Free The Outsider: A Memoir by Jimmy Connors Page B

competition back then was the best in the country, and not only between young players. On any given day you might see Arthur Ashe or Stan Smith hitting balls on the back courts. The world’s best players would come to us, or we’d find them at UCLA or USC.
    Almost every guy I played would have a different weapon, a different skill—big serve, baseline, power, net game, height, speed, topspin, you name it—and I faced these variations on a regular basis. Nothing I came across in the world’s major tournaments ever surprised me.
    Tennis never became a drag, because we never played in the same place two days in a row. If we weren’t at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club or over at one of the LA colleges, we might be up in Bel Air playing at Bobby Kreiss’s court, in the garden behind his house. Spencer and I would sit around having a Coke, watching Bobby’s father put his three sons through their paces, and after a while we’d join in. We were all friends, so there was more to practice than just the tennis; it was a chance to be with our buddies while we worked.
    Some of Pancho’s pals—like Bobby Riggs, Pancho Gonzales, Charlie Pasarell, Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall, and Roy Emerson—would stop in to see him when they were passing through Los Angeles. Any time these guys were hanging around and talking, Spencer and I would be in the corner, soaking up as much information as possible. We never spoke ourselves; we just listened. At the end of the day, Gonzales might say to me, “Come on, kid, and hit some balls with me.” Me? Play with Pancho Gonzales? Hell, yes!
    Gonzales wasn’t an easy guy to get to know—he could be moody and difficult—but after a while he seemed to accept me, and I loved watching him play. For a big man he was surprisingly elegant, moving about the court with agility and finesse. And he could do things with his racquet that I’d never seen before, particularly when he was at net, where he angled his volleys with deadly precision. I learned a lot, not just by studying his game but by seeing the kind of killer instinct he brought to every match. “The great champions were always vicious competitors,” I remember him saying. “You never lose respect for a man who is a vicious competitor, and you never hate a man you respect.” That seemed a pretty good code to live by.
    One afternoon, I’d been watching Gonzales play for about an hour. After every couple of games, he walked to the back of the court and beat his Spalding Smasher against the concrete wall.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Gonzales, but with all due respect, what the hell are you doing?”
    “Kid, look here. The top of my racquet is out of shape now. I want to see how the ball reacts when I hit it off the strings there. Maybe I can find a new shot. I don’t know, but I’m going to try and figure it out.”
    “See this tape around the rim? It’s lead,” he continued. “It makes the racquet heavier so I can let the racquet do some of the work. Here, take some and try it yourself.”
    That proved to be a huge part of my success with the T2000, because it added the extra weight that I needed to be able to keep that racquet under control. If I was tired, I would take the lead tape off. If I was feeling good, I would add a little more for increased power.
    During my first year in Beverly Hills, I went with Spencer, Dino, and the two Panchos to Phoenix for a pro-am tournament. We flew there on a plane owned by Kirk Kerkorian, a businessman who helped make Las Vegas into what it is today. No one loved playing or being around tennis more than Mr. Kerkorian. I was buzzing before we even got to the airport. Private jet?! Oh, yeah.
    I played Gonzales in a singles exhibition. It was sweltering in Phoenix, and during one of the changeovers Pancho paused to give me a piece of advice.
    “Kid, I want you to drink some orange juice. It’s hot and you need the fluid.”
    I wasn’t really an OJ guy, but this was Pancho Gonzales, so I said, “OK.”
    “Just