The Outsider: A Memoir (9 page)

I wasn’t a bad doubles player, but playing with Nasty helped show me where I needed to improve. The quick-fire rallies sharpened my volleys, and each set was like a master class in the art of the topspin lob.

I didn’t have his natural topspin, but that didn’t keep me from trying to figure out a way to incorporate some of it into my game. Topspinners use a Western-style grip, with their palm under the handle, allowing them to roll the racquet easier. My hand fits more comfortably toward the side of the handle, which is great for hitting the ball flat. If I tried to copy Nasty’s stroke, I would have blown out my wrist in a second, but studying his technique did give me another weapon in my arsenal.

Nasty and I continued to play doubles together through 1975, when we won the US Open. After that I was pretty much done. I was playing in too many singles matches by then, and I didn’t want to hang around stadiums all day long waiting for the late-night doubles. Other players took an opposite view; John McEnroe, for instance, viewed doubles as good practice, and his partnership with Peter Fleming brought him countless Grand Slam doubles titles, but I didn’t need that. I was wary of burning myself out with too much tennis. I thrived on staying hungry.

I was young and impressionable, and a lot of what I saw from Nasty rubbed off on me. The good the bad and the truly ugly. On the court he could be completely out of control, like the time in 1976 when he called the German player Hans-Jürgen Pohmann “Hitler.” That was one of the more controversial matches in US Open history. Sometimes I’d watch him swearing at umpires, throwing his racquet, giving the finger to a line judge, or threatening to smash photographers’ cameras and I would cringe. Then two tournaments later, I’d be doing exactly the same thing. But I would also watch the way Nasty moved, gliding across the court in anticipation of the next shot. The way he played tennis made him the best show in town, and whatever else you got was just an added bonus. That’s why every time he played, the stadium was packed—you never knew what you were going to get.

I matched my Wimbledon performance by reaching the quarterfinals of the US Open in September 1973, with a significant win against Tom Okker in the fourth round. Tom had been in the world’s top 10 for years and was lightning-fast around the court. As always, Pancho had been analyzing my opponents and devised a strategy for me to follow.

“He can volley, Jimmy, and he rushes the net very fast. Hit the ball flat and keep it low, and when you see him coming to the net, make sure you mix up your passing shots. Don’t forget the lob; that will catch even Okker off guard.”

The lessons I learned on the doubles courts with Nasty came in handy in that match, especially my improved lob. I had Tom confused, reluctant to commit himself to the net but unable to contend with my groundstrokes when it came to battling it out from the baseline. It took him out of his comfort zone, and a 6-3, 6-2, 6-4 victory set up my first meeting with the great John Newcombe in the quarters. Although I was beaten in straight sets, it was tight. I lost tiebreakers in the second and the third, and while I was disappointed, I knew the distance between me and the man who was to become that year’s champion was getting increasingly closer. I respected him, but I didn’t fear him.

My big breakthrough as a singles player came in the fall of 1973, at the US Pro championships, at the Longwood Cricket Club, in Boston. Longwood was full of talented players. This is my opportunity to move to the next stage, I thought. Bring it on.

Be careful what you wish for.

In the first round, I was drawn against world number one and top seed Stan Smith. I attacked him with my groundstrokes—I don’t think he knew what hit him—and won in straight sets. I then beat Ray Moore, Dick Stockton, and Cliff Richey to reach the finals, where number two seed Arthur Ashe stood in my way.

Pancho knew Ashe well—they were friends from his days at Beverly Hills—and he had plenty to say to me just before the match.

“Jimbo, he’s good, but you are better. He plays quiet, confident, so rattle him. Attack his serve from the start by returning hard and deep down the middle. Cut off his angles and be aggressive.”

I followed Pancho’s advice, jumping on Arthur’s serve at every opportunity. I had to, because the match would hinge on the ability of one of us to come up with something out of the ordinary. I kept at it, never letting him settle into a rhythm, and it paid off. We battled for three hours before I won, 6-3, 4-6, 6-4, 3-6, 6-2. That first big win not only felt overdue but good—really good.

