A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

was something on my mind, I would just bring it up over dinner, or after a practice session. Just throw it
out there to see what Paul had to say. I would sometimes ask what Paul thought an opponent was going to
try to do against me, and found he was very good at those predictions.
Tim Gullikson always wanted me to hold my head high and show no weakness to opponents, but Paul
took it one step further and liked for me to be slightly arrogant—you know, take that attitude, I’m Pete
Sampras and you’re not. He felt I was too self-effacing, too nice. He would say, “These guys are afraid
of you, and you need to know that and exploit it.” He was right. I never went out there afraid of anybody,
but I didn’t always take full advantage of my reputation and presence, either.
I could go either way on that issue. It wasn’t like me to be more assertive, and I was uncomfortable
consciously trying to cultivate the image that I was. I didn’t want to misrepresent myself, and I never
wanted to be perceived as cocky. I also felt there was a definite value in being so low-key that it made my
opponents nervous, made them just look and wonder what I might be thinking. The way a Boris Becker
strode around the court with this natural air of entitlement probably motivated guys to try to beat him. I
didn’t want to intimidate guys; it was just as valuable, in my mind, to make them nervous.
Besides, if I didn’t act like I owned the world, it was more likely that I wouldn’t feel that I did. It was
important for me to do that, because by the time Paul was my full-time coach, one of the big dangers for
me was letting my own press clippings go to my head. I took special care to play every tournament, week
after week, as if it really mattered. I always went out there taking nothing for granted, feeling like I had to
prove myself. I actually enjoyed that, maybe because it ended up giving me some extra positive
reinforcement when I did win. I never felt blasé after beating someone.
There were periods, of course, when I became a little tired or bored with the typical pro’s routine, and
I wanted Paul to be hard on me if he thought I was slacking off. A few times I hit a plateau, careerwise,
and started taking shortcuts. It just happens; you need to go on autopilot once in a while. Paul recognized
when that was the case, and called me on it. He knew my mind, even though a champion’s mind isn’t
always that easy to know.
Like I’ve said, Paul never got the credit he deserved. But in the end, I know what he did for me. I won
ten of my fourteen Grand Slams with him, and he guided me with a firm hand through some of the most
heartbreaking, challenging moments of my career.
As much of a blow as it was to lose in Paris, there was always Wimbledon. When Paul and I arrived in
England a few days after losing in the French, I appreciated the cool climate and those beautiful grass
courts. It was like deleting every recent file on my mental hard drive and starting over. I really needed to
regroup after the shocking collapse in Paris. The year was halfway over and, like most years, I would
judge it a success or failure depending on whether or not I won a major.
I skipped all the warm-up tournaments for Wimbledon in 1996, hoping to regain my stores of stamina
and energy. Things started to click for me when the tournament began, and although I lost a set to my
Davis Cup buddy Richey Reneberg in the first round, pretty soon I was firing on all cylinders. I hammered
Mark Philippoussis in straight sets in the round of 16. I rolled through Cédric Pioline, losing just ten
games. In the quarterfinals, I would be playing Richard Krajicek, the rangy, tall, hard-serving Dutchman
who was always a threat on fast surfaces. He could pop up at any time and win a tournament, looking like
the second coming of Pancho Gonzalez. At other times, he was just another big guy with a good serve who
didn’t seem to have the confidence or drive to win, week in, week out.
I felt that Richard was a little nervous as we warmed up under leaden skies. But he held his own
through the first seven or eight games, each of us taking care of his serve. Everything was fine, in my
book. I was making him work on his service games, and I was getting pretty good looks at his second
serves. I had break points here and there, which was encouraging even when I didn’t convert them. I had