The Outsider: A Memoir (31 page)

“He called the ball good! You couldn’t see the goddamn ball. Get your ass out of the chair. You’re a bum. I’m out here playing my butt off at 39 years old and you’re doing this?”

Down set point, I bury a backhand volley that levels the score 8-8 and I’m thrusting my racquet and pointing my finger repeatedly at Mr. Littlefield. He sits there motionless. (When I watched the match later on television, the commentator Pat Summerall came up with a line I love: “I don’t think he’s saying he’s number one.”)

Forehand volley. 9-8. More pointing. More thrusting, and again Mr. Littlefield registers nothing. But he gets the message. Oh, yeah, he gets it. So does the crowd. No one is taking this away from me. No one. The place is going nuts.

Double-fisted volley. Second set, Connors. I’m swinging my racquet like it’s a guitar, Springsteen’s Telecaster,
Born in the U.S.A
. But I’m exhausted.

The fight to hold on in the tiebreaker has worn me out, and I’m being forced to let the third set go. I hate doing it. But there isn’t any option, not if I’m going to win this match.

I’m not tanking. You know by now that’s not my style. It goes against everything I stand for. If I thought I could win this set, then shit, that’s what I’d be doing. I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have to be. But my legs are gone and I only have one choice: give 100 percent and lose in four, or hold something back and have a chance of winning in five. So when the ball comes back at me more than twice during any point, I let it go. It’s called taking a breather.

The intensity of noise in the stadium is overwhelming. Even now, after that third set, no one has left, not one person. And they’re being rewarded. We’re in a shootout, and neither of us is about to blink.

This is what I live for, what I’ve worked my whole life to achieve, to be in this place, in these circumstances. As I’ve grown older, I have become what you might call a “situation player,” capable of bringing out my best game when I need it most, on the biggest stages. Throughout most of my career I have always played the key points as good as anyone, maybe even better, wherever I am—Paris, London, New York, or Little Rock. One hundred and nine tournament victories to this point and a win average of .824 tells the whole story. Now I’m in one of the greatest “situations” I have ever experienced. My best game isn’t going to be good enough. Two sets to one down, with the momentum against me, I’ve got to find a way to get back into it or I’ll be packing my bags.

I’m up 4-2 in the fourth, first point of the seventh game, and my return is called long. No way. Man, this sucks. I pause a second, waiting, not really expecting anything. And nothing comes, not from the chair at least. No overrule and the crowd doesn’t like it. They’re jeering. I slowly walk toward Littlefield, stopping just close enough so he can hear.

“That ball wasn’t going fast enough for you not to see it.” Sarcasm. Love it. “Listen, kiss me first before you do anything to me next time. Just kiss me.”

The fans. That’s what I keep coming back to. They are driving me on. I take the fourth 6-3 and I have a chance to break back at 2-4 in the fifth, but my approach is called long. Players know the moment the ball leaves the strings whether a shot is good or not. This one is good. Once again I wait for the point to be reversed. Once again, it isn’t.

We’ve been out here for four hours. If Aaron holds serve, I’m facing a 5-2 deficit.

“You . . . you . . . motherfuh—” The word is halfway out when I snatch it back. “You are an abortion.” Yeah, yeah, I know, not my proudest moment, but I guess it could have been worse. Hell, it has been worse.

After a series of deuces, Aaron holds.

Back to the crowd. At 2-5, they’re demanding more drama, and I am going to give it to them. I hold serve and now the pressure is on Aaron.

He is two points away from victory. Deuce in the ninth game, on his serve. These are the big points, my points. Attack, attack, attack. Crosscourt winner. Backhand volley.

By now, I’m exhausted but not tired. There’s a difference. I don’t want Aaron to see me huffing and puffing. If he begins to think he doesn’t need to hit his shots quite so far from me he’ll stop taking risks and the ball will remain in play longer. That could screw me.

“Isn’t this what they paid for? Isn’t this what they want.” Now we’re in a fifth-set tiebreaker and I’m talking directly into a courtside camera. I mean what I’m saying. I have total respect for the people in the seats around me and I am not going to disappoint them.

The end comes in typical serve-volley style, from me, a supposedly second-tier, one-dimensional baseliner. Deep serve, move forward, punch the volley, anticipate the return, bury it.

The noise again—it’s . . . it’s . . . I can’t describe it. It just is.

Victory.

These people, these fans, when they eventually stumble out of Louis Armstrong Stadium they will be as emotionally drained as I am. They have given so much of themselves. I guess they wanted me to stick around as long as possible. After this, maybe they’re thinking there isn’t going to be anymore.

Before they leave, I’m blessed with a 20,000-strong chorus of “Happy Birthday.”

Life can’t get much better.

Since that match, I haven’t seen Aaron once. Not once. Wait. Is he avoiding me?

