US TENNIS
September 1993
The Sweet One
By David Higdon

With his second Grand Slam title behind him,
Pete Sampras now has only nine more to go

Fans constantly tell Pete Sampras that they love him. Love his style, love his demeanor, love his looks. They love to touch him, feel greatness, stroke something special, something sweet. Last May, after a practice at Saddlebrook Resort in Florida, a group of elderly women approached Sampras, each wanting to shake his hand, grip his sweaty palms. "We love you, hon," one silver-haired woman said. "I love you, too, hon," The Sweet One answered.

It is Jim Courier who dubbed Sampras "The Sweet One," an apt nickname not only because of the adjective, but also because of the noun, for Sampras is truly one of a kind. It's not due to his position on top of some number-crunching computer that ranks pro tennis players, but rather to his place among his contemporaries, to the traits that not only separate him from the observers who want to touch him but also from the players who want to beat him. He can be beat, but he'll never be beaten. He can be physically touched, but he'll never be absorbed.

"Pretty simple," Sampras says when asked to describe himself. "Simple life, simple guy." Simple? Not Sampras. Simple describes someone like Andre Agassi, a pop hero, a clown prince whose Las Vegas act may seem unique to the uninitiated but is really only a well-honed show that we've seen hundreds of times before. This is not meant as a slight on Agassi, for where would we be without entertainment? He is fun, a joy to watch, both on- and off-court. But Agassi's a fleeting teenage crush; Sampras, a complex love affair. You want to touch him, yet you also sometimes get the urge to shake him, shout at him, slap him across the face.

Why else did you scream at the TV set during the fourth set of his quarterfinal match against Agassi at Wimbledon, furious to see his head sinking between his shoulders? Did he not realize how important that match was? It was Wimbledon! He was about to lose to a guy who weeks earlier had mocked his looks. Did he not want to stick it to this guy, make him pay for his inappropriate remarks?

No, such emotion, such methods of motivation, are meant for the rest of us. The Sweet One does not personalize his competition. He is above it. He may not fit our image of a cocky tennis pro, but his confidence level rivals any other athlete, in any other sport. On only two occasions during his six-year pro career did Sampras look across the net and conclude that his opponent was a more skilled tennis player than he that day. Both times, it was the same player -- Boris Becker -- but that was several years ago. Whenever he loses, Sampras feels it is because he failed to play at his normal level.

Everyone marvels at Sampras' ability to display no emotion, but it's a determined strategy, not much different from some player deciding to attack an opponent's backhand. Sampras stays cool for one reason, and one reason only: It helps him win. If throwing his racquet, spewing obscenities or pumping his fists helped him win, he would throw his racquet, spew obscenities or pump his fists. Such antics would allow his opponents to look across the net and suddenly be able to understand him, relate to his frustration, his pain. No, The Sweet One is untouchable.

Is Sampras smart? He's not brilliant, yet he's bright, and one of the more curious players on the tour, posing more questions than answering them. Naive? In some ways, yet his shocked expressions and boyish guffaws hide the fact that he trusts no one, a quality reinforced throughout his youth, when countless ''experts" told him that his approach to the game was misguided. Stubborn? Incredibly so, though he's more willing than most players to fiddle with his game. Impatient? Don't keep him waiting, yet he prefers not to set a timetable for his own progress. Dull? On the surface, perhaps, but nothing's more fascinating than a person whose nut seems impossible to crack. "I never knew what he was thinking," says former coach Pete Fischer. And no one claims to know what makes Sampras tick. ''I don't even know," admits his sister, Stella. "He doesn't show a lot of emotion."

Interestingly, Sampras has evolved into the game's ambiguous star the same year that tennis lost its last great enigma, Arthur Ashe. Ashe possessed a coolness that unnerved opponents and fans alike. While they may have lavished him with praise the past decade, few understood Ashe. The same holds for Sampras. Ashe's distance from the masses around him was readily apparent: He was an African-American in a white man's sport. Sampras, on the other hand, seems like the average boy next door. Appearances, though, often are misleading. The average boy next door doesn't repeatedly kick a football straight at 18 months old.

