Mcenroe Quotes

4. In between rounds at Wimbledon in 1982, I struggled to learn David Bowie’s “Suffragette City” and “Rebel, Rebel” in my hotel flat. I heard a knock on my door. It was David Bowie. “Come up and have a drink,” he told me. “Just don’t bring your guitar.

We made a successful, last-minute effort to get the French Open many years ago, when the USA network bailed on it. I remember, four of us jumped on a plane on the spur of the moment to cover it. I think we had someone draw up a sign (by hand) that we could hold up in front of the camera to tell viewers that it was ESPN coverage.

The great tennis player John McEnroe used this to his advantage on the courts. When an opponent was performing especially well, for example by using a particularly good backhand, McEnroe would compliment him on it. McEnroe knew this would cause the opponent to think about his backhand, and this thinking disrupted the automatic application of it.

You cannot be serious. You CANNOT BE SERIOUS!

when you’re young, you feel invulnerable. I don’t feel invulnerable anymore.

I sometimes rented a car and drove from event to event in Europe; a road trip was a great escape from the day-to-day anxieties of playing, and it kept me from getting too lost in the tournament fun house with its courtesy cars, caterers, locker room attendants, and such — all amenities that create a firewall between players and what you might call the 'real' world — you know, where you may have to read a map, ask a question in a foreign tongue, find a restaurant and read the menu posted in the window to make sure you're not about to walk into a joint that serves only exotic reptile meat.

And very few people have great natural ability. Everyone else—and this is true of most players these days—is in the middle: On a given day, a guy is a world-beater, then the next day he’s just not there.

The Open era had brought personalities into the game, and personality was generating media exposure, which was generating more money, which in turn guaranteed more media exposure - which in turn drove in even more money. Where money and publicity meet, there’s always excitement, but good behavior is rarely a part of the mix. Manners are the operating rules of more stable systems.

Tony Palafox drilled it into me: Be ready for the next shot. Know what you’re going to do next. As a result, because of my talent, my mental preparation, and a reasonable state of conditioning, I always figured that for two hours it was going to be a real pain in the behind to play me—and that 90 to 95 percent of the time, my matches weren’t going to last more than two hours. When they went longer, I became much more vulnerable, because I wasn’t in the amazing physical condition of a Borg or a Lendl; even then, my ability, my intensity, and my desire would always take me a long way. I’m a fighter. I’m going to hang in there and win a lot of my matches.

It’s also a shame because I didn’t have John McEnroe pegged as an idiot.

Here’s the ultimate glitch in his argument. If you extrapolate logically from John McEnroe’s suggestion that 699 people are better at tennis than Serena Williams, then there’s no real point in her competing. And if there’s no point her competing, there’s certainly no point any other women competing.

argument na moją obronę, myślę: 'This is why I say McEnroe’s an idiot. I hesitate because it’s possible he was just trying to say something interesting – an unfashionable impulse, these days, and one to be treasured. You don’t want to slap down everyone who says something stupid in the heat of the moment, while trying to spice up a broadcast or interview, lest we hurtle even faster towards an entirely empty and monotonous public discourse'.

But Serena Williams is right, albeit not as funny as she might have been: his statement is not factually based. 700th? Where did that come from? McEnroe was meaning to say, “She needn’t think she’s all that; there are plenty of men in the world who could beat her” but he overegged it with the number 700, which is a rather hysterical guess.

If it weren’t hysterical – if the amazing Serena Williams would really be 700th in the world if playing against men – this would mean that skill, technique and hand-eye coordination have become effectively irrelevant in tennis compared with brute strength and force. And if that’s true, John McEnroe might want to consider piping down about it, for fear of turning off the audience and jeopardising his revenue stream.

It’s also a shame because I didn’t have John McEnroe pegged as an idiot. He seems bright, funny and quite liberated. Only a couple of weeks ago, he posted a great vlog about equal marriage in reply to some dodgy comments about lesbians by Margaret Court.

down memory lane with his old rival John McEnroe, who, alongside everything else—music, art, tennis commentary, and punditry—maintained a busy life reminiscing about his earlier life. Sometimes it seemed as if the lucrative business of reminiscing was not just a full-time job but a full-time life as McEnroe rehearsed the key moments and told and retold the old stories, in his autobiography, Serious, in numerous documentaries, in the course of his match commentary and punditry for TV (hopping profitably between the BBC and an American channel in the course of the same day),

No, John, I’ve plenty of dresses. You remember what Mrs. McEnroe always said: ‘A happy person is more attractive than one who shows misery on her breast.’” “Mrs. McEnroe ran a brothel,” John reminded her. “She knew what she was about,” Pearl pressed. “And you are wearing your misery on your breast.