I couldn’t go back to the locker room right away; sitting would have brought on total, full-body cramps. Instead I walked around the small adjacent grandstand by myself. I didn’t want to be with anybody. There must have been about a thousand people just sitting there watching, plus those dining in the overlooking restaurant. No one bothered me.

Finally, Mike Lupica, of the New York
Daily News
, came out. “You mind if I just walk with you, Jimmy?”

“OK. Walk, but don’t talk. I need to concentrate.” I needed to concentrate so I wouldn’t cramp. Left foot, right foot; now repeat. I like Mike but if he was looking for a scoop, he wasn’t getting one.

I was worried about my heart. Once I’d cooled down and my body had sucked in the fluid that was waiting for me, I felt fine, but I still couldn’t leave. I had to hang around and piss into a fucking cup, for the fourth time in a row at the tournament. Everyone in tennis knows I have never had anything to do with drugs, but now they think they have to test me? At my age? Come on. On the other hand, after seeing me play this well at 39, can you blame them?

When I get into the locker room, I have a couple of calls to make. First to my family, then to Mom. Of course Mom couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“Jimmy, I would prefer that you never call anyone
that word
again.”

I go all innocent. “What word, Ma?” That’s a battle I can’t win.

Mom told me later she had televisions on throughout the house and wandered around, room to room, unable to settle and watch. If a game went against me, she was convinced it was her fault for staying in one place too long. She circulated through the house for four hours 41 minutes. The only call that she would take was from David Schneider, and at the time they said to each other, “What does Jimmy need to be doing this for?” I’m the only one who can answer that.

As for Patti and the kids, halfway through the match they drove to the chapel at our old Mission Santa Inés and lit a candle. I spoke to Aubree the next day. She was in second grade and had received some shocking news from a friend that morning.

“We saw your dad on TV. He’s famous.”

Up until then, I had just been her dad, who was away a lot playing tennis. “Hey, Dad,” she said when we spoke on the phone, “did you know you’re famous?”

“I am? Wow! I didn’t know that.”

20

NOT DOGGING IT

F
irst things first. Take care of business.

After the US Open, which turned out to be the best 11 days of my career (I made it to the semis before Jim Courier ended my comeback in straight sets), I had to deal with the legal mess surrounding the investment Johnny and I had made. We were involved in the original riverboat casino, the Alton Belle, which opened in November 1991, then its replacement a couple years later, the Alton Belle Casino II. The company eventually grew, went public, and expanded to riverboats in six different states. The lawyer I hired to represent me made some interesting choices, to say the least.

It’s a sad, complex tale of multiple lawsuits that lasted 11 brutal years. OK, another fine lesson I learned. No wonder I wanted to keep everyone at arm’s length.

I fought it and won. This last battle in this prolonged affair was a lawsuit that one of my lawyers brought against me claiming that an “indemnity clause” in one of our agreements required me to pay the costs incurred in a deal that didn’t even involve me. Here’s an excerpt of the ruling from Judge Evans of the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals. Reading it was the only time in this sorry saga that I smiled.

Jimmy Connors is known throughout the tennis world for many things: his fierce two-handed backhand, his numerous Grand Slam singles titles (eight, on three different surfaces), and his fiery competitive spirit, to name just a few. Connors has been engaged in an equally long-running battle off the court—or rather, in court—against his former attorney. The indemnity provision does not apply to this matter, and even if it did, we would find it unenforceable under Illinois public policy. Game, set, and match to Connors.

Johnny and I barely spoke for years. It took Mom’s passing in 2007 to bring us back together again. He’s my brother, and in our grief, I realized I couldn’t turn my back on him. The time had come to say fuck it and move on.

I never retired from tennis, not officially. I kept on playing through 1992 before I quietly slipped away. I wasn’t interested in some grand, dumb-ass farewell tour, even though, if I think about it now, it would have been worth a small fortune. I knew there would be no tears from either side when I left. When your time is up, you should make room for the next group of guys coming through. I’d entertained enough crowds and played some great tennis over the years. If people remember me for that, I’m good.

I continued to play Team Tennis with John Lloyd and the LA Strings, but, after failing to reach the playoffs that season, I moved to the Phoenix Smash in 1993 along with Lloyd, Mary-Lou Daniels, and Carrie Cunningham. We were joined by Ellis Ferreira, and together we were quite a draw, with crowds of 7,000 regularly packing into our indoor arena. It was tennis’s version of the Wild West as we interacted with our rowdy fans and caused more than a little mayhem.

Under Lloyd’s leadership, we grew into a tight, close unit. Courtside, the team members who weren’t playing would horse around, ordering pizzas, chicken wings, and beer (I think my liver doubled in size), but on court we gave our all. Soon we were the most hated team on the circuit because of our antics and past reputations. That’s right. Us against them. Again.