A simple guy: Friends, family and Sampras himself repeat it like a mantra. And we believe them. And we believe we will be able to hit a tennis ball like Sampras since nearly every TV announcer on the air and nearly every coach in the game has said Sampras possesses simple, classic strokes. But we fail when we try. "You can't imitate Pete," says Tim Gullikson, Sampras' coach. ''People cannot hit the way he hits the ball." He stresses the word "people," as if Sampras does not belong in that category. Gullikson, a man who spends much of his life with Sampras -- instructing him, cajoling him, discussing personal problems with him -- knows he is not close to Sampras. He never will be, either. The Sweet One is untouchable. He is special.

While astute tennis observers love Sampras' shot-making flamboyance ("I think sweet Pete's game is the most exciting to come around since John McEnroe," says TV analyst Mary Carillo), many fans consider him drab. For them, watching Sampras practice would be an epiphany. It's during workouts that Sampras' unbridled joy for the game shines, and where his brilliance and arrogance merge in perfect harmony.

In early May, I spent several days with Sampras as he prepared for the French Open at Saddlebrook, a 15-minute drive from the house in Tampa, Fla., that he shares with girlfriend Delaina Mulcahy. The resort has two red-clay courts, and on most days, Sampras started his workout just as Courier, who lives nearby in Dade City, wrapped up the first of his two daily practice sessions. The two former close friends gave each other only cursory greetings, their relationship strained a bit by their current status as the top two players in the world. Still, they share a mutual respect for each other, not to mention a trainer, Pat Etcheberry, who had a busy week on his hands.

Sampras put in one three-hour on-court session daily before turning his exhausted body over to Etcheberry, who guided him through sprints, weight training or footwork maneuvers. Sampras would take a quick lunch break before or after the Etcheberry sessions, and I mean quick. "No one eats like Pete Sampras," Gullikson said one day, pointing to Sampras' empty plate. "He's the world's fastest eater." Sampras, his mouth full of evidence, roared with laughter.

On court, Sampras smiled, cursed, screamed, exulted, complained, winced and moped. Gullikson shook his head often, grinning at Sampras' pluckiness. "Sometimes I wonder if the average fan can appreciate how good he is," Gullikson would say later. "He's such a great athlete -- raw power, unbelievable footwork, finesse." During one workout, playing a practice set, Sampras would ask Gullikson where he should ace his opponent. Gullikson would say down the middle or crosscourt, Pete would ace his opponent, then turn to me and grin. He once nailed the corners on four straight points, though his opponent, a touring pro, did get his racquet on two of them. On the final ace, Sampras screamed at the top of his lungs, pumped his fists and then bellowed: "Ice water in my veins!"

Sampras chattered and moaned throughout the practice. "It's too hot." "This is boring." "My legs are sore." "My shoulder's tight." The English press at Wimbledon labeled him a hypochondriac, a charge both current and former coaches refute. "At age 13, he played the longest match ever at Kalamazoo [site of the USTA national boys' championships] and suffered a stress fracture of his right wrist," recalls Fischer. "The next day, his opponent didn't play because he was physically exhausted. Pete played with a broken wrist."

While watching the Agassi match at Wimbledon, when it appeared Sampras had packed it in after losing the third and fourth sets, I recalled the following incident in Florida. At the end of a sprint workout, with Etcheberry urging him to run one more lap, Sampras flopped down, sweat pouring off him, claiming he couldn't go on, his legs were lead, he was dizzy, he was...blah, blah, blah. Finally, Etcheberry conceded that maybe it was time to stop, at which time Sampras hopped up, declared, ''No, I'm O.K. Let's do one more." He leaned over and whispered, ''Just buying time," then sprinted around the cones, passing Gullikson (who was given a huge head start) at the end.

"I think people realize how competitive Jim [Courier] is," says Brad Stine, Courier's coach. "What they don't realize is how competitive Pete is."

Some of the credit certainly goes to Gullikson, an extremely competitive individual who, as a player, always had the desire and court smarts but never quite the talent to be a superstar, the exact opposite of Sampras in his early pro years. Sampras' work ethic infuriated numerous post-Fischer, pre-Gullikson coaches, including John Austin and Brian Gottfried, but the soft-spoken yet strong-willed Gullikson seems to push the right buttons. "He doesn't kiss my ass," is how Sampras puts it. Plus, Gullikson, who once looked up from an interview only to discover that the reporter had fallen asleep, does have a gift for gab. "Tim is always willing to talk," says Sampras with his ear-to-ear grin.

