The Outsider: A Memoir (24 page)

After my match with McNamee, I bump into Mac in the locker room.

“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll hit some balls, OK?”

“No, no, no. I don’t think we should hit anymore,” he says to me, looking uncomfortable. I can guess why. It probably just dawned on him that he might have to play me in the finals.

“What?” I say. “We’ve been practicing together for three weeks. You think it’s going to make a difference now? Well, if that’s what you want. See you around.”

Connors is a one-dimensional player, whose only stroke is his two-fisted backhand.

I don’t know how many times I heard or read that about myself over the years. It used to just make me smile because anyone who said it knew nothing about tennis. As I’ve said, I had adapted and adjusted elements of my game over the years to try to find a way to win. The 1982 Wimbledon final against Mac was no different. I was climbing out of a four-year slump and was about to face the best player in the world at the time. To be the best, you have to beat the best.

My game was in place—I knew it, even if no one else did—but that wasn’t going to be enough. Mac was going to attack me every chance he got, looking to take the ball out of the air to counter the unpredictable bounce of the Wimbledon grass. I had to come up with a way to pin him to the baseline. The answer was clear: change my serve by putting more juice on it, flattening it out, hitting it deeper. If he managed to get his racquet on it, my forward momentum would allow me to get to the net quicker. He wouldn’t be expecting that. If I could rattle Mac and keep the match close, I could beat him. My confidence in the improvements I’d made in my game would only grow.

There was a certain amount of risk, since pushing too hard could produce too many second serves, which he would pounce on. But I was going to force the action just the same. If I lose, I lose. But it will be on my terms.

The stats tell one story—13 double faults, no aces. That’s three free games I handed Mac. Add in his 19 aces and that’s more than a set.

The score tells another story.

No aces for me only meant that Mac managed to make contact with my first serves; it didn’t mean they came back at me. I had a 60 percent success rate on them; Mac only had 54. If he did manage to make a return, I rushed the net to punch volleys away. I gambled and it worked.

On that Fourth of July, we gave the fans the longest match in Wimbledon history at the time. We were battling it out in the trenches, working hard, making mistakes, but producing many moments of outstanding tennis. The fans appreciated our effort and were cheering, clapping, shouting encouragement, jumping out of their seats, and generally making such a ruckus that the umpire was repeatedly forced to ask for “Quiet, please.” But that wasn’t going to happen. New York had come to London for the afternoon.

With Mac leading two sets to one, the match hinged on a tiebreaker in the fourth. Only three points from defeat, I made my move and took the breaker, 7-5. In the fifth, I broke early and held on to win my second Wimbledon title.

I leaped in the air, arms raised in triumph. As I walked to the net to shake Mac’s hand, I remembered something Newk had told me: “The second time [you win Wimbledon]—that’s when it sinks in. That’s when you realize it was no fluke, that you deserve your place in history.”

As the crowd rose to give us a standing ovation (the only other time I’ve received one of those, I was on my knees after Richard Lewis’s ball hit me in the nuts), I waved to Patti to come down onto the court with me. I wanted us to share the moment. She’d led the way there, always believing in me. As I gave her a kiss in front of 14,000 spectators, I knew we’d won the title together.

I wish I’d remembered and respected those feelings in the months that followed.

The next morning, before we headed back home, I had one important stop to make. Ladbrokes. This time there were no sniggers. The manager greeted me with a big smile.

“Congratulations, Mr. Connors. Your check is waiting for you.”

Just what an old gambler likes to hear.

I decided to take some time off after Wimbledon—yeah, to cash in, I admit. That’s how we made the real money back then. Winning a Slam was the high point, but it also opened financial doors, which none of the top players walked away from. You’d be nuts if you did. It wasn’t going to last forever.

Unlike earlier in the summer, I was the hot ticket for promoters running exhibition matches. So, naturally, my price doubled and they were still beating down my door.