In April 1993, we lost to the Newport Beach Dukes in the playoffs, but we had left our mark on Team Tennis. Although maybe it was just a question mark.

I had no shortage of offers to play exhibitions, the most lucrative being my Challenge Match with Martina Navratilova in Vegas for the Battle of the Sexes II, almost 20 years after the original, starring Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King. Fourteen thousand people were jammed into the stadium for the televised one-off match. This time the purse was half a million dollars to the winner. Even though we were both offered big guarantees on top of the prize money, I didn’t want to lose to Martina. I still wanted to win and I loved the rush from a high-stakes bet.

I’m with my posse of Goldberg, Schneider, Vitas, and Lornie, along with Bobby Riggs, who’s doing the TV commentary, when I stopped to see the bookie at Caesars Palace from the practice court.

“I wanna lay a bet. Me to win, straight sets, losing no more than eight games.”

The bookie calculates the odds and they sound good to me.

“How much do you want to stake, Mr. Connors?”

“A million bucks.”

“Consider it done, Mr. Connors.”

Nuts. Absolutely fucking nuts, but here’s the reason I’m telling this story. Every time I played tennis somebody was paying me; this time if I lost I had to pay them. With my money, in the bank, taxed. And it would have hurt, which, of course, was the thrill of it. Betting on myself was the ultimate gambler’s high. I was out of control and I didn’t realize it, though that bet should have been a big-assed hint. Viva Las Vegas, baby—even when you’re losing, you can convince yourself you’re one throw of the dice away from winning again. All I can say is thank goodness for tennis. Patti didn’t know any of this at the time, and that was a good thing. She’d probably have passed out—after knocking me out.

For some reason, I didn’t take into account that Martina wanted to win the match as much as I did. She’s never been capable of taking any match lightly, and that’s why she’s such an incredible champion.

The rules gave me just one serve and gave Martina use of half the alleys. By the start of the fifth game of the first set, I was down 1-3. “This is tough, G,” I told Goldberg, sitting courtside. “I didn’t think it would be like this.” During the previous week of practice, Schneider had been encouraging me, saying how great I was playing, and I believed him. It was only as we were getting ready to leave my hotel suite to walk down to the court that Schneider pulled me aside and said, “Look, I dropped a big wager on you, so you better be ready, Jimmy. This isn’t going to be as easy as you think it is.” Fine time to tell me that after kissing my ass all week.

As the fifth game was about to begin, there was a commotion in the stands. Lornie is out of his seat and rushing to the exit with a worried expression.

Up in the commentary booth, it turned out, Bobby Riggs was having trouble breathing, and a message has been passed down to Lornie, a close friend of Bobby’s, to get up there immediately. When Lornie arrived, Bobby could barely talk, and we assumed he was having a heart attack.

“Bobby, we’ve got to get you to a hospital. Right now.”

“Hold on, Lornie,” Riggs said, grimacing. “Give me a minute. I’ve got to see how Jimmy’s doing.”

So Bobby had put some money on me, too.

By now I’m in lockdown mode on court, hitting the ball straight down the middle, hard and deep, but taking no chances. I start turning the match around. Riggs begins to calm down, and his breathing returns to normal. I must be ahead.

“What happened, Bobby?” Lornie asks, relieved that the crisis seems to have passed.

“I’ve got a fortune on him for straight sets, and I got so nervous at the start. It looked like I was screwed!”

I win the match 7-5, 6-2, and as I walk through the doors of Caesars with Mom, a guy approaches. His face is familiar; he’s in charge of the sports book and he’s become a friend.

“Jimmy, will you please come with me?”

Mom asks, “What’s happening? Where are we going?”

“Come on. I think you’ll enjoy this.”

My friend takes us behind the cashier windows, where they’ve already counted and stacked my winnings. He shakes my hand. “Thank you for your bet, Jimmy.”

For once, I leave Caesars Palace with a few bucks in my pocket.

In the days, weeks, and months after I finally accepted the reality that I was off the tour for good, I went through a really tough time, tougher than I thought it would be. For so many years, time had been measured by events and tournaments, not days and months. January was the Masters, May was Roland Garros, June was Wimbledon, September the US Open. That’s not a normal way to live, and when that’s gone, it’s unsettling. Tennis had been my life—my escape from Belleville, from everyday problems, and my outlet for anger. Now it was gone. Just like that. Waking up every day at home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should be in Paris or London or New York. I became a different person.

I got mad at the kids over nothing. I knew they loved having me around, but I didn’t know how to cope with this new life. They began to joke with me that they had liked it better when I was gone half the year. I don’t think they were kidding.

When I was on tour, Patti and I had worked out how to adjust to my stepping in and out of our family’s life, but now I was there all the time. What was my role? Where did I fit in?

“Jeez, Jimmy,” Patti would say, “don’t you have somewhere to go?”

