A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

I was floored. I felt confident that I would win the U.S. Open. I was on the cusp of breaking the Grand
Slam singles title record. And I might have added a seventh year to my streak of finishes at number one—
this time, without having to undertake another fall death march in Europe. All of it was now going up in
smoke. I was looking at being off the tour for months, with the kind of injury that had permanently laid low
many great players, from the Aussie icon Lew Hoad to that smooth Slovakian former U.S. Open finalist
Miloslav “Big Cat” Mecir.
I felt like I’d been blindsided, because I’d rarely missed a major. I could hardly believe my bad luck.
Thankfully, Paul Annacone had a long history of back trouble, and he walked me through what I might
expect.
Dealing with injury is one of the toughest things for a professional athlete accustomed to the roar and
din of the arena and the adrenaline rush of competition. It’s a very depressing experience, and it takes all
your willpower and faith not to sink into a bad place, mentally and even physically. I left New York and
went back to Los Angeles, looking at a few months of therapy and, basically, laying around on the couch,
alone.
My condition was so bad that at first I could barely walk; I was literally house-bound. And when all
you’re supposed to do all day is lay around watching TV or reading, it’s pretty easy to let yourself go. The
fridge, full of ice cream and pop, is nearby, and so is the telephone, the instrument that was invented so
people could order pizza with ten toppings. I vowed not to slack off, though, and immediately started to
take treatment that was heavy on icing and electrostimulation twice a day. That was followed by a
regimen of exercises and therapy meant to strengthen my back muscles. It was tedious, painful, hard work.
It was also a real wake-up call, telling me to take greater care of my body. I worked and worked, fighting
off depression, mostly in the silence of my empty home.
But there was a bright spot to that otherwise terrible late summer—my injury was indirectly
responsible for my wife and me meeting. While I was hurt, I was watching this movie, Love Stinks, with a
friend, John Black. Bridgette Wilson, an actress in the film, caught my eye. Actually, she blew me away
when I saw her. I thought she was stunning. John is a pretty well-connected guy, so I told him, kind of
sarcastically, that if he really wanted to impress me with how much pull he had around Hollywood, he
would have to get me a date with that Wilson girl.
A few days later, John called and told me it was a done deal—he had gotten Bridgette’s number from
her publicist, whom he knew. “Sure,” I said, wary that this was going to be some kind of prank. I called
Bridgette a few days later. She was very shy on the phone. I asked her out, and she suggested meeting at
my place. I guess she wanted to check me out and not give away too much about herself.
Our first meeting was almost painful, it was so awkward. We were both tongue-tied, and we barely
made eye contact. It was comical, or at least it would have been to anyone who wasn’t either of us. Very
soon after she arrived, she asked to use the bathroom, and as soon as she left the room, this is exactly
what I thought: Wow, she’s really beautiful. If she can put two words together, I want to marry her.
When she returned, I quickly realized that in order to make things less awkward we ought to go out. I
suggested dinner at an Italian restaurant. The change of scenery—and getting onto neutral turf in a public
place—helped. Gradually, we loosened up and had a wonderful dinner. Back at home after our first date,
I was smitten—I knew she was the one. We started going out. I went from being down in the dumps about
my injury to feeling great about pretty much everything, including my tennis future.
After a long, slow recovery, I found myself still eligible for the year-end ATP World Championships; I
had clinched one of the eight highly coveted spots by August. I had just one match going into the year-end
championships, a 7–6 in the third win over Francisco Clavet at the Paris Indoors—a result that wasn’t
exactly promising. In fact, I had to pull out of my next match (against Tommy Haas) in Paris because of
back spasms—a minor problem that was linked to my long layoff.
I came within a few points of bombing out of the ATP Championships, because my first opponent in the