In July, Borg and I played at Industry Hills, California, in a four-man, two-day exhibition with Vitas and Sandy Mayer. In the final, I beat Borg for the first time since the 1978 Open final, in five sets over three and a half hours in 100-degree heat, to pick up $50,000.

Later that month, it was Richmond, Virginia, where over four sets I won again, coming away with $40,000. Then, with the US Open coming up, it was back to business. My time off hadn’t seemed to hurt me any, but the mechanics of my new serve did. After spending my whole career up to Wimbledon tossing the ball behind me, I tried tossing it more forward, and it threw my back out of whack. In Columbus, Ohio, I won my 95th tournament, defeating Brian Gottfried, but a week later I had to withdraw from the Canadian Open at the semifinal stage with pain in my lower back.

It didn’t look like I was going to be able to play in the ATP championship, in Mason, Ohio. But with my doctor’s help, stretching exercises, and a big dose of patience, I made it through to the semis, where Ivan Lendl beat me in just over an hour. It wasn’t my back. As I’ve said before, if I stepped on the court, it meant I was well enough to play. Lendl was better than me on that day, that’s all. Now the Open was only a week away, and Mac was the favorite.

Some people said that I tanked in Ohio to give Lendl a false sense of security. I didn’t. I never tanked, ever. But Wimbledon and the US Open meant more to me than anything else in tennis, and as they approached, I sometimes found myself distracted and looking ahead. It’s not like I didn’t care about the tournament I was playing in, I just didn’t have my usual concentration. That said, I’m not suggesting Lendl wouldn’t have beaten me no matter how hard I had focused.

Winning Wimbledon wasn’t enough for me. After 1975, I had responded to those who said I was washed up by transforming my game. Flushing Meadows was the perfect place to complete my second reinvention. With Mac seeded first, me second, and Lendl third, I was going to meet one of them in the final, and it didn’t matter to me which one.

You want a fight, son? You can have it. My blood’s pumping now.

The fourth set of the 1982 US Open final, Connors versus Lendl. I’m up two sets to one, 4-2 on his serve, 15-15. My return of serve is a net cord. Lendl moves in for the return. My lob’s quite a bit short, and Lendl has the whole court for a put-away. Next thing I know his smash is coming directly at me. I’m hot, I’m tired and dying for a beer, and putting up with his target-practice antics didn’t help my mood. Lendl’s well known for trying to hit his opponent with the ball, and while I didn’t take it personally, if I offended anybody when I told him to fuck off get over it. I won my fourth Open title 6-3, 6-2, 4-6, 6-4.

My second Slam of the year made me more in demand as Borg and I took up where we’d left off before the Open.

Montreal in October, a straight-sets victory and $80,000.

Seattle in mid-November, two sets to one and $75,000.

San Francisco a week later, a fifth victory in a row over Borg, $75,000.

These events were usually only two- or three-night stopovers, which wasn’t good for three-year-old Brett. There wasn’t enough time for him to settle into a routine, so Patti and I decided that she would stay home while I traveled with the guys, Johnny or Lornie, sometimes both. It was like the old days, meeting up with my buddies, staying out late, and enjoying the perks of fame. I told myself that I’d earned all this and that it wouldn’t last long, anyway.

Then I started to believe the hype that comes with winning, and it wasn’t long before I made the biggest mistake in my life.

16

HOUSE DIVIDED

I
n 1983, I was the biggest name in town. I was king of the tennis mountain. I thought I could do what I wanted. And I wanted my life to be as fun and free as it had been before Patti and the baby.

When I was home, I acted like I was above all the everyday things—car trouble, dinner preparations, arrangements for Brett now that Adela had left us? Not my problem.
I shouldn’t have to deal with this crap. I’m a Wimbledon and US Open champion.

It didn’t occur to me that at home I wasn’t the best player in the world but a husband and father. I left it to Patti to deal with everything and spent my time resenting her and pushing her away.

