A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

danger of turning tennis into a schoolyard rock fight. In terms of artistry, my final with Goran was a bust—
although I still believe that it was less because of the styles we played than the specific way Goran and I
matched up. Against a lot of my other grass-court opponents, it was a different story.
Here’s another thing to consider: I’m not sure that long points automatically increase interest in the
game—not by a long shot. People have complained for ages about the boredom of watching endless,
sometimes seemingly aimless, rallies on clay. I think the mix of court speeds and styles of play are great
assets to tennis, and one hidden cost of that tradition is that you occasionally get matchups that produce
one-dimensional tennis on a given surface.
Note that nobody complained about the game being too “fast” or “boring” when Andre Agassi was
playing, say, a Pat Rafter. And nobody rhapsodized about the glories of red clay when two grinders were
having five-hour rallying contests. Goran and I were not the ideal matchup at Wimbledon, although we
often played each other. In the wake of our 1994 match, Wimbledon went to softer, slower balls, and they
began to develop a new grass mixture that ultimately slowed down the courts and made grass-court play
more rally-friendly.
The “Wimbledon is boring” theme spun off another story line: “Sampras is boring—and a menace to the
game with his domination.” I stood accused of playing brilliant tennis that won minds, but not hearts.
After one of my matches, a tabloid ran the simple headline SAMPRAZZZZZZZZ. . . . I had been raised to
believe that winning matches is what counted, and that you didn’t make a fuss or draw attention to
yourself as you went about that job. Now being good was boring, and a threat to tennis.
It wasn’t easy to read that stuff, and it was the last thing I wanted to talk about in my press conferences.
Whatever I said was bound to come off as defensive, self-justifying, or both. Some people took it upon
themselves to interpret my extraordinary self-control as evidence of a lack of emotion. This struck me as
pretty arrogant. I had emotions, all right, trust me on that; I just knew how to master them, and that was
true on and off the court. That’s no mean feat in a sport known for producing hotheads and emotional
powder kegs.
Players like John McEnroe, Jimmy Connors, and Boris Becker won legions of fans because they so
freely vented their emotions. I understood that they needed to do that to play—or feel like they were
playing—their best tennis. And, of course, it always made good copy, and added an extra layer of interest
to the personalities of those guys. I never begrudged or envied that. But I also felt that the media could
have done more to appreciate that I was the yin to their yang.
In tennis, you always have two opponents out there—the other guy and yourself. You can’t worry too
much about the other guy, other than dealing with the shots he sends your way. The most important guy you
have to beat is yourself—the part of you that’s prone to doubt, fear, hesitation, and the impulse to give up.
If you’re too busy struggling with yourself, like some players, you can hardly be expected to beat your
opponent.
If you want to be great, get your own issues out of the way and play with a clear mind—then it’s just a
constant struggle for mastery of your opponent. The John McEnroes of this world are the exception rather
than the rule. Like most players, I always took emotional outbursts by my opponents as opportunities.
When a guy started losing it out there, I knew I’d gotten to his game or his mind.
I also was less interested in being appreciated or understood than in being a champion, and I didn’t
mind being an exemplary one. I wanted to wring every ounce of potential out of the Gift, and the only way
I could see doing that was through self-control. I also believed that if I just lived up to my potential,
appreciation and even understanding would follow. That was my blueprint for success, and it created a
backlash once it began to pay off. It didn’t help that guys like McEnroe and Jimmy Connors were running
around bemoaning the lack of “personality” in tennis.