Before that triumph, I had heard whispers from certain members of the press that I was just Chris Evert’s boyfriend. It seemed that our relationship was getting more attention than the tournaments I was winning. What the hell? It was just another distraction I had to deal with. I was the US Pro champion now. Screw ’em. I was starting to make my own name now.

Chrissie and I tried to see as much of each other as possible, but it was hard with our separate tour commitments. When we were together, everything was good, but long-distance relationships are tough. When you’re 5,000 miles apart, doubt enters your mind, and things can be taken out of context. We’d disagree about the little stuff that didn’t really matter and we’d end up blowing it out of proportion. When that happens, there’s only one place for the conversation to go, and that’s downhill. We’d end up arguing and then all kinds of accusations would fly, and I would think, “Really? Is that good for a relationship?” Better to hang up before things get out of hand.

I know I strayed, several times, over the two years we were together, both at home in California and on tour. I was young, hanging out with buddies like Nasty, Spencer, Dino Martin, David Schneider, and Vitas Gerulaitis. What do you think happened? After every match, we’d be surrounded by women, Chrissie would be in a different state or country, and the two of us might have had another fight on the phone. It happened. I’m not proud of it, but that’s what I did.

Attitudes toward sex had changed. It was after the pill (and before AIDS), and women were enjoying their sexual freedom. If they wanted to chase you, they would, and sometimes I didn’t run very fast. One-night stands were common on tour, and I had my fair share. That shy, laid-back approach worked pretty well for me.

Chrissie might not want to admit it, but America’s Sweetheart was no angel, either. It’s hard to keep secrets in the tennis world.

I wanted to make it work between us, and I’m sure she did too, but I guess we both saw our relationship as a temporary thing, two kids sowing their wild oats before settling down. Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime.

The reality was that if I wanted to see Chrissie, I had to get on a plane, so I’d call Bill Riordan and ask him to arrange a flight to wherever she was that week. I was doing all of the running around, and it began to have a detrimental effect on my game.

To remedy the situation, we decided to play some mixed doubles. We’d competed at the US Open in 1972 and had done pretty well, reaching the quarterfinals. Over the next two years in New York, we went one better each time, getting to the semis in 1973 and the finals in 1974. We also paired up at Wimbledon, where we reached the quarterfinals in 1973 and the third round in 1974, before withdrawing because of our singles commitments.

It wasn’t a bad record, but that really wasn’t the point as far as I was concerned. Although for me mixed doubles was about having some fun with Chrissie, she took it very seriously, finding it almost impossible to rein in her competitive spirit. I certainly understood, but there’s a point where you have to let go. Mixed doubles just didn’t matter enough in my world, and I didn’t think it should have in Chrissie’s, not compared with her success in singles. Still, who was I to make that decision? Chrissie saw things differently. It was as though she felt that losing was a sign of weakness, which could give her rivals on the tour an advantage in future tournaments.

Our different attitudes would clash on the court. In mixed doubles, no matter what tournament it is, who I’m playing against, or what round it is, I’ve always refused to blast the ball at my female opponent, even if the other guy is aiming at my partner. When that happened, I’d give the guy some shit, but I would never take my anger out on his teammate. Chrissie wasn’t particularly happy about that and said she thought I should go ahead and bury the other woman. I would just shrug and get on with the game, and that made her even madder.

Everyone has his or her insecurities; I had mine and Chrissie had hers. In the often claustrophobic, intense world of tennis, you can feel as though everything revolves around you, and her need to be the center of attention at all times became too much.

Believe it or not, there were moments when the spotlight didn’t belong to either one of us, and I relished those. Remember how much I loved westerns as a kid? Well, having a chance to meet and spend time with John Wayne was an opportunity I just couldn’t let pass.

Lornie Kuhle is one of my oldest friends, going back to when we were just youngsters playing tournaments in Illinois. When we hooked up again, after I moved to Beverly Hills, Lornie was married to John Wayne’s daughter Aissa, and Chrissie and I went to Mr. Wayne’s house on a number of occasions.

