A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

oys play rough.
After the match, I felt really embarrassed and very exposed. You know that feeling when you just want
to cry and you need to talk to a family member? That’s where I was. I needed to hear my mother’s voice,
and when I did, it kind of melted me. I called home and Mom answered. She tends to lapse into a
compassionate drawl when one of us kids needs support, and I clearly remember how sad she sounded as
she said, “Aw, Petey. I saw what happened. Are you okay?”
I just broke down and wept again.
Tim learned the result of the match while he was still en route to Chicago, changing planes in Los
Angeles. He told reporters who met him at LAX, “I didn’t see the match, and I didn’t leave Australia by
choice. If I’m not healthy, I can’t help him. Pete deserves a lot of credit for coming back against a great
player like Jim. I’m very proud of him.”
The following day, the match and all the histrionics that went with it were all over the newspapers—
the incident was the talk of Melbourne, and probably New York, Paris, and London. Walking onto the
grounds, and in the locker room, I could feel people looking at me and talking about me, and all the
attention made me intensely uneasy. I told Paul I had never felt so vulnerable in all my life.
If there was ever a tournament that I seemed destined to win, it was that 1995 Australian Open. But it
doesn’t always work that way. I beat Michael Chang in the semifinals, but ended up losing the final to
Andre Agassi despite winning the first set. It was Andre’s second consecutive Grand Slam title (and the
only time in our careers that he beat me in a major final). I was emotionally drained by the day of the
final, but that’s no excuse. I’ve never blamed Andre for ruining the storybook ending, either. You live by
the sword and you die by the sword.
After the tournament, some of the things I heard and read really bothered me. People were writing
things like, “See, Pete Sampras really is human . . . he shows emotion!” or “It took the illness of his coach
to bring out emotions in Pete Sampras and make him seem human . . .” I suppose that some of those
comments were meant to be flattering. Some certainly were wrapped in stories that were otherwise
positive descriptions of how I had managed to beat Jim. But I had the uncomfortable feeling that some
commentators really did believe my effort not to show emotion meant I didn’t have emotions, at least not
to a sufficient degree. The inference seemed obvious: in some vague way I was less “human.” Coupled
with the Wimbledon “Sampras is boring” theme, this was a heavy one-two punch at my personality and
nature.
I guess it was a sign of the times. Things in tennis and society had changed an awful lot since I was a
little kid. It seemed that people increasingly craved sensation and they were also much more prone to
letting it all hang out—letting their feelings be known, pursuing their goals with abandon, without
apologies, oblivious to any message they were sending or how it reflected on them. This was supposed to
be more “real” than cultivating discipline and behaving with dignity. In tennis, those floodgates had been
flung open by Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe; in their wake, it was all about “personality.” For me,
it’s always been about discipline.
Those who wanted me to show more “emotion,” to be more “human,” seemed to discount that there are
many different personalities out there, and how they conduct themselves, in private or public, has nothing
whatsoever to do with the depth or nature of their emotions—their “feelings.” Actually, I never trusted
people who were always talking about their feelings, or expressing their emotions. I don’t think flying off
the handle, pandering to sentiment, berating others, making crazy, diva-like demands, or telling people
what they want to hear is a sign that you have deeper emotions, stronger feelings, or are more human.
You’re just less able to exert self-control, or are more demanding, or more willing to pander or make a
horse’s ass of yourself.