September 1995
Breakfast at Gully's
By David Higdon, Senior Writer
Even while battling brain tumors,
Tim Gullikson fills all the roles for the people who need him
--- Wheaton, Ill.
TIM, THE DADDY, is home. He's in his living room, on the edge of the leather recliner. His 8-year-old daughter, Megan, sits on the edge of his lap. It is early Sunday morning, July 9. Pete Sampras and Boris Becker are starting their Wimbledon final match on the large-screen TV. Megan has a plate full of strawberries and cream. Make that whipped cream. Cool Whip. Gobs of it, on the edge of her paper plate. "Make sure you eat over the plate," her Daddy instructs.
His 12-years-old son, Erik, slumps on the couch. Erik has two huge remotes in his hands. He's in control. Erik wears a white bandana, just like Andre Agassi. There's a funky design on the front of it. Erik designed it himself. He's starting his own company, called Amp. Maybe one of the lawyers in his mother's firm will help him set it up, teach him about things like patents.
A commercial for Wimbledon clothes comes on. The voiceover says, "The Queen," when Conchita Martinez flashes on the screen, then "The King," when the TV shows Sampras. When the commercial flashes back to the British gentlemen sporting their blue blazers, Erik adds his own voiceover: "The Dorks."
Tim, the Daddy, has cancer. Brain cancer. He has four tumors.
GULLY'S HOME. His friends have crowded into the living room. Breakfast at Wimbledon. Breakfast at Gully's. In the back of the room sits Graham, his pal from Sydney, Australia. Graham was at the Australian Open in January when Gully was told by doctors that he had only three to six months to live. Six months will pass in a few days. There's a neighbor and his young boy, a man who runs a local car dealership, several lawyers who work with Gully's wife, Rosemary, all watching the match here in Wheaton, Ill. They debate whether or not cinnamon and raisin bagels should be considered real bagels. There is no consensus.
"Pete's not passing well," Gully's friend Steve says during the tight first set. "It looks like he's lost his confidence."
"Pete doesn't lose his confidence," Gully says. He sounds very sure about this.
Gully's friends chant, "Double, double," whenever Becker misses his first serve. Gully flashes his gums. When he smiles broadly, you see as much of his gums as you do his teeth. "This is much better than the player's box," he says. "I've got all my friends, family, great food. And I can cheer all I want." He seems sincere. But he can't be. This is the first time he hasn't gone to Wimbledon in 20 years.
At 4-5, 30-30 on Becker's serve, Sampras hits a chip backhand return that clips the top of the net. Gully shouts: "Get over!" It drops back toward Sampras. Everyone, including Gully, groans. "Daddy," Megan says, "people hit it into the net sometimes." Gully's friends all laugh. Sounds like something Gully would say.
TIM, THE COACH, is home. He not only instructs one of the best tennis players in the world, but also works with Corina Morariu. She is 16. She is ranked No.346 in the world. Tim calls her father, Dr. Morariu, his "guardian angel." Dr. Morariu is a neurologist. He was in Australia with Corina when the Coach felt sick after warming up Sampras on the afternoon of January 20. At Melbourne's Epworth Hospital, Tim was incorrectly diagnosed with melanoma and given the disheartening prognosis. At the time, Dr. Morariu told the Coach that he felt the diagnosis was wrong, but no one knew for sure.
Including Sampras. On January 24, after spending much of the last four days with his Coach, Sampras played Jim Courier in the Australian Open quarterfinals. Suddenly, during the match, Sampras had a vision. His Coach was lying on a hospital bed and crying. Sampras couldn't get the vision of his Coach crying out of his mind. So he started crying. Then he stopped and beat Courier. Many people who were there said it was the most amazing tennis match ever.
Sampras loses the first set at WImbledon in a tie-break. The Coach immediately switches chairs. He is a bit superstitious. Sampras breaks Becker early and goes on to win the second set easily. The switch works. The Coach can barely see the TV screen from the odd angle at which he sits, but he doesn't move the rest of the match. It could be worse. In Australia, the Coach lost his peripheral vision for days.
The Coach's idol was another great sports instructor; Vince Lombardi. Tim was devastated in 1970 when he learned that coach Lombardi had died of cancer. How could the great coach die? Lombardi always had preached that it was mind over matter. The Coach still believes that. His guardian angel tells him that there's no reason why he can't live a long, long time. "I will beat this," the Coach says. The Coach never loses his confidence, just like his student, the one playing flawless tennis on the TV screen.
TIM, THE TWIN, is home. Tom, the other twin, watches the match from his seat at Wimbledon, two rows in front of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. As Sampras gains control of the match, winning the pivotal third set, the Twin at Wimbledon shouts encouragement to Sampras, whom he calls "Pistol," short for "Pistol Pete." Sampras later says that Tom's shouting during the match sounded like his Twin brother, the one sitting at home in the uncomfortable chair perched at an odd angle from the TV set.
The Twins, a former top doubles team on the pro tour (they reached the Wimbledon final 12 years ago), have joined forces again. This time, it's for the Tim and Tom Gullikson Cancer Research Foundation. (Donations can be sent to: The Northern Trust Co., P.O. Box 92119, Chicago, Ill. 60675-2119.) When the foundation was announced during the Wimbledon broadcast, Gully's friend Graham went upstairs and retrieved a $100 Australian bill. "We don't take Monopoly money," the twin cracks.
In April, the Twins went golfing in Florida. "I was spastic," Tim explains. "The only time I've ever felt more spastic in my life was the day I tried to learn how to ski." The Twin could barely get the club head to hit the golf ball. The Twin jokes about it now --- "How am I ever gong to fulfill my lifetime quest of beating Tom in golf?" --- but it was frightening experience for the Twin who has always prided himself on his physical prowess. He was scared. Real scared.
