CAREER RESULTS CAREER SUMMARY NEWS FEATURE ARTICLE |
NOTE: Thanks to CHRISTY for sending this article to me!
Natural born killer. Pete Sampras by Sally Jenkins Sports Illustrated v81, n10 Sept 5, 1994 © Time Inc., 1994 |
Somewhere in the carefully guarded recesses of Pete Sampras's
personality there is a witty conversationalist and a bit of a neurotic and a very testy
guy and all those other things he is accused of not being. They're down there elbowing for
space with the nice, clean-cut young man. Every now and then, one of them will win out --
like when Sampras goes out to dinner and has to wait for his meal. He starts squirming in
his chair, and a swift 10 minutes later those famous good manners have totally frayed and
he is saying, "Where's the damn
food?"
Sampras would probably have about two hemorrhages if you suggested that he was anything
other than a "nice, normal young guy," as he puts it, because he's very into
appearances. Sure, Sampras is a nice guy, and he certainly looks normal. But it's as his
brother, Gus, says, "Just because Pete is nice to you doesn't mean he really likes
you."
Nice, normal guys do not have five Grand Slam tennis titles by age 23 and make slick
commercials with Tony Bennett singing in the background. They were not prodigies from age
seven, practically created by a mad scientist. They do not call George Steinbrenner and
Vitas Gerulaitis friends, nor do they appear on David Letterman. They do not pursue
immortality, and they do not treat losing a tennis match like a death in the family. Sure,
Sampras always shakes hands, and he never throws his racket. "But underneath it
all," he says, "I'm
trying to kick your ass. In a nice way."
If Sampras were just a nice, normal guy, he would probably be off somewhere with the rest
of his generation, writhing in a mosh pit or hacking through cyberspace. Instead he
strolled the deserted grounds of Wimbledon before the start of this year's tournament in a
pair of checkered shorts and geeky blue boating shoes. Sampras rounded a corner and came
upon Rod Laver and Ken Rosewall having a hit. Sampras has been invoking the names of Laver
and Rosewall, comparing himself to them, since he was a boy.
Sampras put down his bag and pulled out a racket. He thumped it against his hand. At the
invitation of Laver and Rosewall, he pulled on a pair of Nikes, no socks, and took the
court, breaking only about 40 club rules on attire. Laver sent a backhand crosscourt.
Sampras streaked after it and launched a vintage running forehand reply that ticked the
chalk. "That'll do," Laver said.
Sampras's insistence on modeling himself after Laver, immortal for his achievements and
not his haircut, is one reason there has been such a rush to declare him a bore. In that
rush, the whole point of Sampras has been lost. Sampras is a driven, even obsessed young
man who is brazenly reaching for a piece of history and doing so with the kind of physical
grace and talent that comes along once in a generation, found only in the Lavers, Michael
Jordans, Joe Montanas and Wayne Gretzkys.
So stop comparing Sampras to his peers. He doesn't have any. Guys like second-ranked Goran
Ivanisevic are irrelevant -- Sampras beat Ivanisevic in straight sets in the Wimbledon
final, and going into the U.S. Open this week, Sampras's lead over Ivanisevic in the
rankings was a staggering 2,223 points. Sampras has already equaled Boris Becker's five
Grand Slam titles, is well on his way to John McEnroe's seven and Jimmy Connors's eight
and is almost halfway to the goal, Laver's 11. Sampras's only real competition is the
record book. "The older I get," he says, "the more I believe that."
But achievement is not chic. Rebellion is. And Sampras has never been rebellious. The
closest he came was a little youthful alienation, which explains why Catcher in the Rye is
his favorite book and his motto comes from Holden Caulfield: "Don't ever tell anybody
anything." Because Sampras is private and ambitious, he has gotten a reputation as
empty. It is unjustified. "Nobody," says his golfing buddy Gerulaitis, "is
that uncomplicated." The way Sampras sees it, his very squareness makes him the
height of iconoclasm. While
everybody shouts, Sampras wants to whisper. He isn't going to have a public catharsis just
so we can all feel better about making stars out of loud but empty suits. That's boring?
"You know, sometimes I think maybe I'm not the boring one," Sampras says. Right
there he proves he is smarter than you thought.
Sampras isn't going to parade his neuroses, but he has them. Take his sleep. Don't ever,
under any circumstances, mess with his sleep. "I'm definitely neurotic about
that," he says. "I'm a world-class sleeper. I'm obsessed."
In perfect conditions Sampras can sleep 11 hours. But it is a princess-and-the-pea ordeal.
