A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

had won two U.S. Open titles by then, and he had done a brief stint at number one. He reached the ultimate
plateau in the summer of 1999, almost a year to the day before we met in the 2000 Wimbledon final.
Rafter was a popular, classy guy, although he was one of the very few rivals with whom I had—for a
time—a testy relationship. It all started back in 1998 when Rafter beat me 6–4 in the third in the final at
Cincinnati. In the press conference, someone asked me what the difference was between Pete Sampras
and Pat Rafter, and I said, “Ten Grand Slam titles.” It was the wrong thing to say. I just got kind of
uncharacteristically emotional there, following a tough loss. He took offense and I don’t blame him.
Rafter also tagged me in the semifinals of the U.S. Open, just weeks after that Cincinnati incident; I
guess my snide put-down had him all fired up. Then, when he became number one, he made some remarks
to the effect that it was great for tennis that I was no longer number one. Of course, the press were all over
that, and they wanted my reaction. I took the high road, and just said that if Pat had an issue with me, he
could talk to me face-to-face. The next day Pat called and apologized. He admitted he was being a little
vindictive, and I told him that my own remarks in Cincinnati the previous year had been arrogant and ill
conceived.
We got along fine after that, although his game continued to give me fits. Pat was extremely crafty, and
he could put a lot of pressure on me with his relentless, kamikaze-like net rushing. I had a lot of trouble
with Pat’s serve; it wasn’t the pace or weight of his shots, and it wasn’t the speed, because he hit the
kicker (a relatively slow serve) almost all the time. It was the way he mixed up his serves, moved them
around, and kept me guessing. He was an absolute master of picking his service locations. He’d kick one
out wide, then the next one would be into the body. I’m glad he wasn’t a lefty, able to kick it high to my
backhand in the ad court. My life would really have been miserable then.
My folks had flown to London the day before the final to attend one of my Grand Slam matches for just
the second time. The first time was for my 1992 U.S. Open with Stefan Edberg, so I can’t exactly say this
was a good omen. Throughout my career, they had chosen to remain in the background, partly because the
hoopla surrounding a big tournament didn’t suit them. I know they were very wary about being identified
for the television audience. They felt that tennis was my deal, they were shy people, and they didn’t want
to appear to be basking in my glory.
But this particular tournament was different; they wanted to be present for me, and to share in my
potentially historic feat. I asked my parents what I could do for them in London, and they said they just
wanted to talk to me to wish me luck before the match and wanted to stay off the television. I told them I
could handle the first task, but I had no control over the second. We did find them seats in the crowd, but
the NBC cameramen searched and found them in the stands anyway. So I ended up 1–1 on the wishes.
Pat had played a great semifinal to beat Andre, and he came into the championship match riding an
emotional high. We both played well at the start, thrusting and parrying for about forty-five minutes, to 4–
all and then 5–all before the rains came. The rain delay had special significance for me, because it meant
that the cortisone shot would be wearing off earlier in the match than usual. At this point, I was so close to
winning the event that I was willing to toss caution to the wind and get another injection to get me through
the final. But the doctor was pretty adamant about not doing that; he said we had touched it enough
already. So after the delay I went back out, feeling considerably more uncomfortable than when we had
stopped.
I had my hands full and then some: I lost my nerve a little and Pat won the first-set tiebreaker 12–10.
The next set went to the tiebreaker as well. When Pat jumped to a 4–1 lead, I thought I was going to lose
the match. It was a shame—my parents had come all the way to London, and it looked like I would fail to
produce a win again. But Pat, faced with a match that could become the highlight on his résumé (you know
how those Aussies are about Wimbledon), faltered. He had two set points at 6–4 up in the tiebreaker, but
he failed to convert either. I guarantee that if he’d won either of those points, he would’ve won the title.
When I wriggled out of the jam and won the tiebreaker, the complexion of the entire match changed.