Sampras' most important confidante, however, is Mulcahy, who will begin law school this fall. The two met immediately after his 1990 U.S. Open victory, the timing causing many people in the tennis circle to question her motives and sincerity. The age difference (Sampras is 22, Mulcahy's 29) also didn't help, but the whispers have died down and most insiders now feel she has been instrumental, if not essential, in keeping Sampras focused and sharp. Mulcahy, as Sampras' first -- and possibly last -- girlfriend, seems to have filled the emotional void left by Fischer, who was omnipresent throughout Sampras' formative years. California teaching pro Robert Lansdorp jokingly calls them "Sampras and Delila," though betrayal doesn't appear forthcoming. Clearly, most observers agree, they are in love.

The relationship understandably put an initial strain on Sampras' strong ties to his family, an introspective group that always has been close, ever since Soterios and Georgia Sampras piled their four children (Gus, Stella, Pete, Marion), one parrot (Jose) and all their belongings into and on top of a Ford Pinto and drove from Washington, D.C., to Rancho Palos Verdes, Calif. Pete may head West less often nowadays, but he calls frequently and leans on his family for financial advice (brother Gus serves as his manager). They've come to accept the woman in his life and remain his most ardent supporters, even if it makes them too nervous to watch him in person very often. In fact, on the Fourth of July, Soterios and Georgia were reading the Sunday newspaper upstairs when Stella heard on the radio a floor below that her younger brother had just won the tournament of his dreams.

Pete Fischer, when asked by a TENNIS magazine reporter six years ago about his young player's progress in the junior tennis ranks, dismissed the question as irrelevant. "The goal has always been Wimbledon," he said, "the competition has always been Laver." This year, Sampras accomplished the first half of the goal, thus earning nearly half a million dollars for himself and $100 for Fischer, who bet a friend in 1988 that Sampras would win Wimbledon by 1993. Sampras now sets his sights on Laver, continuing the quest this month at Flushing Meadow, where he hopes to win his second U.S. Open, equaling the number of U.S. Open titles won by the great Australian pro. But Laver also won four Wimbledons, three Australian Opens and two French Opens. Sampras needs nine more Grand Slam titles. He has a long way to go.

The numbers aren't lost on Sampras. This 22-year-old may be a high school dropout, but he reportedly has a mathematical mind. "Yeah, I'm really good with numbers," he says. "Especially zeros." He soon will pass the $6 million mark in career prize-money earnings, but the money pales in comparison to the worth he places on the one title he captured in London. The sound of Fischer's flat, persistent voice -- "The goal... Wimbledon, the competition... Laver" -- reverberates in Sampras' mind.

Sampras may have dismissed Fischer as his mentor, coach and best friend -- all titles which the Los Angeles-area neonatologist once legitimately could claim -- but he has yet to shy away from Fischer's lofty goals. While Sampras has avoided many things in his life -- eye contact with strangers, high school parties, a topspin second serve -- historical greatness isn't one of them. Even as a teenager, before he had done anything of consequence on a tennis court, he laced his conversations with clues to his vision: "I want to be remembered for... " The present would be measured only in the future; he would be content
in the future only if the past were deemed a success.

"There's still a lot of room for improvement," Fischer says. "He could rival Laver, to do what no one deems possible. If I was going to bet now whether he would remain a two-Grand Slam title winner or become an 11-Grand Slam winner, I would say 11. I always told him he was going to be the greatest tennis player ever."

Imagine that. The greatest tennis player ever. And Fischer wasn't alone in his praise. Sampras heard it everywhere, from everyone, long before he even remembers. ''What you have here is a true child prodigy," says Gullikson, whose analytical mind and gregarious soul seem to make him the perfect match for Sampras. "Since Pete was 8 years old, people were
telling him how talented he was." Lansdorp, who worked with Sampras during the early 1980s, remembers crowds forming along the court when he hit with the boy at the Jack Kramer Tennis Club in Rolling Hills Estates, Calif. "At age 11, he could pick up volleys at the service line, hit low volleys with all the ease in the world," he says. ''That sticks in my mind as clear as can be." Greg Patton, a former U.S. Tennis Association junior coach, gushed back in 1987 to a reporter about the 16-year-old Sampras: "When they were passing out talent, they not only dumped it on Pete Sampras, they not only sanded down Pete Sampras and put a layer of paint on him, they put 12 different coats of high-premium paint all over this kid. He is a piece of art." Imagine that.