Mom didn’t help. When we went to visit, she would cut my wife out. We’d arrive and Mom would say to Patti, “Hi, glad you could come,” and that would be it. At mealtimes, if Patti offered to assist Mom in the kitchen, all she would get was “If I need any help, I’ll ask for it.” When it came time for us to leave, Mom would say nothing more to Patti than “See you later.” Patti tried not to let it bother her but it was obvious her feelings were hurt. And, again, I let it go.

Back at home my mood was getting worse and I spent most of my time planning my next escape with my buddies, where I could really be “me.” All during this time, Patti kept a positive attitude, trying to make the best of a difficult situation, hoping, I guess, that I was just going through a phase.

After so many years of me fighting my way back to the top, Patti was just giving me time to get whatever it was that was bothering me out of my system. I didn’t tell her I didn’t want to work it out. I didn’t tell her anything.

I was happy playing the champion, being in demand and naming my price. A certain amount of selfishness is required for an athlete who wants to compete at the highest level but until now I had always checked that me-first attitude at the door of my home. I took Patti and Brett to Vail, Colorado, for Christmas and gave Patti an expensive pair of diamond earrings. Guilt jewelry? Probably. It was strange, but we had a good time on that trip. We hadn’t brought any friends with us, I had no flights to schedule or matches to play, and for a few days I was the contented husband and father I’d been before.

But at the beginning of 1983, with the winter indoor season approaching, my mood darkened again as I tried to ignore the guilt and invented justifications for my behavior.

Patti and I should have dated longer, enjoyed ourselves more, got to know each other better before we married and had a son. It all happened too fast.

Patti just doesn’t get tennis. She never has. She’s holding me back.

Hell, I’m holding her back. She could have had a great career by now.

I can’t drag Patti and Brett around the world with me forever. It’s not fair to them.

On and on it went. I should have been saying all of that to Patti; instead I just let it bounce around in my head while I glared at her.

Early January, I made a decision. I sat down with Patti at home in Turnberry and told her.

“I’m going to travel with the boys for a while,” I said. “You and Brett don’t really like going to all those winter indoor tournaments. I think this is for the best.”

“Oh, OK, if you’re sure. But you know I enjoy coming along, right?”

I didn’t answer her. Patti had been traveling with me for nine months out of the year for the last four years, and now I’m telling her she is no longer welcome on the road.

My first match was an exhibition in Rosemont, Illinois, after which I could have gone home before the Masters at Madison Square Garden. But I didn’t. Lendl beat me in the semis in New York, and from there, after only a quick visit home, I was off again, to Toronto for another challenge tournament, which was quickly followed by Memphis, where I won a record sixth US Indoor championship.

One of Patti’s favorite tournaments came next, the Congoleum Tennis Classic, in La Quinta, California, near Palm Springs. When I didn’t invite her and Brett to go with me, that was the moment, Patti says, she knew something was very, very wrong.

There was a reason I didn’t want her at the next tournament in La Quinta. I wasn’t alone and some of my friends knew about “her.” I always claim to have no regrets about my life, but that’s not strictly true. I regret cheating on my wife and my son, and I always will.

The affair was bad enough, but allowing it to become an open secret, with so many people aware of it, but not my wife, was unforgivable.

I lost to Mike Bauer at La Quinta, because, as I said at the time, “I couldn’t keep my mind on my business during the match.”

No shit, Jimmy.

Patti had announced that she and Brett were going to visit some friends in LA where I would meet them after my match. Patti was still completely in the dark about this other woman, and I wanted to keep it that way. When I arrived in LA, I told her we needed to talk.

“Things have changed,” I said bluntly as she sat opposite me in shocked silence. “I don’t want the same things I wanted before. I want a divorce.”

Patti started crying. “I don’t understand. What’s happened? I know I haven’t been traveling with you, but I thought that’s what you wanted. Did I do something wrong?” There was a long pause and then she asked, “Is there someone else?”

