A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

As I threw my arms in the air after winning what would be my last Grand Slam, I let out a primal simple
scream that nobody seemingly heard or noticed. I hollered, “I f***ing did it!”
The match had proven to be the final and most daunting hurdle of my career. I’d experienced two years
of adversity with people breathing down my neck. And I’d found one last ticket to that place where I was
completely focused and sufficiently confident to get the job done. When it was over, I felt great. The first
person I looked to was my wife, Bridgette, up in the player guest box. I had to get up there; she’d been
such a critical part of my final push. I wanted to share the moment with her, and I also wanted the world to
see me doing it.
I felt great. This was vindication, pure and simple. Weeks later, the late publisher of Tennis Week, Gene
Scott, would write: “It just goes to show that at the end of the day, we didn’t know who Pete Sampras
was.” Gene later told me that he meant that as a reference to the depth of my competitive character. I was
very proud when I read those words.
I felt great. I had beaten my greatest rival on one of the biggest stages in tennis to win the title I would
come to cherish most. As it turned out, Andre would have a little more fuel in his tank than I did, but he’d
bought himself a few extra years by relaxing and taking a few breaks from the game in his prime. Andre
would play deep into 2006, but my candle burned out quicker.
After that last major final, Andre and I agreed to stay in contact—just in life. We agreed that it would
be a shame, after all we’d been through together, to lose touch. Besides, we had a lot of things in common,
including two kids each. We’d been players since the age of seven. We had a lot of history, a lot of life—a
certain kind of life—in common.
My sister Stella and her husband were at the 2002 Open, and they joined our small core group, along
with my trainer, Brett “Moose” Stevens, in a small victory celebration back at our hotel. We ordered a big
room-service meal and drank champagne, and I felt great. That same night, Bridgette and I flew back to
Los Angeles.
For the next two months, I woke up every day with a smile on my face. In just three months, I had gone
from absolute misery—despite all that I had to feel great about—to absolute contentment. This was some
example of closure, although I didn’t think of it that way at the time. In fact, in the following weeks, I idly
wondered what was next for me. I never thought I was done as a player. I felt I was still in great shape. I
had no doubts about contending. I didn’t feel like I was burned out. But as the weeks passed, I discovered
I had no desire to play, and pulled out of all the fall tournaments on my schedule.
By the time the Christmas holidays rolled around, I was getting used to hearing the happy squeals of our
infant son Christian. Paul Annacone, who was still my coach, made sure I got out to hit a few balls every
few days, but soon it was time to think seriously about getting in shape for the Australian Open. I realized
I wasn’t motivated to do that, and I pulled out of that, too.
I made no decision or announcement about my future; I wanted to be sure that when I was done, I was
done for good with no second thoughts. Two weeks before the 2003 Wimbledon, Paul and I started to
practice. I thought maybe I would play it again. But after a few days of hitting, I knew I was finished. I had
no urge to compete at Wimbledon, or even to go and see the old place that had been so good to me. I had
no fuel left in the tank, and it seemed like the work couldn’t be worth the potential reward. I knew it was
time to call it a career.