Who’s Who of

McEnroe, Connors, Becker, Evert, Navratilova, Lendl, Borg,

Look at almost any of the great players. Would they have succeeded anyway if they hadn’t been pushed? That’s the unanswerable question. Would Agassi have been a great champion if he hadn’t been pushed by his father? Would Monica Seles, if her father hadn’t quit his job and pushed her? It’s difficult to say.

Tengamos en cuenta, por ejemplo, el famoso (al menos en el mundillo aeronáutico) choque del vuelo 052 de pasajeros de la compañía colombiana Avianca en enero de 1990. Este accidente de Avianca ilustra tan a la perfección las características del accidente «moderno» de avión, que se estudia en las escuelas de aviación. De hecho, lo que ocurrió en aquel vuelo es tan parecido a lo que pasaría siete años después en Guam, que es un buen punto de partida para nuestra investigación del misterioso problema del accidente de avión de Korean Air. El capitán del avión era Laureano Caviedes. Su copiloto era Mauricio Klotz. Realizaban la ruta desde Medellín (Colombia) al aeropuerto Kennedy de Nueva York. Aquella tarde, el tiempo era malo. Soplaba noreste en toda la costa oriental, y llevaba consigo niebla densa y fuertes vientos. En el aeropuerto de Newark se retrasaron 203 vuelos: 200 en el de La Guardia, 161 en Filadelfia, 53 en el aeropuerto Logan de Boston y 99 en el Kennedy. A causa del tiempo, Avianca fue retenida tres veces por el control de tráfico aéreo durante su trayecto a Nueva York. El avión dio vueltas sobre Norfolk (Virginia) durante 19 minutos; sobre Atlantic City durante 29, y 65 kilómetros al sur del aeropuerto Kennedy, durante otros 29 minutos. Tras una hora y cuarto de retraso, Avianca obtuvo permiso para aterrizar. Cuando realizaban la aproximación final, los pilotos se encontraron con un cambio brusco en la velocidad del viento. Iban volando con un fuerte viento en contra, que les obligaba a utilizar más potencia para seguir planeando hacia abajo cuando, sin previo aviso, el viento cesó de manera radical y se encontraron volando a demasiada velocidad para poder tomar la pista de aterrizaje. Normalmente, en una situación así, el avión habría estado volando con el piloto automático, y habría reaccionado de inmediato y de manera apropiada al cambio de viento. Pero el piloto automático del avión funcionaba mal, y lo habían apagado. En el último momento, el piloto enderezó el avión y ejecutó un «motor y al aire». El avión describió un amplio círculo sobre Long Island y volvió a acercarse al aeropuerto Kennedy. De repente, uno de los motores del avión falló. Segundos más tarde, un segundo motor falló. —¡Muéstreme la pista de aterrizaje! —gritó el piloto, confiando desesperado en estar lo suficientemente cerca del Kennedy para conseguir de algún modo realizar un aterrizaje seguro para su decrépito avión. Pero el Kennedy estaba a 25 kilómetros de distancia. El 707 chocó contra un terreno perteneciente al padre del campeón de tenis John McEnroe, en la lujosa localidad de Oyster Bay, en Long Island. Murieron 73 de los 158 pasajeros a bordo. Tardaron menos de un día en determinar la causa del choque: «agotamiento del combustible». El avión no tenía nada malo. El aeropuerto tampoco. Los pilotos no estaban bebidos ni drogados. El avión se había quedado sin combustible. 4.

