A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

I was so worn out by my push to break the consecutive-years-at-number-one record that I skipped the
Australian Open, and was content to tread water through the spring events. I reached just one semifinal on
my way to London’s grass courts, but then I won at Queen’s Club and entered Wimbledon with a chance to
equal Roy Emerson’s record of twelve Grand Slam titles at the tournament I loved best.
At this time, Andre’s final resurgence was in full swing. He made a huge statement at Roland Garros in
1999, winning the title to become just the fifth man in tennis to post a “career Grand Slam” (winning each
of the Grand Slam events at least once). I had a good draw at Wimbledon with a relatively easy first
week. The demands of grass-court tennis created a smaller pool of contenders than you get at, say, the
French Open, although the downside is that anybody with a big serve at Wimbledon threatened to upset a
contender. It was hardly surprising to me when I saw that, just as in 1998, I would be playing Mark
Philippoussis to get at (probably) Tim Henman in the semis.
I knew that Philippoussis was getting ever more dangerous. The previous fall, his big forehand and
powerful serve had carried him to the U.S. Open final. In our Wimbledon match, he was on fire in the first
set, winning it 6–4. But he went down, hard, at 1–2 in the second set, and suffered a terrible knee injury
that would severely impact his career.
Henman was next, and at some level I felt for him. He was a class act; a friend, golfing buddy, and
frequent practice partner. The British hadn’t produced a male Wimbledon champ since Fred Perry, and
Tim was as close as they had come. He was always in the hunt, making the quarters or better, but the big
upset, combined with a little luck in the way of opponents, always eluded him.
Some pundits trashed Tim for not making that big breakthrough, but I felt that given the hopes of the
Brits and the pressure that put on Tim, he not only handled the situation with great dignity, he actually
played above his head at Wimbledon. I sat him down at the tournament myself three times (twice in late
rounds), and the next best thing to winning a tournament is losing to the champion. People sometimes
asked me if it was tough to douse my friend’s dreams as often as I did, and I have to confess: not one bit.
It was like beating a buddy at darts, or a game of H-O-R-S-E. You just played, the better man won, and
that was it.
The last man standing between me and equal status with Roy Emerson was my main rival, Andre. It had
rained on the Saturday women’s final, so the match between Lindsay Davenport and Steffi Graf was
scheduled to finish on Sunday, as a prelude to our final.
A Wimbledon final abounds in traditions and rituals that can really add to the pressure you feel before
you go out to play. There’s that whole thing about having to wait in the small holding room, looking at that
sign bearing the Kipling quote above the door. Then, when you’re finally sent on court, it’s with empty
hands—an attendant carries your racket bag for you, all the way to your chair. It’s a nice gesture, but it
makes you feel even more exposed and vulnerable. As you walk out there to play a Wimbledon final, arms
dangling at your sides, you realize there’s no turning back. There’s nowhere to hide. This is the test of
your tennis life. That’s part of what makes winning Wimbledon so special.
Centre Court is the epicenter of Wimbledon’s mystique. It’s a cliché, but the place really is like the
cathedral of tennis, and entering it you quickly get a sense of your own smallness in the grand scheme of
things. But unlike the world’s great cathedrals, Centre Court is surprisingly small (before the ongoing
renovation, it seated about twelve thousand), and the roof over the stands adds even further to the sense of