The Twin doesn't golf very often. When he does, he must wear a cap and a long-sleeved shirt. He needs to stay out of the sun. Plus, he needs the golf course. The Twin hates to ride shotgun. He likes to have the wheel. He likes to be in control. Just like his son with the remotes.
Tim, THE HUSBAND, is home. He walks his wife, Rosemary, to the Wheaton train station on nice mornings. "Rainy mornings, too," the Husband says proudly. If he's not napping, he will walk to greet her at the train station when she returns from her job in downtown Chicago. She likes that.
Tim naps often. The three pills he takes daily and the intravenous treatments he occasionally under-goes at Loyola University Medical Center in Chicago makes him drowsy. During the first 42-day round of chemotherapy, he also had to take steroids, which made him nauseous and weak. Today is the 26th day in his third cycle of chemo. The tumors shrunk 50 percent after the first cycle; 15 more following round two. Rosemary follows his progress closely, both as a loving wife and as an informed former nurse. Words like "oligodendroglioma," the clinical name for the four rare brain tumors, don't unnerve her. How the tumors affect her Husband's health does. In Sweden last October, Tim collapsed after a dinner, crashing through a glass table. He broke his nose, cut his face. Two months later, Rosemary called her Husband in his hotel room in Germany. His speech was garbled, the conversation erratic. Rosemary called the front desk and her Husband was taken to the hospital. The doctors told Tim that he was fine, no problem, two minor strokes, nothing to worry about. They were wrong.
After this third cycle of chemo, the tumors may be gone. Tim will return to the tour to coach Sampras, hopefully at the tournament in Indianapolis prior to the U.S. Open. Tim wants to return before Flushing Meadow so he isn't a distraction to Sampras as he tries to win another Grand Slam title. If the tumors aren't all gone, Tim might have to undergo another 42-day cycle. Then he will not travel to the Big Apple.
The cumulative effect of the chemo has weakened Tim. He looks a bit frail, but remains cheery, warm. He has short hair. It is not, as most people assume, from the treatment, but rather from a singular decision to cut his crop short for the summer. Megan and Erik think it looks cool. Rosemary isn't so sure, but she still thinks her Husband is the most handsome man in the world.
MR. GULLIKSON'S HOME. People call here and write him letters. He keeps a big sack of letters that he's saved ever since the cancer diagnosis was confirmed. He can't get himself to throw any of the letters away. "Dear Mr. Gullikson," one letter begins. It is from a young boy who once met Mr. Gullikson at a tournament. The boy explains that Mr. Gullikson gave him a few words of advice, some encouragement. He will not forget it. He was down at the time, and Mr. Gullikson's words lifted his spirits. The boy hopes his letter now will help lift Mr. Gullikson's spirits.
Other letters and calls are full of advice. One letter writer recommended downing 10 teaspoons daily of cayenne pepper. Tim doesn't mind the advice. When he was a boy, he was given this tip from his first tennis coach, Colonel Hank Jungle: "Try to make it good for everybody." Mr. Gullikson has lived by tat motto.
The phones start ringing immediately after Sampras wins his third consecutive Wimbledon title. Tim doesn't take all the calls. Instead, he watches the awards ceremony. Before NBC interviewer Bud Collins can ask Sampras a question, the victor announces that he is dedicating the win to Mr. Gullikson. Sampras says he's praying for Mr. Gullikson. Everyone in the room is quiet. Mrs. Gullikson leaves the room. Mr. Gullikson, sitting at home with his chin resting on two clenched fists, mumbles: "Thank you." Everybody's silent. Then, someone says: "Finally, it's over and we can get to the reason why we're all here --- women's doubles."
TIM, PETE'S BUDDY, is home. They talk on the phone in the kitchen. The two men call each other Buddy. "History," Pete's Buddy says. "This is history." He tells Pete he played great, that he deserves it. "Thanks, Buddy," Tim keeps repeating, over and over and over again. Pete's Buddy holds up the phone. The crowd in the kitchen, many of them sipping champagne from a bottle that Pete once won at a tournament, shouts congratulations.
The two Buddies talk on the phone often. The conversations no longer are filled with phrases such as "crosscourt forehand winners" or "airline connections," but rather by "MRIs" and "biopsy" and "holistic." Pete plans to visit his Buddy next week. He's never been to Wheaton. Tim thinks Pete is a bit shy about how to handle this whole cancer thing. Pete's Buddy understands. Until recently, he acted the same way. For example, Pete's Buddy didn't go to the funeral for their friend, Vitas Gerulaitis. Now, he's upset that he missed it. "I'm a lot different about how to deal with other people's pain," he says.
Pete does another interview on TV. "The most important thing isn't winning tennis matches," Pete says, "it's your health." He describes his Buddy as a true champion.
TIM, THE DADDY, is home. He promises his son that he will come by Erik's tennis class Tuesday to give a few pointers to the local juniors. He tells Megan that he will be home more often from now on. After all, he doesn't think Pete needs him to travel 26 weeks a year anymore. "My future is going to be different," he says. "This thing has put everything in perspective. I plan to spend more meaningful time with my family."
Still, when he gets better, he will return to the road. It is his life. He is Daddy, but he is also Gully, the Coach, the Twin, the Husband, Mr. Gullikson and Pete's Buddy. Everybody needs him. That's O.K. with his family, with his kids. They'll be happy for their Daddy when he returns to his job. But they'll also be sad. He has been home every day for six months. They will miss him.