A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

Just weeks after the debacle of my Davis Cup debut, I began working in earnest with Tim Gullikson. Joe
Brandi had been good to have around to organize things and crack the whip. He had worked me hard,
getting me out early to run, forcing me to take part in two-on-one drills. And while he knew the
fundamentals well, I can’t think of a single thing he taught me that became part of my secret knowledge as
a top pro. It would be very different with Tim.
It took just a few days for my relationship with Tim to jell. It usually takes time to break the ice with
me, but Tim got the job done quickly because he was such a social, good-natured guy. We had separate
rooms at hotels, but it was more like I had a college roommate. Tim always wanted us to hang out in my
room or his. One time I wanted to get a little time by myself, so when Tim followed me back to my room,
I tried to give him a hint. I said, “Tim, I have to make a phone call, it’s kind of private.”
“No problem,” he said.
I retreated to my room, and Tim stopped to talk for a moment with the concierge (we were staying in
one of those fancy hotels where we had a concierge of our own, right on the floor). Tim was talking with
the lady, and when I poked my head out of my room two hours later, he was still talking with her—he
hadn’t even left the floor.
When we first went to Australia together, in 1992, Tim would come to my room every night and we
would order room service, talk, watch television. I guess he liked the company because he had a twin
brother and was accustomed to having him around all the time—even when they played on the tour. And
Tim was a family man. His wife, Rosemary, was acknowledged as one of the nicest of spouses on a tour
on which even the girlfriends and wives could be competitive. He was really in his element when there
were a lot of people around.
Tim was curious about everything in a way I wasn’t, and had opinions about everything in a way that I
didn’t. The way he expressed his feeling so freely seemed unusual to me; it was good for me to see that
you could do that. But even though Tim was opinionated, he was open-minded and decent—he would give
you the shirt off his back. From the very beginning of our relationship, he was full of questions—questions
about my tennis, my life, my family. I didn’t realize it until later, but he was opening and loosening me up.
From the start, it was me—the insecure, unsophisticated kid—who needed his “space.”
A relationship with a coach is a tricky thing to manage, especially for a young player. When you hire a
coach, you’re to some degree hiring a new best friend—someone in whom you choose to invest your trust.
But I was always wary of getting too involved emotionally. I’m naturally aware of boundaries, and
always thought you played by certain rules—mutual respect being the chief one, and not unloading all
your problems on someone else being another. At times, my way must have been hard for Tim (and later,
Paul Annacone), because a coach is supposed to be a confidant, and usually wants to be your confidant.
Tim and I sometimes had a little tug-of-war going—he would probe and pry, and I would resist
revealing how I really felt or what I thought. That even happened in tennis terms. I was trying to figure out
my game, yet I was reluctant to reveal my concerns, even to a coach. In fact, I confessed weakness and
confided in a coach that way only once in my career, and it was much later (as you’ll learn). I never
wanted to come across as vulnerable or insecure about my tennis—not even to my coach, no matter how
much I was struggling. I always had my guard up about that, even as Tim became a close friend and
something of a big-brother figure. Maybe I was too cautious, too closed off. Coaching me demanded a lot