A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

established icon. We had a tug-of-war for the first set, and I won it in a tiebreaker that seemed to break his
will. I capitalized on single service breaks in the next two sets to wrap up a satisfying straight-setter. Ours
was the later match, so I got to watch portions of the earlier semi between Jim Courier and Stefan Edberg.
Like most everyone else, I was expecting an Edberg win, because he was such a good grass-court player.
But Courier was a battler on any surface, and he found ways to win. In one of his finest moments, given
the circumstances, he punched through to the final.
I would play my first Wimbledon final against a guy I’d more or less grown up with, a calm, steady,
worldly guy who—unlike me—never lost matches because he got discouraged. Although we were no
longer close friends, we didn’t have a problem with each other, either. We would say hi in the hallways or
locker rooms, and if we found ourselves sitting side by side in the training room, or a hotel restaurant, we
would chitchat.
Many people felt it was unfair that I had taken the top ranking from Jim, who clearly was performing
better than me on the Grand Slam stages. But I was undeterred, and determined to hold on to the number
one ranking. More to the point, while Jim had played very well on some big occasions, I had beaten him
in the four finals we’d played and enjoyed a 3–0 edge on him in Grand Slam battles.
I was nervous from the moment I woke up on the day of the final—it was the opposite of how I’d felt
before playing Eberg in the 1992 U.S. Open final. I’d slept horribly and, although I didn’t throw up, my
stomach was so jumpy I had trouble eating. I was haunted by memories of the ’92 Open. This was my first
major final since then, and I experienced something new—the fear of losing. I felt it would be devastating
if this chance, too, slipped away. It felt less like I was going to play a tennis match than to stand trial, and
I had no idea what the outcome would be. Although I had played a few dozen tournament finals by then,
this was a Grand Slam and it was going to be more like my first time.
As much as I’d been through since September of 1990, this was still just my third major final. I was 1–
1, and had been badly shaken up by the one I lost. I didn’t know what lay in store, and there was no longer
any place to hide. Whatever happened, it wasn’t going to be a joyride with nothing to lose. I was the
favorite—there’s pressure right there—because of the advantage my serve-and-volley game provided on
the grass.
Tim wanted me to impose my game on Jim—smother him with a serve-and-volley display. Jim used
pretty extreme grips and fired his forehand with rifle-like power and accuracy, but if I could keep the ball
low and keep him from setting up to unload the way he did on clay, I might keep him off balance. But Tim
also knew I was capable of getting down on myself, and even wilting in the heat.
My prefinal warm-up with Tim was brief; I was distracted and, instead of taking a leisurely hit to get
the blood flowing and find my game, I kind of raced through it. I just wanted it to be 2 P.M. so I could face
my moment of reckoning. All the while the knowledge pressed in on me: the job doesn’t end when you get
to the final; in some ways, that’s just the beginning. Your tournament is like a sand castle. You lose the
final and it’s like the big wave came and, in seconds, washed away all that you had built. The reality is
that nobody remembers the guy who loses the final. I remembered my dad and that acid comment he made
in Louisiana: Look, that reporter is talking to Mal now.
The tension was excruciating. It was the Fourth of July, and hotter than hell. But as soon as Jim and I
started the warm-up on Centre Court, everything went away—and I mean everything. All the anxiety,
nerves, and pressure. To fall back on a familiar phrase, I felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted off my
shoulders. Thirty-six hours of intense pressure just went out the window. I had this acute realization that I
could finally breathe, and it felt great. I’ll never forget that feeling. The weight of my shoes was the only
thing that kept me from floating away.
I’d hit with Jim so often through our young careers that I almost felt his ball coming off the strings, and