title. He has also managed a highly successful broadcasting career and currently works for ESPN at the Australian Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open; NBC and Eurosport at the French Open; and the BBC at Wimbledon. In addition, John is a father of six, an art collector, a musician, and a businessman. He and his wife, Patty Smyth, live in Manhattan. He is the author of the bestselling memoir You Cannot Be Serious.
Also by John McEnroe
You Cannot Be Serious
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