I didn’t. I had to find my way back into the world, the real world, and sitting home drinking my days away wasn’t a very good strategy.

I’ve been asked in the past whether I ever saw a psychologist for help during this difficult period of being a warrior without a war. The answer has always been no. But that’s not exactly true.

I had
six
in-house shrinks.

My dogs.

I’m a dog guy, always have been, always will be. I love all animals, but dogs are my heart. Big ones, small ones—doesn’t matter. I’ve had them all my life, and I love them all.

Goldie was a golden retriever we got when Patti was pregnant with Aubree. She was a special dog—beautiful, soulful, and sympathetic. When she got old and her life was winding down, Patti and I would spend the night outside on the ground lying next to her, just listening to her breathing. She didn’t want to be in the house, because it was too hot, and we didn’t want her to be alone when she passed. The night she died there was a big red ring around the moon that ever since we’ve always called a Goldie Moon.

In 1986, when Brett decided he wanted a puppy, we got Mackie, our West Highland terrier. Mackie was built like a fire hydrant but had the soul of a samurai. We referred to him as “a little barrel with legs.” When he was older, he had some health issues and suffered seizures. During one of those episodes he stopped breathing, and as we were rushing him to the hospital I held him on my lap with tears rolling down my face. I wasn’t ready to let him go. “Stay away from the light, Mackie,” I told him over and over again. “Stay away from the light.” Once we got to our vet, Dr. Bob Dean, Mackie recovered like nothing had happened. We were fortunate to have Mackie for another year after that. He died when he was 14.

We got Skylar, our crazy husky, in January of 1997, and she was a handful. She was Patti’s find, one of the most beautiful dogs we’d ever seen. Patti had always wanted a husky but had no idea how high-maintenance they are. For instance, Skylar had a habit of eating my Calvins; we used to joke that whenever she did her business we could see the Calvin Klein label. No wonder huskies are such survivors in the Arctic; they’ll eat anything. She was athletic, silly, and completely entertaining. She loved chasing tennis balls on the court and she loved her family. We lost her on June 2, 2010.

Sophie, another golden retriever, came along in February of 1998, and she is one of the sweetest dogs we’ve ever had. We call her our “special child.” She was the runt of the litter and the last one out. She liked to sleep on top of my head even as she got older. Now that she’s a senior citizen, she’s slowed down a little, but she brings us joy every day.

Then came Tobey. We were at one of our local street parties, looking to find a hot dog for lunch, and instead we ran into Tobey, a small fat golden retriever with whom we fell in love immediately. Tobey became my little buddy. His eyes were almost human, and so was his empathy; he could sense when any of us got upset, and he was the first one to try and cheer us up. Tobey left us on September 28, 2012, and I’m still not over it.

Then there was Buddy, a shepherd mix. It was our good luck that he chose us as his family. Patti and I were walking the dogs one day and we saw him watching us from the property line of another ranch. “Ooh, he looks mean,” Patti, said. Later, he found out where we lived, planted himself on our front porch, and stayed with us forever. He was our watchdog, keeping all intruders out, even though he was really a gentle fellow. Boy, I wish I’d had him around when I was on tour. Our Buddy passed on December 16, 2012.

The house is becoming very quiet now. They were my companions, and I loved coming home to a house that resembled a dog pound. My dogs and I have grown old together. It was my pleasure to take care of them after all the years they took care of me. I still walk around the house and look for them where they would always lay down. Their places on our bed are empty now, but we still make room for them.

Those were my shrinks.

My dogs helped show me the way when I lost my motivation.
Get your fat ass out of bed, Dad, and let’s get some exercise.
All the runs, the walks on the beach, the swims in the ponds, and the roaming in the river proved to be lessons in positive thinking and living in the moment. My puppies would run alongside me, never refusing me, never complaining, and never judging me, allowing me to clear my mind and deal with the daily pressures. After miles and miles of therapy with my pups, I would be able to untangle my thoughts enough to talk to Patti.

I can honestly say that my pups’ unconditional love and loyalty saved my life. My memories of them are ingrained in my mind forever. No matter how impatient or cranky I got, they forgave me. Even writing this now, I have tears in my eyes. I’d give anything to have my dogs back with me.

I’d been playing with the idea of an over-35 tour for a while. I always felt that my buddies had retired too soon and left me out there on my own. The time was right to pull them out of retirement and experience a little of the pain that I knew came with throwing an aging body around a tennis court.

I wanted to play those guys again—Borg, Clerc, Vilas, Gerulaitis, Lloyd, Dibbs, Stockton, Gottfried, all of them—because we’d combined great matches with fun for so many years. If I got this right, we could all have a second career.

I had a simple pitch when making the first calls. “Listen, we’ve got a chance to play some tennis, make some money, and become famous again. Are you in?” Not one guy turned me down.