The room must be totally dark. If there is a light on a clock radio, he covers it with a
towel. The red light on the TV cable box, too, must be blotted out. He draws the curtains
tightly, and
then he attacks the thermostat, cranking the temperature down to a cavelike chill.
"Room temperature makes me sweat," he says. At last he climbs into bed -- and
the sheets must be perfectly smooth, without a wrinkle.
There is one more requirement: "No one can touch me." His live-in companion,
Delaina Mulcahy, is ordered to a safe distance. "Neutral corners," he declares.
So there. A bona fide Sampras quirk. Everybody happy now?
Underneath that older-than-his-years detachment Sampras is nothing but feelings and
quirks. He is terrified of dogs; it's a real phobia. His stomach is temperamental. So are
his feet, which are constantly troubled by tendinitis and require ultrastiff supports in
his sneakers. Sampras's feet are so tender, he had to take a six-week break from the tour
this summer, and he entered the U.S. Open having played only two Davis Cup matches since
winning Wimbledon.
When he appeared on the Letterman show five days after that victory, Sampras revealed a
wise-guy attitude lurking beneath his stiff demeanor. He cracked up the host with his
imitation of Barbra Streisand cheering for Andre Agassi. "Come on, 'Dre. Come on,
honey," Sampras cooed.
Still, Sampras can almost understand why the "boring" label has persisted.
"People today want controversy," he says. Sampras does nothing to help himself
with a posture that borders on the depressive and an attitude that is beyond unassuming.
When he walks by, head hanging, you can almost hear people thinking, That's him? Come on.
He looks like my Labrador. "You look at some people, and they're on edge, and you can
tell they're geniuses," Sampras says. "If someone met me, they wouldn't suspect
it."
Sometimes Sampras doesn't even get noticed. He was relaxing in first class on a flight
from Los Angeles back to Tampa last year when he realized he was sitting right behind
Barry Bonds. "I recognized him by his earring," Sampras says. Bonds just went on
signing autographs and chatting with a guy sitting across the aisle from Sampras. Finally
Bonds gave Sampras a look. Sampras waited for the recognition to come. Bonds turned back
to his companion across the way and said, "If this kid moves, then you could sit over
here."
Sampras wordlessly rose and changed seats. For the whole four-hour flight he just meekly
ate his meal and watched the movie. "It was interesting and weird and funny, and I
kind of liked it," he says.
Sampras neither cultivates nor flees his celebrity. He seeks only serenity. He and Mulcahy
live in a pleasant three-bedroom house on a golf course outside Tampa. The house, which is
5,000 square feet but not exceptionally luxurious, has the requisite swimming pool,
pocket-billiards table and even a goldfish pond, but it is nothing compared to Wade
Boggs's spread next door, which is four
times as large.
Sampras barely touches his wealth -- $10,273,112 in career prize money plus an estimated
$2 million a year in endorsements. He tells his agents at IMG, "Just make sure I have
enough for the rest of my life." Even his idea of celebrating another Grand Slam
tournament title is moderate. He flies home to Tampa and greases out at Checkers or
Fuddruckers, busting his low-fat training diet wide open with a cheeseburger. "Then
he feels sick," his brother says.
Just because Sampras has simple tastes does not mean he is dull, as suggested by his
relationship with Gerulaitis, or Uncle Vitas, as he wryly calls him. Sampras, the supposed
introvert, and 40-year-old Gerulaitis, the mouthy, flamboyant former champion, are an
unlikely pair. Yet the friendship that began on a driving range in Florida a few years ago
has become a mainstay for Sampras, who had lacked a close pal because of his nomadic
existence on the tour since age 16. "I couldn't tell you I had any close friends in
high school," Sampras says. "You need them. Vitas is someone I can talk
to."
Sampras is wary of relationships. "I meet a lot of ass-kissers," he says.
Gerulaitis is not just a confidant; he even did some informal coaching of Sampras at the
Italian Open this spring when his full-time coach, Tim Gullikson, was on vacation. Sampras
won, crushing Becker. "You know, I'm really tired of Pete getting knocked for being
too quiet," Gerulaitis says. "It's just his way of coping. Nowadays if you don't
have some weird slant on your life, people think something's wrong."
Sampras's strongest relationship is with Mulcahy, a 30-year-old second-year law student at
Stetson University in Deland, Fla. Sampras and Mulcahy have endured their share of snide
remarks and disapproving relatives since they met shortly after he won his first U.S.