The Duke enjoyed his tennis, and we’d play at one of his local clubs in Newport Beach. In the evening, after dinner, there was usually some betting action on the backgammon board, and he talked just like he did in the movies. Whenever he took a pip off the board, he would say in that slow drawl, “Let’s get that guy on outta here.” I loved that! John Fuckin’ Wayne! Are you kidding me? Backgammon with John Wayne! But Chrissie always wanted to go home early, no matter how much fun I was having, and she usually got her way. All the Duke could do was wink at me and say, “Well, good luck, pilgrim.”

A phrase I used to hear a lot—not from Chrissie but from the people around her—was “We’ve got to do what’s right for Chris.” I got the point, but I had enough on my hands taking care of my own business. When you have two people in a relationship who both want to be number one, it’s tough. The math doesn’t work. You both expect to be treated in a certain way, and that’s impossible, because someone has to concede. For most of our relationship, that person tended to be me.

In another attempt to see more of Chrissie (and because I was on the road all the time, anyway), I even moved to a hotel in Florida near her house. We would hit balls together whenever I was there, and I saw it as a positive move, but Mom disagreed, probably with good reason. Choosing Chrissie over, say, Spencer for practice sessions was a one-sided deal. Chrissie’s game improved while mine didn’t. Hitting with me was good for her—the pace of my shots helped quicken her reactions—but not me. Before a tournament, I’d have to take a few extra days to practice with the guys and get used to the speed and power again. Mom found that hard to deal with and made little attempt to hide her feelings, causing yet more tension between Chrissie and me, which we really didn’t need.

In November 1974, Chrissie and I both won the singles at the South African Open, in Johannesburg. This was during the apartheid regime, and because Arthur Ashe was the first black athlete to be given a visa to play in the country, the press interest in him was insane. They followed him everywhere, shoving microphones in his face and demanding a comment on every political issue. Arthur stayed cool throughout the whole tournament, but how he managed to concentrate on tennis I’ll never know.

Understandably, Arthur was desperate to win in South Africa, maybe more so than in any other tournament. I later read that he had identified the weaknesses in my game that he intended to exploit. They were as follows:

My serve. (I’ll give him that—it was only as good as it needed to be.)

My forehand. (Only in comparison with my backhand, which was only the best in the game. Quiet—this is my book.)

Shots with no pace. (People always said that, but I never saw it as a weakness.)

My overhead. (Just because I’m short? I resent that.)

Ashe’s mistake was to underestimate my groundstrokes, just as he had in Boston, and I blew him away in three straight sets for my 17th tournament win. With so many weaknesses, I sure won a lot.

That South African trip was important to me for another reason. There was no better place in the world to buy a diamond engagement ring. Of course, back then we didn’t know anything about blood diamonds.

I’d been thinking about proposing to Chrissie for a few weeks. Yeah, I know, with both of us finding it hard to be in the same place for more than five minutes, and with our extracurricular activities, it hardly sounds like a good way to start a life together. But I honestly felt that once we were engaged, things would be different. I was so naïve.

There were obvious problems. As a married couple, we couldn’t keep doing what we had been doing, letting tennis dominate our lives. And what if we started a family? Would Chrissie keep playing? How would I feel about that? Something or someone had to give. I am old-school now and I was old-school then, and in my eyes, I had to be the principal breadwinner in our household. But was that fair to Chrissie? I’m not quitting, I told myself, so why should she? I was trying to look out for both of our interests. One of us had to. But in South Africa, I managed to forget about all those issues. After all, despite everything, she was “The One.” We would spend the rest of our lives together, and somehow we would work it out.

We kept our engagement a secret because I still had to ask Chrissie’s father for permission to marry his daughter. I knew it was a done deal, but I was still nervous as hell when I went down to see him in Fort Lauderdale. Mr. Evert and I spoke for a few minutes behind the closed doors of the Holiday Park Tennis Center pro shop (I didn’t want to wander too far from my comfort zone), and he was very cool about it. I don’t know how happy he was, and I’m pretty sure he was thinking, “Well, this will never happen,” but he gave us his blessing anyway. I was 21 and about to get married.

It’s crazy when I think about it now. Why didn’t we wait a while? Well, why would we? We were in love and we told ourselves that this was the right thing to do.