“No, it’s not you. I still love you and Brett. It’s me. I’ve changed, and that’s all. I don’t want to be married anymore. And there’s no one else,” I lied.

Later, Patti said that she had believed me when I said there was no other woman. She just thought that, given Mom’s coolness toward her and the fact that we had married so soon after we’d met, that I had really changed.

We spent that night together without touching, and Patti sobbed all night.

Brett cried when we left the next day. He didn’t want to be with me, because I’d been gone for so long and Patti had always been the one constant in his life. Now I was taking him away.

I said I’d tell you my story, and this is part of it. I’ve never cheated you on the court, so I’m not going to cheat you in this book. The truth isn’t pretty, but it’s what happened.

The other woman was on the same flight I took back to Belleville to attend the opening of my brother’s new restaurant, The Center Court. We weren’t sitting together, but we were going to the same places. To Mom’s house. To Johnny’s opening. Meanwhile back home, Patti’s heart was breaking and she was beating herself up for something that wasn’t even her fault.

Brett and I stayed with Mom while we were in St. Louis, and so did my new friend. We in separate rooms, but she was still sleeping in the same house.

I was supposed to take Brett to the airport in St. Louis to meet Patti so she and her mother could pick him up and take him to Vail for a few days. I didn’t go. I sent Johnny and Mom instead. It was the final act of betrayal on my part. I knew I had caused Patti pain but I couldn’t even begin to imagine the depth of her suffering

It didn’t take long for Patti to find out the truth. The day Patti picked up Brett from the airport, my little boy, in total innocence, said, “Mommy, did you know Daddy has a girlfriend? I saw them hugging at Grandma’s.”

It makes me sick just thinking about it even now.

Patti always deals in reality, and she knew it was time to protect our son and herself from whatever insanity I was going through. She hates lies, and I had lied to her. She also knew that Mom would be dealing with the business end of our divorce and that Mom would be looking out for
my
best interests.

Patti contacted a secretary who worked with Mom to schedule my business trips and was able to get flight numbers, hotel bookings, names, everything that proved I hadn’t been traveling alone. Then Patti asked a friend, a photographer who lived in LA, to get a photo of the two of us. It wasn’t hard. Subtlety has never been my strong suit.

My next step was to reduce the amount of money available to Patti, giving her a small amount every month. I canceled her credit cards and kept a record of Patti’s absences when I called to speak to Brett. I wanted ammunition to use in court. “Patti not home,” “Patti not home,” I wrote as if she was being a bad mother, even though I knew Patti’s mom was there, looking after Brett while my wife had deliberately arranged aerobics classes or tennis lessons so I could talk to Brett without her in the room.

The press got wind of our separation and the fact that I was seeing someone else. They called Patti at home and followed her whenever they could. Everywhere she went people would look at her and whisper. The strain took a toll on Patti, and that had an impact on Brett. I learned later that Patti would arrange play dates for Brett, but when his friends came over he’d slam the door in their faces. Concerned, Patti took him to a child psychiatrist, who explained that since Dad had left him, Brett couldn’t stand to be away from Mom. Nor did he want anyone else in the house. That’s when Patti knew she had to take action to try and get Brett’s and her life in order without me.

I went to Turnberry to see Brett after the Alan King Classic at the end of April, which I won for the fourth time. Patti told me she’d arranged for a limo service to pick me up at the airport. A friend of hers owned the limo service, and when I got off the plane the driver was waiting for me, carrying a card with my name printed on it. As I walked toward him, a man came up to me.

“Are you Mr. Jimmy Connors?” the guy asked.

“Yes,” I said, thinking he just wanted an autograph.

He handed me an envelope. “Consider yourself served.”

Patti had started divorce proceedings. Included in the papers was Patti’s custody claim for Brett, with a court order blocking me or anyone else taking, enticing, or removing Brett from Dade County. I just stood there, my bags at my feet, hundreds of people milling around, going on with their lives, as I watched mine fall apart.

