The Outsider: A Memoir (32 page)

Now, this wasn’t a new idea; many great players before me had tried it, but it hadn’t worked out. My dogs and I figured it out. To be successful we’d need corporate sponsors. Without them, there’s no tour. And they had to get their money’s worth, which came down to how the guests were treated by the players.

All the guys on the tour were champions, and they had presence and personality. The Champions Tour didn’t work because of me; it worked because of the generation of players I grew up with, who understood what we were trying to do.

We had cocktail receptions and events for sponsors and fans who had devoted countless hours of their lives to watching all of us play tennis. We circulated among our guests, introducing ourselves, making small talk about backhands and forehands or anything else they might be interested in. If it came down to answering the same old questions over and over again, we did it with smiles on our faces, like it was the first time we’d been asked.

We were in the people business. That was the business end. The guys all had to be in shape. No one was going to pay to watch a bunch of broken-down athletes looking pathetic on the court. A few of the players showed up 40 pounds overweight and I sent them away. “I’m not looking for an easy 45 minutes and then you’re out of there. You have to be able to maintain a good standard for an hour and a half. If you can’t, I’m not interested.” Whenever that happened, they hit the gym hard and came back in better condition than they’d been in years. Tennis players want to play tennis.

At first, there was a big difference between some of the players and me, because I’d just come off the main tour, and most of the guys hadn’t played a real match in years. Mom always told me that the game she’d given me was built to last. “The problem, Jimmy,” she would say, “is that you’ll be playing your best tennis when you’re too old.” She was right about that. By 1993 I could keep the ball in play all day long, but my legs couldn’t compete with the young guys. My game was so well honed, I could hit a dime crosscourt, but you know what they say about experience: By the time you get it you’re too old to do anything with it.

At the beginning it was important to show the fans what we had left. They wanted to see that we could still deliver the kind of tennis for which we had all become famous. We were able to control the ball in such a way that if an opponent was out of position we’d take just a little off our shot to allow them to reach it, without spectators noticing. Because we were that good.

Once we decided to set up the Champions Tour, I partnered with ProServ executive Ray Benton on the business side. For sales and marketing I got Karen Scott (now Happer), my contact at ProServ Australia, who had looked after me when I played events like the Sydney Indoors in the 1980s. Karen had married Marshall Happer, the Pro Tennis Council administrator who’d spent years fining and suspending me. Yeah, I kept him busy. But it was nothing personal on either of our parts. When Karen agreed to join the team, I had to reassure the guys that if they saw Marshall around he wasn’t about to cost them money!

The one mistake I made was to allow Benton to keep the tour’s base of operations in DC, where he resided; by doing that I eventually lost control of the big picture. Nuveen Investments became our main sponsor, and thanks to them we pulled in various car companies, hotel chains, and banks. Against all odds we put on three events before the end of 1993: Hilton Head, South Carolina, where Stan Smith was based; Sherwood, outside of LA, where Roscoe Tanner was; and Marty Riessen’s New Albany, Ohio. From the beginning, all three ex-pros understood the value of what we were bringing to their clubs, and they were happy to accommodate us. After those three events, almost every match was sold out. We had eight tournaments in 1994 and by 1996 the number had grown to 22 tournaments worldwide.

Our headline was “Small Stadiums, Big Names.” Our biggest venue was Pebble Beach, with around 7,000 seats, while places like Riviera, in LA, or the Boca Hotel, in Florida, handled 4,000. All of our locations had golf courses easily accessible, and golf became a big part of our corporate entertainment.

Our events would usually run Tuesday night through to a Sunday final. During the day we offered a choice of individual clinics, playing in a pro-am, where five guests plus one of the pros would form, say, Team Connors and take on Team Borg in a match or a round of golf.

The matches took place in the afternoons and evenings. The deal was that if you were playing in an early session, you didn’t do any of your shtick until later, but if you were playing at night you’d be working during the day. If you lost the first round you stayed on all week to fulfill your social obligations.

At 7:30 in the evening the guests would take their seats and showtime would begin. I was usually on second, so that I could stay at the pre-match cocktail receptions as long as possible. It was my name on the tour and I was willing to do whatever it took to make it successful.