Open, in 1990, when he was 19 and she was 26. Many, including Sampras's family, initially
questioned Mulcahy's motives in taking up with Sampras, especially since she once dated
his former agent.
It was Sampras's first real romance. "Delaina was the first girl that I felt
comfortable with," he says. "She's independent, and she understands. I don't
have to entertain her." The relationship has had an undeniably good effect on
Sampras. He not only has won
four more Grand Slam tournament titles but also is talking about getting his high school
equivalency degree. It is a subject on
which Mulcahy is adamant and about which Sampras feels guilty, having left school after
his junior year.
Much of Sampras's education, in tennis and otherwise, was influenced by Dr. Pete Fischer,
a neonatologist in Palos Verdes, Calif., who was his coach and tutor. Every champion has
one person he can never satisfy, and for Sampras it is Fischer, a fascinating man who
makes a living by saving premature babies but whose avocation is tennis. If it has taken
awhile for Sampras to show his engaging side, the blame lies partly with Fischer, who
taught him there were just three acceptable statements on a tennis court: "In, out,
and the score."
Fischer began working with Sampras when Sampras was nine. Fischer insisted Sampras betray
no emotion on the court because, he believes, "the scariest guys are the guys who
never change expression." Fischer ran film of Laver in the Sampras dining room and
set his 11 Grand Slam titles as Pete's goal. He switched him from a two-handed to a
one-handed backhand, converted him from a baseliner to a serve and volleyer, and developed
that unreadable service motion.
But they parted when Sampras was 18 and at the peak of his Holden Caulfield stage. Sampras
was being rude and, worse, not training. Fischer confronted him. "The only acceptable
ranking for you is Number 1," Fischer said. Pete's father, Sotorios, defended his
son. "What if he wants to be Number 5?" he said. "Unacceptable," said
Fischer. They also haggled over money and Fischer's refusal to travel with Pete. The
result was that the pair barely spoke until Sampras won his first major championship, the
1990 U.S. Open, at 19. Fischer called to congratulate him.
Still Sampras cannot satisfy Fischer. On a recent visit after a European swing during
which Sampras won the Italian Open and Wimbledon but lost at Roland Garros, the opening
line from Fischer was, "You know, Pete, you won't really be one of the alltime greats
until you've won the French." Says Sampras, amused and angry at the same time,
"Nothing is ever good enough for that guy. I come home from winning Wimbledon, and he
says, You're getting there.' "
People have always felt they needed to cattle-prod Sampras, to jab a finger in his face
and say, Hey You could play rings around them all, even Connors and McEnroe. You're the
great Grand Slam hope, so start rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. Champions, after all,
are supposed to burn. If Sampras burns, it is with a long, slow flame.
"I look straight down, I stick my tongue out, I hit a great shot and just walk
off," he says. "It looks casual, like I'm not really interested. When I'm
playing well, I look like a genius, and when I'm not, people think I'm tanking it out
there."
Sampras burns on the inside. Otherwise he wouldn't keep seeking out those never-satisfied
types like Fischer and, now, Pat Etcheberry.
Sampras recently was lying on the floor of a sweltering garage in Saddlebrook, Fla.,
heaving. He was in the midst of a workout, preparing to defend his U.S. Open title.
"No air conditioning at the Open," said Etcheberry, the Marquis de Sade-like
trainer who has also been responsible for the physical development of Jim Courier and
Sergi Bruguera.
Six days a week Etcheberry puts Sampras through routines: sprints on a stationary bike,
lifting 500 pounds on a leg press, throwing a medicine ball around the room and doing
abdominal crunches to the point of screaming. On this day Etcheberry piled more weight on
the leg press. "Pat, Pat. I have 10 more of these to do," Sampras pleaded.
Etcheberry responded by putting on yet another plate of weight.
"Inflation," Etcheberry said.
Sampras claims Etcheberry knows him better than anybody else these days. They have worked
together since 1990, when Sampras had a reputation for being nonchalant. Etcheberry needed
one 20-minute jog to know differently. "He has to be a half step in front the whole
time," Etcheberry says. "And if you get a half step in front of him, he turns it
into a race."
Recently Etcheberry discovered something else about Sampras. The longer he's No. 1, the
more ambitious he gets. "Most guys, when they win, they want to take a break,"
Etcheberry says. "Not this guy."
No matter how big the trophy, Sampras has already started working toward the next title by
the morning after. "It's all about winning," Sampras says. "It's all I
really care about. It's the only thing and everything. I'm obsessed."
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