“Do I at least get a free ride to the hotel?” I asked the limo driver. He opened the car door and I got inside.

“Do you know where my family is?” I asked him.

There was no answer.

I spent the week at Turnberry with Brett while Patti stayed with her mom. I loved being with my son; I had missed him, but I failed to realize that spending an extended period of time with him, then suddenly leaving, would only confuse him even more. The day after I left, Patti told me, Brett said to her, “Next time Daddy comes home you stay, too, OK?” Hearing him say those words broke her heart all over again, but Patti never hides from the truth. She would deal with the situation, even if I wouldn’t. She knew she had to be gentle with Brett and that it would take time for him to understand, and she then would have to pick up the pieces.

“Brett, Mommy and Daddy are going to get a divorce, and that means we are not going to live together anymore. But Daddy still loves you and Mommy still loves you. It’s just that you will be spending time differently with us from how you have been.”

“OK,” he said, but Patti wasn’t really convinced he understood.

After Wimbledon and the French, during July 4th, I visited again. Patti picked me up at the airport with Brett, and after giving me a kiss the first thing he said was, “Daddy, how come you don’t love my mommy anymore?”

It was like someone had shoved a knife right into my heart. Did he really think that? I loved Patti, but was Brett really asking if I’d stopped loving them both?

“Brett,” said Patti, “don’t bother Daddy with those questions right now. OK, honey?”

Was Patti turning my son against me? On a deeper level, I knew Patti was incapable of anything like that. But, still, I glared at her all the way to the hotel where I was going to stay. Isn’t it funny how far you’ll go to not take responsibility for the damage you do to the people you love most in the world?

David Schneider and I are driving back to Turnberry across Alligator Alley from his place in Fort Myers, Florida, where I had spent the night. It’s a long drive, about 150 miles across the Everglades, and for the past hour he’s listening to me complain about Patti.

“This is bullshit, Schneider. She’s telling me when I can and can’t see my son. Fuck that. I told her I’d take him away and she’s got lawyers saying I can’t.”

“No, you can’t, Jimmy. And the fact that Patti won’t fold is messing with your head. You know she’s right and you don’t like it. Look, man, I love you, but I love Patti, too, and I don’t want to hear you talking about her like this anymore.”

David had already told me more than once that he didn’t like how I was acting. And he wasn’t the only one of my friends who felt that way.

In reality, I had backed Patti into a corner and she’d come out fighting, showing the same instincts that served me so well on the tennis court. I was trying to rally my buddies to my cause, and they weren’t buying it.

We didn’t have a lot of friends in Florida, because we had spent so much time traveling. When I decided I didn’t want to be married anymore, Patti was forced to rely on a handful of people for support. Eddie Dibbs and his wife would visit her and make sure she was doing OK; so did Father Charles, the priest who had baptized Brett. Father Charles was staying in an apartment at Turnberry because of the kindness of the owner, Donny Soffer. Why was I depending on others to take care of my family? What a dick.

Once Schneider and I got back to my hotel in Turnberry, I asked him if he wanted to get a drink at the bar.

“Sorry, Jimmy, can’t do it.”

Then he drives away, leaving me on the front steps of a hotel full of people I don’t know.

Roland Garros. I’ve just lost 6-4, 6-4, 7-6 in the quarterfinal match against Frenchman Christophe Roger-Vasselin, who is ranked 130th in the world, as the crowd screamed, “Roger! Roger!”

Afterward, I’m in one of my favorite restaurants in Paris, sitting across from Lornie talking about tennis. This doesn’t feel right. And it has nothing to do with tennis.

At Wimbledon, Kevin Curren of South Africa defeats me in the fourth round 6-3, 6-7, 6-3, 7-6, after serving up 33 aces. It’s the first time I’ve failed to reach at least the quarterfinals of the tournament. In the post-match press interview I call the match “a bad day at the office.” In reality it was a tough loss on the number 2 court, which was known as the Graveyard of Champions. Can you say
karma
?