For the main sponsors, we erected big skyboxes in the corners of the courts, complete with a bar and seating for up to 40 people. If I was on court, Lloyd might be sitting with the guests in one of the boxes and Borg in another, and if one of them couldn’t make it, Vitas, Clerc, or someone else would step in. Then, when I was done I’d drop by to see how things were and discuss the match while my opponent did the same thing in another box. We worked hard, but that’s why it succeeded.

Camaraderie between the players in our group was important. We were well paid, and we knew that we had to rely on, and trust, each other for that to continue.

Our flagship event, the Citibank Champions tournament, was first held in 1994, hosted by Westchester Country Club, in New York. On the morning of the finals, Vitas called Karen Happer at home. He was already out of the singles and doubles.

“Karen, Vitas. Hi, hi. I know I’m not playing today, but do you want me to come over? I’m at my mom’s place at Oyster Bay. Do you want me there for the corporate stuff?”

“Yes, I’d love you to.”

“Great, great. See ya.”

She put the phone down and two minutes later it rang again. Vilas.

“Karen,” he drawled, “it is Guillermo.”

“Hello, Willy, how are you?”

“I’m a little bit tired this morning. I went to the Rolling Stones concert last night. But tell me, do you want me to come today?”

Most of the guys were like that, totally with the program from the very beginning.

Back in the 1970s, Borg, Roscoe Tanner, Peter Fleming, and I were just acquaintances. On the Champions Tour we became friends. But all the players we recruited had to—
had to
—be on board with our main aim: to entertain. As the number of events expanded, so did our pool of players. At its peak we had close to 25 guys to call on, and it was during that expansion period that Ray Benton suggested we add Brad Gilbert, the coach and recent author of
Winning Ugly
. I had my views about it, but I put it to the vote of the group.

The result was unanimous. A 16-0 rejection. That only happened once, and he still blames that on me, but we’ve grown older now and become friends.

The quality of tennis improved quickly after those first few tournaments—and with it the competitive edge. Especially when the prize money started to increase. In a short space of time, the big events evolved from staged showcases to hard-fought contests.

We created our Grand Finale, which was held every March in Naples, Florida. Using the WCT structure, players earned points throughout the year depending on how far they progressed in each event, with the top eight coming together for the Nuveen Masters.

We had the first Grand Finale in 1995, where Borg and I met in the final. Every session had been a sellout, and the fans had been treated to old-time tennis at its best. Borg wanted to beat me as badly as I wanted to beat him; there was nothing staged about that match. I eventually won, 4-6, 6-4, 7-5. The following year Andrés Gómez took the title, defeating José Luis Clerc again in three sets, and in 1997 I won again with a 6-2, 6-2 victory over Mel Purcell after defeating Mac in the semis.

For the first couple of years of the Champions Tour, Mac had buried us in his TV commentary, calling us dinosaurs. Then, in 1995, we offered him a check to play a few events, and suddenly we were the greatest show on earth. Gotta love Mac. He’s nothing if not consistent. Did I want Mac involved? Sure, he was a huge draw. He made his first appearance in Moscow in April that year, beating me in the finals. His feelings toward the Champions Tour changed, and he soon became a regular and valuable asset.

At marquee events like Westchester or Naples, Mac would go out and kill his opponents, which was understandable since all the guys were trying their hardest to win. Unfortunately, he’d do the same thing in the early rounds of the smaller venues. Come on, Mac. That wasn’t nice. This isn’t Wimbledon. Apparently, he just didn’t get the memo.

Was history repeating itself? It sure felt like that during 1998. By mid-August Mac had won three titles, including Citibank, and topped the Nuveen rankings.

Since we’d both been off the tour, we were easier with each other, but bitter rivalries don’t just die. There’s always unfinished business that—given the right circumstances, such as two Irish left-handers going after the same prize—can get ugly in a hurry. Which is exactly what happened during the final of the Champions Tour event in Dallas in September.

It’s hot as hell. I want to win. He wants to win. He’s complaining about bad calls. I’m joking with the fans. And we’ve only played five games in the first set.

Mac makes a return of serve. I make a step toward it, then stop. It’s going wide. The line judge calls it wide. The umpire nods and announces the point in my favor.

