A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

his forehand, I could start doing damage because the flow of play almost demanded that he go crosscourt
—bringing one of my best weapons, the running forehand, into play. That gave Andre something to fret
about, because I could make him move with my forehand, and he wasn’t an exceptional mover.
I also sought to get into forehand rallies with Andre. Those were athletic hitting contests in which I felt
I had an edge, however marginal. On my service games, I liked to mix it up, especially on the ad side. I
loved going down the middle with the big serve—my strength to his (the forehand). But Andre was such a
good returner that I could only pull that off if I established the wide serve early on, just to keep him off
balance.
Andre was such a great hitter that I was constantly forced to mix it up—go for the second serve out
wide to his forehand, or just put a little something extra on the ball. Late in our rivalry, I started to serve
and volley more often on the second serve. He was a tough guy to chip and charge, but I did a little of that,
too. I threw in lots of double faults when I played Andre, because he forced me to try to execute at the
very edge of my comfort zone.
When I volleyed against Andre, I felt that if I could get the racket on the ball, I would be okay. I liked
my chances if I could poke the ball deep to a corner, or even hit a drop volley. I never felt Andre’s
defense was that great. If I got him running to a corner, or changing directions, I felt I had him. The big
danger was hitting a second serve only to see Andre get that return down low, to force a defensive volley.
You just didn’t want to mess with Andre’s passing shots.
The overarching theme, in my eyes, was that if I could make it a test of athleticism and movement,
things would break my way. I had the fast-twitch-muscle advantage. By contrast, Andre had amazing eyehand
coordination; he was unrivaled as a ball striker. The idea was always the same: avoid becoming the
puppet on the end of Andre’s string. Avoid getting into those rallies in which I found myself trying to get
the ball to Andre’s backhand, while he’s cracking forehands and jerking me around the court.
We had a tremendous crowd for our big quarterfinal in Flushing Meadows. Word must have gone out all
over Wall Street, the Upper East Side, and Central Park West that this was a potential classic, for all the
scenemakers, movers and shakers, and celebrities were out. The best thing was that you could feel this
respect and appreciation for tennis in the air. It wasn’t the usual noisy New York crowd, being
semiattentive. Everyone seemed riveted and there were moments when you could have heard a pin drop.
Andre and I gave them their money’s worth—this was a battle pitting the best serve-and-volleyer
against the best returner and passer. It was different from our final of 1995, because I attacked more—in
fact, I attacked relentlessly. I think I served and volleyed on every single service point I played for more
than three straight hours. That takes its toll; that constant stopping and starting, leaping and lunging, sudden
directional changes, and bending low can be debilitating.
That match also represented the longest period of time over which Andre and I both played really well
at the same time. We each had our little lulls and hiccups, but nobody lost serve for more than three hours.
I had chances to break Andre in the first set, but I blew it. I lost the first tiebreaker, but I came back to win
the next three. It was a blunt and sometimes brutal battle that was decided most of all by execution and
mental focus, rather than strategy or the way our strokes matched up.
In a way, that high point of our rivalry was also a microcosm of our decade-long battle. I held a six-win
edge in our rivalry (20–14), although if Andre had not taken significant breaks from the game we might
have played fifty times. I performed a little better in the majors, holding a 6–3 edge. He won all of our
clashes at the Australian and French opens; I won all the ones we played at Wimbledon and the U.S.
Open. We met in five major finals, and I won on every occasion but one, the Australian Open of 1995. We
had a few epics.
In the long run, I was just a little better at those giant moments, just like I was on that sultry New York