A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

The assignment to Court 2 was made by Alan Mills, the legendary (and now retired) Wimbledon
referee. He had always done right by me, and we had a friendly acquaintance, so I was shocked and
angered when I heard that Alan had put me on Court 2 for the second-rounder against Bastl. From the time
I first won Wimbledon, I had, like most multiple Wimbledon winners, played almost exclusively on either
of the two main show courts, Centre Court or Court 1. There were solid practical reasons for that,
including security.
Court 2 was unfamiliar territory to me. It was called the Graveyard Court because of the extraordinary
number of headline-making upsets that had occurred on it. Those upsets occurred partly because of the
atmosphere and conditions. Court 2 has limited seating capacity, but the crowd is very close to the
sidelines, so you really end up feeling that you’re in the boiler room. The court itself is usually more
chewed up than on the main show courts, and there are numerous distractions, starting with the crowd
noise from adjacent Court 3. Also, the terrace of the players’ lounge overlooks Court 2. When there’s an
upset in progress, players and camp followers—a who’s who of those present on the grounds—gather to
watch from up there, like vultures perching on a cliff.
I felt that as a dominant champion for so many years, I deserved a little better. If I lost there, the
headlines the following day would be sensational: GRAVEYARD COURT CLAIMS ANOTHER CHAMP! SAMPRAS
BURIED ON GRAVEYARD COURT! Ironically, Tim Gullikson had added substantially to the lore and legend of
the Graveyard Court when he upended John McEnroe there one year. Was there some kind of karmic
payback afoot here? The answer was probably simpler. Perhaps the Lords of Wimbledon perceived a
golden opportunity to add to the legend of the Graveyard Court, and thereby the event in general. I
probably knew by then that the All England Club is always going to put its own interests—and glory—
first. I just hadn’t ever been on the losing end of that proposition before.
The road was getting awfully bumpy for me, at a time when it ought to have been smoothly paved. But
all these struggles and setbacks contained important lessons in life, reinforcing many of the things I had
always believed but never really had a chance to put to the test because of my status: People really don’t
care about you that much; basically, you’re only as good as your last win; people often love what you do,
while you can do it, but there’s nothing really personal about it; many people are interested in you for
what you can do for them, not necessarily because of who you are, or even how great you are; you may do
special things, but you’re nothing special; nobody in tennis is given a free ride based on past performance.
Some of those truisms are fair and all of them are realistic. But tennis players are selfish and disinclined
to see things objectively.
There was an outside chance that I could snap out of my funk at Wimbledon, but that prospect vanished
when I stepped onto the court. I felt terrible. I had absolutely no confidence, despite my history at
Wimbledon. What’s more, I was paired against someone I had never played before. Throughout my
career, guys had their best chance to beat me the first time we played. Once I had a good look at their
style, and developed a feel for how they hit the ball, I was a lot tougher.
I was in trouble from the start; I lost the first two sets to Bastl 6–3, 6–2. The funny thing is that I was
hitting the ball fine; there wasn’t a thing wrong with my strokes or how they were landing. It’s just that in
front of a lot of people, I kind of lost my way. My confidence had been slowly eroding for months, and
now big chunks of it were crumbling and falling off, almost by the minute.
Bridgette had written me a letter before the match, and tucked it into my racket bag. I read it in the
locker room, but I was a little distracted before I went out to play and it didn’t really sink in very well. So
at one point in the Bastl match, I had a bizarre urge to reread her letter; clearly, I was groping for
something, anything to get me out of the negative space I was in. I pulled the letter out on a changeover
and started to read it again. The first line was, To my husband, the seven-time Wimbledon champ . . . It
was a letter of support and inspiration, in which Bridgette basically told me to remember who I was, and
that this—playing tennis—was what I did best, and the thing I most cared about.