Free The Outsider: A Memoir by Jimmy Connors Page A

started up with Pancho, my groundstrokes were already in place. Running down every ball came naturally, and my concentration and footwork were probably as good as anyone’s. Thanks to Pop’s training I could reach the ball quickly, which gave me extra seconds to decide where I was going to hit my return. Pancho’s training added a layer of sophistication to my game.
    His first step was to make me more aggressive. I had always been a traditional baseliner, keeping the ball in play and slugging it out in long rallies. Pancho taught me to put my opponents on their heels, forcing them to place shots inside my service line.
    Pancho called that area of the court the “winning zone.” “If you have the ball there,” he would say, “you control the point, you have options—short, deep, volley.” Pancho showed me how to put my opponent in a defensive situation and bury him. My killer instinct took over as my confidence grew.
    “Coach,” I used to say to Pancho before a match, “I’m going to make that guy walk bowlegged like you.” He loved that.
    If I took a chance and missed, that was OK, because I knew I’d get better. I had no fear, especially on the big points, the ones that make a difference in the match. You can be in the best shape of your life, hitting the ball great, but if you can’t come through when it counts, you ain’t walking away with the trophy. That’s where Tiger Juices come in.
    A huge part of my tennis education with Pancho was on the mental side of the game. It’s a given that every professional can hit the ball well, but the difference between the 100th best player in the world and the number one is minuscule, and it isn’t found on the court. It’s in your head and guts. They didn’t call Pancho “Sneaky” for nothing. He was brilliant at messing with your head. He would do the opposite of what you expected. If you moved in to cover a drop shot, he’d lob you; if you stayed back to force a rally, he’d come up with an angled volley. Pancho always knew the right shot to play, because he used the score to his advantage.
    We used to sit at one of the tables in the club snack bar and Pancho would draw diagrams on cocktail napkins to illustrate how to play key points. The strategy would depend on the match situation. If you’re ahead, you do one thing; if you’re behind, you do something else. At 30-15, you can force the next point, move in quickly on your return, and put your opponent under immediate pressure. If you’re down 30-40, you have to nail your first serve, and make sure you pull your opponent out of position, then keep him pinned back with deep balls to prevent him from attacking. It sounds simple, yet making it happen is anything but.
    Before my matches, Pancho would pull out those cocktail napkins again to show me the strengths and weaknesses of my opponent and how I could combat their particular approach to the game. He would create these scenarios, like it’s 30-30 on the other guy’s second serve, then explain how the guy would probably play the point. When these moments came up in a real match, I could anticipate them and get the edge. Or he would notice certain traits, like how to tell from the angle of my opponent’s racquet if his shot was going to be short. Or the way an opponent tossed the ball up on his serve might indicate whether it was coming down the center or out wide.
    Pancho didn’t have to keep hammering any of this into my head. I ate it up. I devoured every word. Tennis isn’t rocket science, but Pancho simplified things in a way that made perfect sense. Because I trusted him, I wasn’t afraid to incorporate his instructions into matches, no matter how high the stakes. I never, ever thought I had reached the point where I knew everything about the game. I worked hard every day. There was nothing else in the world I would rather have been doing.
    All the top juniors in Southern California found their way to the Beverly Hills Tennis Club. The