A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

I was troubled in the winter of 1996, and a little dispirited, but I did win two indoor winter
tournaments after my failed Australian campaign, San Jose and Memphis. In the former, I rolled through
Andre 6–2 and 6–3. But after Memphis in ’96, it’s all a blur. Tim was dying; by then it was a matter of
“when” not “if.” I sleepwalked through the big outdoor hard-court events in the States, and earned my
appearance fees in Hong Kong and Tokyo by winning both—much to my own surprise.
As the European clay-court season loomed, time was running out for Tim. Our system of Tim being the
coach and Paul being the messenger had completely disintegrated, because it had gotten to the point where
Tim had lost his capacity to think clearly. It became tough to talk with him—about anything. The process
was heart-wrenching. Although my emotional state affected my play, it had nothing to do with Tim no
longer being able to function as a coach. I was very comfortable with Paul Annacone by then, and felt my
game and approach were in great shape.
I visited Tim a number of times at his home in Chicago. The last time I saw him, just weeks before he
died, was the hardest. He could barely hold himself erect in his wheelchair. His hair had fallen out, and
he was all swollen up—basically, he was waiting to die. On our drive back to the airport, I sat in the
backseat, while he was helped from his wheelchair into the front, beside the driver. Whenever the car
made a turn, his body listed in the opposite direction; he had no strength left. When he talked to me, he had
to move his whole body to face me. He struggled for words, remembering less and less. Everything that
made Tim who he was just slowly and inexorably drained away. I remember getting on the plane and
looking back, out the window, and seeing him there all by himself. I was alone, too. Slowly, tears started
to roll down my cheeks.
Tim died on May 3, 1996. It was the first time in my life that I’d lost someone who was like a family
member; I had never even attended a funeral. Tom Gullikson asked me to speak at the memorial service,
but I didn’t want to do it. I told Tom, “I don’t know what I’m going to be like at the funeral. I don’t want to
break down again in public, and I don’t want to see this ceremony become about me, so I’m going to say
no for now.” But when I was at the funeral, surrounded by so many of our shared friends and loved ones, I
knew I had to speak. It was the right thing to do.
I told a story about Tim’s extremism when it came to his hobbies and interests. He was always reading
different books that had self-help or spiritual overtones; he read about fasting, the Tao, Zen, and stuff like
that. So once when we were at my home in Tampa, Tim spontaneously declared that he was going to lose
ten pounds in seven days. He had read about how to do it somewhere. So he went to the local GNC store
and got this awful, dark green stuff that you were supposed to mix with water and drink. It looked like
pond scum, some kind of algae or something—and this was a guy who was addicted to Diet Coke. From 7
A.M. to 10 P.M. every day we were together for six years, Tim seemed to have a can of Coke in his hand.
So Tim slammed back the pond scum. A few moments later, he got up and went into the other room. I
figured he needed to make a phone call or something. But over the noise of the television in the living
room I heard this awful noise and realized it was Tim, throwing up. I ran to the other room and there he
was, slouched against the wall, white as a sheet, and still puking up this vile green stuff.
Rome was coming up fast, but I needed time to mourn Tim, so I pulled out. I did enter the World Team
Cup event just to get a little match play before the French Open, and I lost two matches: one to Bohdan
Ulihrach, the other to Yevgeny Kafelnikov. So I went into the French Open without a single win in a claycourt
match that year, while my rivals in Paris had battled their way through the entire European claycourt
circuit, from Barcelona to Monte Carlo to Rome to Hamburg.
When the draw came out for Roland Garros, I just looked at it and went, “Wow.” It was as tough as it
could get. On form, I would play two recent French Open champs, starting in the second round with twotime
winner Sergi Bruguera. It was time to step up; I knew that’s what Tim would have wanted me to do.