Free The Outsider: A Memoir by Jimmy Connors

town, we didn’t have any trouble spending our weekends in the hottest bars and restaurants in LA. The Daisy Club, where my friend George was the bartender, was one of my favorites. George was a champion surfer—no wave was too big for him—but tennis was his real passion. He also happened to mix the best whiskey sours in town. It was during one of those nights out that I first met Frank Sinatra. By then, Spencer and I were 18 and having dinner with a girl we knew from high school who worked for Eileen Ford, then the top modeling agency in the world. Mr. Sinatra was at a table across from us and he came over to talk to Spencer.
    “Hey, you’re Pancho’s son, right? You guys want to see a show? Settle up and follow me.”
    Mr. Sinatra took us next door to a studio where we watched as he recorded three songs for the upcoming Jerry Lewis telethon. It was just the Chairman of the Board, the sound engineers, and us. People would pay a fortune to be in the room when Sinatra sang, and here we were, a couple of kids, having a once-in-a-lifetime show for free.
    Pancho once told me a story about Jack Kramer, who had been the world’s best tennis player in his day and who would go on to found the players’ union. Jack thought Pancho was crazy when he told him I was going to be better than Stan Smith. This was the age of tall players—Smith was 6'4", Dick Stockton 6'2", Brian Gottfried and Erik Van Dillen were both 6'0". I was 5'9", skinny, and had a double-handed backhand. What chance did I have? Jack thought. Erik Van Dillen even refused to play a match with me once at the LA Tennis Club, saying, “Why? He’s too small.” Pancho’s reply was typical. “Don’t give me that shit. He’s going to kick your ass.”
    That was the kind of thing Pancho saw as his challenge—and mine. He told me not to worry about what anyone else said. “They’re tall, Jimbo”—it was OK if Pancho called me that—“but they move like turtles with broken legs. Listen to me, and I can help you be a champion. You have a choice: You fight to be the best, or you settle for being one of many with all the others.” That was a big moment for me. It was then that I fully realized I wasn’t in California just to escape East St. Louis. With Pancho’s help, I was there to be number one.
    I worked hard with Pancho, but it wasn’t any less fun. He’d run Spencer and me all over the court from corner to corner. We’d be exhausted and he’d be laughing his ass off because he knew we never wanted him to think we weren’t up to the task, no matter what he threw at us.
    “Boys, you’ve got to understand this is what you’re going to face when you take on the best.” There was always a purpose.
    Pancho’s methods were similar to Mom’s. If I made a mistake in practice, like not staying low enough on a backhand down the line, he would stop the session, explain the problem, and show me exactly what I’d been doing wrong and how to fix it. If I would miss a backhand down the line, he would actually come onto the court and show me how to do it. I was a visual learner, so being able to see how it was done correctly was important for me. Pancho didn’t want bad habits creeping into my game, like not moving my feet properly or not getting my racquet back soon enough. If I messed up in a match, he would wait a day or two before telling me what the problem was. I remember a match against Roy Emerson at the LA Tennis Club during which I didn’t take the ball early enough and move forward at the right time. Pancho said nothing for 24 hours. Then he took me back on the court and demonstrated how I should have played Emerson.
    He was, and remains, my mentor, along with Mom. Without the two of them, I would never have become a champion. What Pancho taught me during those years at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club would fill 10 volumes if I tried to compile the lessons. But it really comes down to three words: confidence, aggression, and strategy.
    When I