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A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

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I finished number one for the year for the third consecutive time in 1995, even though Andre held the top<br />

spot for most of that time. To clinch the ranking, I had to beat Boris Becker in the final of the Paris<br />

Indoors in November. If I had finished the year a close number two to Andre, the tenor of my entire career<br />

might have changed. For one thing, setting the record for years at number one wouldn’t have become an<br />

all-consuming goal for me the way it ultimately did. But I’m jumping ahead.<br />

Shortly after Davis Cup, I went on to Munich to play the Grand Slam Cup. When I arrived, Boris<br />

Becker pulled me aside and paid me one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received. If you remember<br />

how serious Boris could sound—how downright presidential—you’ll appreciate this. He looked at me<br />

and said, “That Davis Cup performance in Moscow was unbelievable, <strong>Pete</strong>. That’s why you’re number<br />

one in the world, no question.” Given that our rivalry was intense (I had beaten him in the Wimbledon<br />

final just months earlier), it was a generous thing to say.<br />

As the months and years passed, I would savor and treasure that Moscow Davis Cup accomplishment<br />

with increasing joy—I was especially pleased that it had occurred on clay. This was one fruit of the<br />

commitment I embraced after the 1992 U.S. Open final.<br />

A few important threads of my career ran together in 1995. There was the emerging possibility that I<br />

might break Jimmy Connors’s long-standing record of finishing number one for five years in a row—a<br />

mark that some thought untouchable. It was also the official start of the glory days of my rivalry with<br />

Andre; it just went to a different level when we split those two hard-court finals at Indian Wells and<br />

Miami. We were over the hump; we were a hot topic in sports conversations, among general sports fans<br />

as well as tennis nuts. And we presented enough of a contrast to make people feel passionate about why<br />

they preferred one of us to the other.<br />

The sad part for me was that all of that played out against the background of Tim’s illness. Although<br />

everyone, including the media, was respectful of our privacy, people invariably asked about Tim and<br />

expressed their sympathies. I had to bear a great deal of sorrow and uncertainty in 1995, and I believe I<br />

handled it pretty well. The public appeared to see me in a warmer light from that point on. I think they felt<br />

more empathy toward me.<br />

But there was a price to pay for the way I overloaded my competitive plate in 1995, and the first<br />

payment came due just weeks after the Davis Cup final in Moscow, at the 1996 Australian Open. I entered<br />

that event after having had less than a month of “off season” following the Grand Slam Cup (I pulled out<br />

of that with an ankle injury), and there was no way I was ready, much less eager, to play.<br />

I made the trip, though, and I played and ended up losing in the third round to an Aussie, Mark<br />

Philippoussis. The conditions were perfect for an upset: Mark had an adoring home crowd behind him<br />

and it was a night match, with some eighteen thousand fans jammed into Rod Laver Arena, hungry for an<br />

upset. Mark just overpowered me—he was in the mythic zone, and when that happens to a player who has<br />

as big and versatile a game as Philippoussis, you’re in trouble.<br />

Down deep, I didn’t feel too badly about the loss. I’d done my best. It might have been different if I’d<br />

been able to have six or eight weeks off to recharge my batteries and prepare for the new year. It also<br />

might have been different if it were any other major but the Australian. I never really liked playing in<br />

Melbourne, and my results over the years reflected it (I won just two titles there). This surprised many<br />

people, because on the surface the Australian Open might have looked like the perfect Grand Slam for me.

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