Mac explodes. “So you’re just going to sit there,” he yelps, “and let Connors intimidate you?! That’s all he’s doing, trying to intimidate you!”

“And you”—now he’s pointing at me—“you are a fucking cheater! That’s the only way you can win!”

“Really?” I fire back. “You think I need to cheat to beat you? That’s the furthest thing from my mind. But, listen, Mac—if you want it that bad, then you can fucking have it. Take the match and stick it up your ass.”

I don’t say another word, but as I walk toward my chair, I pass Eddie Dibbs sitting in the front-row. I wink at him, then pick up my bag and leave the court.

The crowd goes stunned. They haven’t even seen half a dozen games yet.

Just as I’m about to disappear out the back, I hear someone in the stands shout at Mac, “See what you did, you asshole?!”

“Fuck you,” Mac yells and flips the guy the bird. That doesn’t go down well with the crowd and now the natives are restless.

In the locker room, I’m sitting having a sandwich and a Pepsi when Mac and his agent, Gary Swain, come in. I can still hear the fans going nuts out there.

“Come on, Jimmy, you gotta get your ass back out there,” Gary says, and he’s leaning right into me as he says it. I’m not in the mood.

“I’m hot and I’m thirsty and you’d better get the hell out of my face.”

Then Mac says, “Come on, Jimmy, let’s get back out there.”

“With all due respect, Mac, I’m sitting here quietly trying to eat. It would be better if you just give me some space.”

Billy Lelly’s standing behind me, and he starts to say something, but I cut him off.

“Billy, son, I’m not doing it. This fucker here”—and I point to Mac, and now I’m just stirring the shit—“can’t get by with that. I’m not going back out there. I’m stiff and I’m done.”

Of course I’m going back out. I’m just enjoying myself first.

I stretch this out for another few minutes before agreeing to play on. Mac steps onto the court first, and the boos rain down from the crowd. I appear and the fans cheer.

I’m not really back into the game, though. Mac takes the first set, and starts celebrating like he’s just won Wimbledon. Will he never get over that?

That just pisses me off.

I win the second set and we’re into a super tiebreaker to decide the match. The first to 10 points wins.

The tennis is intense and exactly what the crowd had come to expect from us.

I’m a mini–break up, it’s match point, and I’m hovering at the net. I volley, he tries to pass me, I dive full-length, and the ball comes off my racquet for a winning drop volley.

The crowd erupts. Mac and I don’t even glance at each other. Mac exits to the left and I exit to the right. Just like the old days.

Mac and I might not have changed that much on the Champions Tour, but Borg sure had.

On the main tour, he’d kept to himself or hung out with his own circle of friends. After quitting the main tour, he went through some tough years in his personal and business life. When he joined the Champions Tour, he was in shape, playing high-quality tennis, and a pleasure to be around. Björn had come out of his shell.

When Patti and I went to dinner with him, he’d have six beers lined up in a row before we’d even ordered. They’d be gone before the appetizers arrived, but it never seemed to affect him. He stayed sharp and fit right through the years of the tour. Well, most of the time.

We’re down in Chile for a match organized by Hans Gildemeister, we’re due to play on a court they had constructed right on a beach. It’s a couple of hours from our hotel, but we’ve got plenty of time to get there. Now we’re waiting for Björn in the hotel lobby when we should have left 15 minutes ago. I see one of Borg’s people walking across the lobby. “Any sign?”

“Sorry, Jimmy, no. I’ve called his room and knocked on the door. Nothing. Maybe he’s gone out for a walk?”

“You mean to clear his head,” I say. “He was pretty messed up last night.” Ten minutes later and still no sign of Borg. I’m getting anxious. Then the elevator pings, the doors open, and Borg emerges, looking, as they used to say in the Wild West, rode hard and put away wet. In other words, he looked like shit.

We shove him into his limo as he mumbles, “Morning.” Yeah, Björn, it’s morning in Tokyo. He smiles, saying, “Thanks for waking me. I’m looking forward to the match.”

We’re off. Hans has arranged for a police escort, and we drive like bats out of hell, making it to the court just in time. The passenger door of Borg’s car opens and he crawls out into the hot sun. The car ride hasn’t done him any favors.