A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

Indianapolis or Lyon. It’s a bummer to play for a place in a Grand Slam final under those conditions.
The upshot of the scheduling was that I didn’t have that great atmosphere to pull me through. The
serious and passionate fans who come during the early rounds are scarcer when the corporate crowd
decides to start paying attention (usually from the quarterfinals on). The lack of atmosphere threw me, and
so did the conditions. It was hot; the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky, and there wasn’t the slightest
breeze. Of course, a fast, sun-baked court would help my game, but the heat could also drain me in a long
clay-court grind.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about stamina. I served well at the start, picked my spots to
attack, and made good use of my forehand to force the action. Kafelnikov hung in there without worrying
me. We went to the first-set tiebreaker and it was close, but I lost it—theoretically, no big deal. And then
everything just imploded. I didn’t get a game in the next set, and won just two in the third. It was by far my
most puzzling and distressing Grand Slam loss, and it occurred against a guy with a tendency to get tight in
big matches—especially against me.
I still can’t really explain why the wheels fell off. I just hit an unexpected physical and mental wall. I
was powerless to play better. I believe it had something to do with diet, which would help explain those
bizarre cravings I’d had—and suppressed. Whatever the reason, I just had nothing left, and I knew it as
those games rolled by. That’s truly a terrible feeling, especially when you’ve got twenty thousand people
watching live, and millions more watching on television. Even more especially when the ongoing story of
my unstated but very real desire to win it for Tim was such an obvious part of the plot. I had nothing in my
legs, nothing in my head, nothing left anywhere. And when the mercy killing finally was over, it only felt
worse. I felt empty like I never had before, utterly depleted.
I was stunned. Down deep, I’d felt that it was my time at the French Open, and that was all bound up
with having lost Tim. I thought it was meant to be, especially after my wins over two worthy former
champions. During that entire tournament, I felt like Tim was still alive. Tim and I were going to win the
French—it was going to be another team effort, like getting over the hump and winning Wimbledon. I’d
even had these conversations with him in my head during my matches at Roland Garros, and they helped
pull me through.
During the Kafelnikov match, however, there was nothing but a resounding, deep silence. I didn’t think
about this during the match, but I guess the silence probably settled in because my attempt to hold on to
Tim, my fantasy that I could keep him alive, expired. Despite having been to Tim’s funeral, I hadn’t really
faced up to or accepted the fact that he was gone. Two matches too soon, I had a devastating reality check.
When I hit the wall against Kafelnikov, and felt my dream—our dream—blow up in my face, it really
did sink in. Tim was gone. Our dream was gone. It was gone for good.
If anything good came out of Tim being gone, it was that Paul was finally free to shed that “interim coach”
label and carry on as my full-time coach, a job he had accepted when we discussed the subject in the last
days of Tim’s life.
Paul had been a solid, crafty pro with an interesting game. He didn’t move all that well and his ground
strokes were suspect; I always kidded him about having to recruit practice partners because he just
couldn’t keep enough ground strokes in play to give me a workout. But Paul had a great feeling for the
game, a fine serve, and a terrific volley. He lived by his wits, specializing in kamikaze tennis as a chipand-charge
player who was always betting that he could get to the net and make more volleys than an
opponent could make great returns and passing shots. It was not an easy technique to execute; on a bad
day, you could look downright foolish, kind of like a cavalry on horseback charging a tank battalion. He
was one of the last great practitioners of that style.
When chip-and-charge tennis worked, it was a bold and exciting thing to behold. It created enormous