Voilà à quoi je pensais, tandis que je marchais pour rentrer chez moi, légèrement ivre, après avoir quitté L. devant le bar où nous avions bu un troisième verre. Nous avions bien ri, elle et moi, au fond de la salle, car finalement la conversation avait dévié sur nos passions adolescentes, avant Barthes et toute la clique, à l’époque où nous accrochions des posters dans notre chambre. J'avais raconté à L. les deux années durant lesquelles, vers l'âge de seize ans, j'avais contracté puis developpé une cristallisation spectaculaire sur la personne d'Ivan Lendl, un joueur de tennis tchécoslovaque au physique ingrat dont je percevais la beauté obscure et saisissante, au point que je m'étais abonnée à Tennis Magazine (moi que je n'avais jamais touché une raquette de ma vie) et avais passé des heures devant les retransmissions televisées du tournoi de Roland Garros et Wimbledon au lieu de réviser mon bac. L. étais sidérée. Elle aussi l'avait adoré! C'était bien la première fois que je rencontrais quelqu'un qui avait aimé Ivan Lendl, l'un des joueurs les plus detestés de l'histoire du tennis, sans doute à cause de son visage austère que rien ne pouvait dérider, et de son jeu de fond de court, méthodique et rébarbatif. Selon toute vraisemblance, c'est d'ailleurs pour ces raisons, parce qu'il était si grand, maigre et incompris, que je l'ai tant aimé. À la même époque, oui, exactement, L. avait suivi tous les matchs d'Ivan Lendl, elle s'en souvenait parfaitement, notamment de cette fameuse finale de Roland Garros jouée contre John McEnroe, que Lendl avait gagné à l'issue d'un combat d'une rare intensité dramatique. Les images l'avaient alors montré victorieux, défiguré pour l'épuisement, et pour la première fois le monde entier avait découvert son sourire. L. était incollable, se souvenait de tous les détails de la vie et de la carrière d'Ivan Lendl que j'avais pour ma part oubliés. C'était incroyable, plus de vingt ans après, de nous imaginer toutes les deux hypnotisées devant nos postes de télevision, elle en banlieue parisienne et mois dans un village de Normandie, souhaitant l'une et l'autre avec la même ardeur le sacre de l'homme de l'Est. L. savait auusi ce qu’Ivan Lendl était devenu, elle avait suivi tout cela de très près, sa carrière comme sa vie privée. Ivan Lendl était marié et père de quatre enfants, vivait aux Ètats-Unis, entraînait de jeunes joueurs de tennis et s’était fait refaire les dents. L. déplorait ce dernier point, la disparition du sourire tchécoslovaque (dents rangées de manière inégale dont on devinait le chevauchement) au profit d’un sourire américain (dents fausses parfaitement alignées, d’un blanc éclatant), selon elle, il y avait perdu tout son charme, je n’avais qu’à vérifier sur Internet si je ne la croyais pas. C’était un drôle de coïncidence. Un point commun parmi d’autres, qui nous rapprochait.

The final score was 6–4, 6–2, 6–3. I gave young Andre a hug at the net, and said, “Why did you listen so well?

Two days later, Michael Stich and I won the darkness-delayed doubles final against Jim Grabb and Richey Reneberg, 5–7, 7–6, 3–6, 7–6, and 19–17. It was the longest Wimbledon final ever in terms of games—eighty-three!—and the energy of the crowd, which had been let in for free on the extra day, made me forget how tired and stiff I actually was. Not too shabby for an old man.

Arthur and I had had our differences, even our clashes, but I’d had a huge amount of respect for him as a man, a black man, and a positive force for world tennis. I realized too late that he was the greatest ambassador our sport had ever had, and I was determined to try to do better myself.

My life feels good—and better all the time—but as good as it gets, sometimes it’s hard to forget those tremendous victories…. That’s when I have to remind myself that I really had no one to share those victories with. That’s when I remember how cold the top of the mountain was.

To me, “manners” meant sleeping linesmen at Wimbledon, and bowing and curtsying to rich people with hereditary titles who didn’t pay any taxes. Manners meant tennis clubs that demanded you wear white clothes, and cost too much money to join, and excluded blacks and Jews and God knows who else. Manners meant the hush-hush atmosphere at tennis matches, where excitement of any kind was frowned upon.

Why couldn’t the game be more accessible to the average person? Why shouldn’t tennis get the same kind of treatment—and interest—as baseball, basketball, or football?

Where money and publicity meet, there’s always excitement, but good behavior is rarely a part of the mix. Manners are the operating rules of more stable systems. I got caught up in the rising excitement of pro tennis—in some ways, I was the personification of that excitement—and yes, my behavior got away from me. That’s a big subject.

I always had to fight to find my best self, to be aware of other people’s feelings—and the devil’s bargain of it is, the players who are more aware of others struggle more. Boris Becker was like that, too. We would have brilliant moments on the court, and total meltdowns. There was just too much going on inside.

Tennis really is single combat, and it’s exhausting to be a gladiator.

I firmly believe that one of the hallmarks of a champion—any champion—is the ability to absorb losses and regain confidence immediately.

I wouldn’t have told this to a soul back then, but as early as my first Wimbledon in ’77, I realized I had the potential to be the very best: the best tennis player in the world. I confirmed it for myself as I rose through the rankings—but then, more and more, the problem became that almost everybody was somebody I shouldn’t lose to. The pressure became incomprehensible.

And I want you to understand: I felt terrible. I’ve felt awful virtually every time I’ve had one of my on-court meltdowns, with the exception of a few occasions when I really believed I needed to let someone have it. But those really are the exceptions. I’ve apologized a number of times afterward to umpires and players. And to anyone out there who felt they deserved an apology but didn’t get one: I apologize now.

I naïvely believed that this person actually thought along the same lines as I did—and maybe she did, for a while. In her own way, Tatum tried hard, too, but ultimately she just didn’t have the wherewithal to bring it off. She was so young! We were so young. As angry as I get, I do feel for her—when I can get through the anger.

