A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

are and precious, and I really felt the heat when I gave one away—and it was really dispiriting to blow a
chance to score one.
People sometimes said that the “problem” with grass-court tennis during the years I dominated at
Wimbledon was that a big server could just serve any opponent off the court. But the reality is that
winning at Wimbledon was never just about serving big. The biggest servers in the game didn’t win
Wimbledon; the great servers who did take the title often won other majors as well. Goran Ivanisevic
could serve me off the court anywhere, he was scary to play. Yet he only won one title at Wimbledon, and
that was very late in his career. Roscoe Tanner, one of the most deadly servers of the Open era, got to just
one Wimbledon final, and lost to Björn Borg.
Actually, Wimbledon has produced fewer one-slam wonders than the serve-neutralizing, theoretically
“level playing field” of Roland Garros clay. The bottom line is that the big titles are almost always won
by great players, because they have superior execution (everyone has great basic strokes) and the
strongest hearts and minds, and they find ways to win.
Todd Woodbridge had a career singles run at Wimbledon in 1997, making it all the way to the semifinals.
Although he is one of the all-time doubles greats, Todd had trouble translating his skill to singles. He had
great technique and finesse, and he was very crafty. But he didn’t make a lot of power and he didn’t move
great (in doubles, he only had to worry about half the court). Todd’s weaknesses played right into my
strengths, and I had little trouble with him. Once again, I found myself facing Cédric Pioline in the final.
I felt for Cédric, because even though he had played a previous Grand Slam final against me at the U.S.
Open, this was different—no tournament feels as historic as Wimbledon. There was no pressure on him; I
was the prohibitive favorite. His best chance lay in going out there and just letting it rip—what did he
have to lose? But that’s easier said than done.
Once again, as in our U.S. Open final, Cédric seemed overwhelmed. I won the first two sets, giving up
just six games. I was on top of my game and in touch with the Gift. It seemed like just minutes after the
start of the match, yet there I was, serving at 5–4 in the third. I found myself thinking, Wow, this is too
easy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful toward Cédric. It was just that the match was on my racket, far
sooner and with far less difficulty than I expected.
I had this flash as I got within two points of the match: Man, this is so big, what I’m doing—this is it.
Wimbledon. It’s huge. . . . And I was immediately overcome by this feeling of insecurity. I panicked, like
someone having an anxiety attack. I thought, Is it really supposed to be so easy? Am I missing something
here? Is this all going to turn out to be some kind of joke or hoax, on me? In a very real, visceral way,
it was like a great dream, the kind in which you feel omnipotent, but a part of you knows that at any
moment you might wake up and destroy the illusion.
But I didn’t wake. I coasted across the finish line in straight sets, giving up a total of ten games. It was a
fitting end to one of the least eventful or significant of my Wimbledon tournaments. I didn’t have any epic
battles or showdowns with career rivals. Yet my performance at Wimbledon in 1997 may have been my
best, in terms of having full control of my game and using it to maximum advantage for the longest
sustained period. One stat said it all: I served 118 games, and held 116 times.
I had every reason to feel confident about the U.S. Open a couple of months later. I was playing some of
the most dominating tennis of my career, and I had a great draw for the year’s last major. For starters, I
sliced my way through three relative unknowns—Todd Larkham, Patrick Baur, and Alex Rădulescu,
losing just thirty games (numbers almost identical to my previous Wimbledon stats) as I cruised into the