A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

Paul wanted me to attack relentlessly, and the conditions for that strategy were good. It was hot and dry
and the court would be playing fast. I might be able to attack and pressure Bruguera, although he was a
great defender and could run down anything.
The Parisians are astute fans and tennis aesthetes; they like players who are stylish, daring, or
flamboyant. They understood what a coup it would have been for me, a serve-and-volley player who
played a relatively clean, elegant game, to win the ultimate clay-court title—and the only Grand Slam that
had eluded me up to that point. But most important, they were well aware that I had just lost Tim, and their
sympathy for me was obvious. Their press, led by that great sports daily L’Équipe, was all over the story.
Tim had just died, yet because of all the publicity and the endless questions, he was more alive in my
mind than at any time since before he became ill.
Inspired by the outpouring of concern, respect, and support, I beat Bruguera 6–3 in the fifth. I know Tim
would have been proud of the way I attacked and kept the pressure on. I kept my head up for the entire
match, and I really felt Tim—and the French crowd—pushing me through the rough parts of that battle. In
the next round, I beat my friend and Davis Cup doubles partner Todd Martin, and I lucked out a bit to get
Aussie Scott Draper in the fourth round—Aussie attackers just didn’t pose the kinds of problems on clay
as the European grinders did.
But in the quarters, I was up against Jim Courier, who played extremely well on clay, especially
Parisian clay. He was a two-time champ at Roland Garros, and a dominant guy there for half a decade. I
lost the first two sets, which was suicidal given the quality of my opponent. But I felt oddly confident and
calm, as if Tim were looking over my shoulder, telling me that it was okay, everything was going to work
out. And in reality, I was striking the ball well and putting myself in position to win points. I was getting
my backhand to his backhand, which was always the key to playing Jim, who loved to dictate with his
forehand. I felt I was outplaying him, but for one thing: I was missing a few volleys here and there, and
generally failing to close.
Things changed in the third and fourth sets. I started to finish effectively, and everything else fell into
place. Soon I was dominating, although I was also beginning to feel the physical toll. But emotion and
inspiration pulled me through. After I won the match, I said something in the press interview about feeling
that Tim was watching and helping me. I stated that as fact, and it just added to the developing story.
Beating Jim gave me a semifinal berth opposite Yevgeny Kafelnikov, and I liked my chances in that one. I
liked them a lot.
But a weird thing happened in the forty-eight hours before I played the semi. I had cravings—
unbelievable cravings—for grease. I would have killed for an old-fashioned cheeseburger, or a big pizza,
or even just a couple of sunny-side-up eggs. For two nights, I had trouble sleeping, the desire was so
powerful. It was truly bizarre, and as I think back, the only logical answer is that I was lacking something
critical in my diet—probably fat. I may have needed to replenish something I’d lost over a week and a
half of tough matches, sweating under a strong sun. Maybe I lacked salt. I know an ultramarathoner who
stops after twenty miles and inhales a burger or a pizza. He told me his body needs it, so that’s what he
does. Looking back, I know I should have found a Pizza Hut in Paris and feasted on a greasy pie.
But, disciplined guy that I am, I held out. I kept to my typical, healthy playing diet right down to limiting
myself to one cup of coffee. Then I would go to the tournament site, practice, and, if I was playing late in
the day, have a sandwich (usually turkey) and maybe eat a banana. That usually did it for the day, with a
light pasta dish, perhaps with chicken on the side, for dinner.
When Friday rolled around, I was scheduled to play the early semifinal match. Playing the first semi in
Paris is a drag. It’s a late crowd in Paris, especially in the choice seats gobbled up by corporations.
Frenchmen are not likely to pass up a long, lavish lunch in the corporate hospitality area just to catch the
first hour or two of what is usually at least a six-hour center-court program. So in Paris, you can find
yourself playing a Grand Slam semifinal that has all the atmosphere of a second-round day match in