People tend to forget the genuinely lousy level of officiating that was prevalent in professional tennis when I came along. That’s why, with my parents’ words echoing in my ears—tell the truth; be honest at any cost—I felt I was (don’t laugh) on a kind of quest to get things to improve.

Connors always had the ability to turn his anger on and off, which amazed me. I was a one-way street—mad, madder, and maddest. There must have been thousands of times, in tense situations, when a joke was on the tip of my tongue, and instead of saying something funny, I’d just let loose.

Once you’ve put in the work, though, the game becomes extremely mental. I had enough inner strength to know I could beat anyone at all, anytime, on any surface. But behind my defenses were some very dark places. There was always a devil inside me whom I had to fight. And the devil was fear of failure.

As I moved to the top of pro tennis, though, cockiness became a survival mechanism. I don’t care who you are, Borg or Sampras or Michael Chang—you can’t exist at the top without it. Self-confidence is a must, and so is selfishness. Tennis is an individual sport, and athletes in individual sports—whether they’re figure skaters, boxers, gymnasts, or sprinters—are self-involved by nature. Star tennis players all like to think they’re much more well-rounded than they are. We’re not well-rounded. Nothing in the game asks you to be, or helps you to be.

For me, the relief of not failing has always been just as strong as, if not stronger than, the joy of winning. They say that when things are going really well, you should just let it happen, but that’s exactly when I always started to get nervous. And that’s often when my outbursts began. I could be dominating a guy, up 6–2, 6–2, 2–0 and 40–love on his serve—but if he somehow got out of that game, the negative thoughts would start to creep in. Then, since I couldn’t joke around to ease the tension, the tension built up until it started to come out of my ears. And then my mouth.

It was as if Chang had read right through me: He’s lost a step. He can’t get back fast enough. The helplessness was terrible. However, I still took pride in the fact that opponents—even the young bucks—were always very up when they played me. Maybe I was a notch in their belts; maybe they felt, This guy’s a prick; I’ll show him. I like to think it was because I was a great champion.

For fifteen years, I had been a presence—terrible or wonderful, but never boring—at Wimbledon, stirring conversation and controversy even when I didn’t show up. In my own inimitable way, and without even willing it, I had become part of Wimbledon’s tradition.

It was the end of my marriage and the end of my tennis career, both at the same time, and almost nobody knew about it except Tatum and me. I felt as though the bottom had dropped out of the world. I couldn’t go on, but I had to go on. In Paris, I was literally crying on the changeovers. I would put my head in a towel and fake being angry.

I had once told myself that after my playing career was over, the two things I would never do were commentary and Seniors tennis. Never say never.

My shtick, of course, was getting upset. Did it help me more than hurt me? I don’t think so. Ultimately, my father was right—I probably would have done better if I hadn’t ever gotten into that. But I could never rest easily on my talent—or on anything. If I was ahead a service break, I liked to try to make it two—or three. I was always a better front-runner than a comeback player, because I could keep the doubts at bay when I was ahead, but they tended to seep in when I fell behind.

Week by week, I was rising to new heights, and when you ascend that quickly, and at such an early age, the oxygen doesn’t always flow to your brain.

What I didn’t realize was this: It’s never possible to be prepared when the future takes over from the past.

fantastic, rather like flying very slowly through the warm air. After that he went out on a Jet-Ski a couple of times, snorkelled for half an hour and then changed into shorts, polo shirt and deck shoes, put his wet swimming shorts into his rucksack and made his way up to the Ocean Hill. It was still only half-past twelve, far too early to appear for lunch. The rich lunched late. He went into the bar, got himself a glass of iced water and wandered outside to explore the grounds. They were spectacular, terraced gardens, complete with statues, lush green lawns, brilliant flowers, a great swathe of tennis courts, a large lake and what looked like a chapel. ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ It was Bibi. ‘Hi. I saw you wandering round the courts. Tim and I were contemplating a game, but the standard seemed a little high. McEnroe was the last person to play here. Oh, and Gerulaitis.’ ‘Sounds challenging,’ said Joel, laughing. ‘Just a little bit. What are you doing now? Timmy’s gone to change.’ ‘Oh, just exploring.’ ‘Oh, OK. Well, I’ll maybe see you by the pool. That’d be nice.’ ‘Indeed.’ She smiled at him; she was the same height as he was. Her eyes lingered, rather pointedly, on his mouth. Confusing. Very confusing. ‘I’ll see you later then,’ she said. ‘Oh look, there’s Timmy coming now.’ And she leaned towards him and kissed him briefly, but quite firmly, on the mouth. ‘Tell me,’ said Joel to Allinson when he had greeted him, ‘what on earth is that place

What amazed me was that John McEnroe could come away from the umpire's chair with his shoulders slumped and his whole body depressed, and then lift his racket and play the way he played.