Would anyone have blamed Sampras if he had become an American version of Henri Leconte, a flashy, cocky tennis pro with a penchant for hitting winners, collecting checks and losing to players who simply work harder and play smarter than he? Certainly, the tennis canvas is spattered with players harboring unfulfilled potential and broken promise. As a youth, Sampras did everything he was told not to do: play in higher age groups, switch from a two-handed backhand to a one-handed one, bypass the academy route, drop out of high school to turn pro. His only guidance came from a wacky doctor who spent most of his days delivering babies on the brink of death. "Did you save any lives today?" Sampras used to say to Fischer when the doctor showed up for practice. Fischer would laugh with his shy friend, and then tell the boy he wanted to see him hit 100 forehand ground strokes down the line and 100 forehand ground strokes crosscourt.

Leading up to the european Slam season, Sampras boasted the best opening four months of his career, a sizzling 30-3 match record and three titles. Over the past three years combined, Sampras had won only three titles from January through June. He usually gets hot along with the weather.

"In 1990, my game wasn't really quite developed," he says, referring to the year he won the U.S. Open. "I just had two hot weeks. I'm a much better player now, much more consistent. A little more mature. In 1990, I just had two weeks that I really can't explain what happened. It just happened so quick, and maybe it was something I wasn't prepared for."

Indeed, Sampras was criticized for reluctantly returning to the 1991 U.S. Open, lamenting his status as defending champion and stating after his loss that he was happy to get over with all the hoopla. Perhaps Sampras is right. Maybe the Open victory was simply a premature blip in his career. Take away those two weeks and his progress in Grand Slams takes on an eerily steady look. Besides the 1991 U.S. Open, Sampras never has performed worse at a Grand Slam event than he did the previous year. At Wimbledon, for example, he lost in the first round his first two years, reached the second round in 1991, the semifinals in '92 and won it this year. At the U.S. Open, he reached the fourth round in 1989, the quarterfinals in 1991 and reached the finals last year. This last U.S. Open match, a 3-6, 6-4, 7-6, 6-2 loss to Stefan Edberg, hung over Sampras throughout this past winter and into the spring.

"I felt good going into that match," he says. "l wasn't playing well, but still, serving for the third set.... If I could have won that third set, I could have possibly won the Open. That was probably the most devastating loss in my career."

He didn't want another Grand Slam title to slip away at Wimbledon, which may explain why he noticeably tightened at the end of the Courier match. He and Courier both blamed it on physical fatigue, but it seems more likely that Sampras simply got caught up in the moment. He even admitted after the match that "it's all kind of a blur." While he once again made fools of the folks who had questioned his commitment, he made a genius out of tennis legend Fred Perry, who predicted in 1990 a future Wimbledon title from Sampras.

"I don't think people realize that I'm a pretty driven person," says Sampras. "People see Pete Sampras and they think he's a little lackadaisical and casual. I work hard on my tennis. I don't like losing tennis matches, that's for sure. I get a lot of pleasure out of beating people."

''It's flattering to get respect from guys like Fred Perry, guys like Laver. That makes me feel good. But I don't really dwell on that. I don't think about it too much."

Indeed, Sampras only has met Laver once, and their conversation was brief and stiff. As he does with opponents, Sampras depersonalizes Laver. He is an icon, not a man or tennis player, not someone with whom to swap golf stories. Sampras believes Laver was the last true all-court champion, and, indeed, Sampras went to Paris this past spring hoping -- no, expecting -- to make a run at the French Open title.

Everyone involved in the sport wants to get Sampras and Laver together, to watch them discuss history, and Wimbledon, and volleying techniques. But not Sampras. To The Sweet One, Laver remains untouchable, a flickering image on the videotapes he watched as a kid. It makes sense. If Sampras grabs the carrot on the end of the stick, what will keep him running?