A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

distraction that blunted my focus.
Anger? I would have been faking it if I took to strutting around screaming, with the veins popping in my
neck and my eyes bulging. As a kid, I threw the occasional tantrum, but as I became more of an attacking
player and grew into a man, that behavior kind of dissipated somewhere along the way. It just comes to a
point where you are who you are, and you recognize it. Pundits and fans sometimes wondered why I
didn’t show more anger or emotion now and then, and the answer is simple: I didn’t feel it—or if you
prefer, I didn’t allow myself to feel it; I internalized it instead.
But I experienced frustration and felt the sting of criticism as much as anyone. I can keep score with the
best of them when it comes to remembering who’s a friend and who’s a foe. I’ve got as much of a sense of
justice and fairness as anyone, but I always subscribed to that old expression: Revenge is a dish best
served cold.
With rare exceptions, anger is an impediment to playing well and winning matches. I remember seeing
Goran Ivanisevic lose it a few times in our many matches at Wimbledon. I would watch as he broke a few
of his sticks, and at that point I always felt that I had him. The meltdown told me that I had broken my
opponent’s composure and will. I now had him exactly where I wanted him.
I also didn’t want anyone to be able to read me like that. By being opaque, I may have made some of
my opponents a little more cautious and fearful. But that dynamic wasn’t an orchestrated strategy. I never
tried to intimidate anyone, and I never played mind games. My biggest weapon was being myself; I
showed that I could meet and handle the most nerveracking of situations in a calm, focused way—my
natural way. Being cool with no frills or affectations won me a lot of matches.
Early in my career, I marveled at the way John McEnroe would complain and stall, and suffer no
repercussions in his game (in fact, he often played better when he was on his worst behavior). His
outbursts didn’t bother me as much as they irked others, because I wasn’t easily distracted and always felt
confident about how our games matched up.
Andre Agassi sometimes lost it in our matches—I remember one year in San Jose, he cracked two
rackets, fought with the chair umpire, and called him a “motherf#$@&%r.” Watching that happen, I sat
back in my chair and thought, Okay, Andre’s finished.
I tried very hard to keep everything simple, and that meant staying at arm’s length from many things,
including nontennis relationships and activities that could distract me. I didn’t do many charity events or
appearances, I didn’t respond to business overtures, I didn’t chase women. I felt I had to make certain
sacrifices that others would or could not: I moved to Tampa and made it my home and base for most of my
career because it was the best location for training, and it took me away from the distraction of friends
and family in Southern California.
But I missed my family—often powerfully—and didn’t especially enjoy training for the Australian
Open in Florida during Christmas. Maybe I should have had someone to talk to about this stuff, a therapist
or something, because putting on the blinders and internalizing everything, denying myself even the
simple, harmless things like Cokes and cheeseburgers, being unable to talk to anyone about feeling
vulnerable in my game, or being afraid to find outlets for my feelings of insecurity lest it water down my
drive took a physical and mental toll.
After I broke Connors’s record, I was free to focus on what most people thought was a greater task and
more noteworthy accomplishment: besting Emerson’s record twelve Grand Slam titles. That required as
much planning, work, determination, skill, and luck as any other goal, but it wasn’t as all-consuming an
assignment. I could get that record without playing at the level I had set for myself over the last six years.
From 1999 onward, I didn’t worry that much about the rankings, or my performance in sub–Grand Slam
tournaments. Most of the regular tour events simply ran together in my mind, win or lose. At the same
time, a whole new cast of rivals was emerging and I began to lose more matches.