Quotes from John McEnroe

Connors always had the ability to turn his anger on and off, which amazed me. I was a one-way street—mad, madder, and maddest. There must have been thousands of times, in tense situations, when a joke was on the tip of my tongue, and instead of saying something funny, I'd just let loose.

The final score was 6–4, 6–2, 6–3. I gave young Andre a hug at the net, and said, "Why did you listen so well?

Two days later, Michael Stich and I won the darkness-delayed doubles final against Jim Grabb and Richey Reneberg, 5–7, 7–6, 3–6, 7–6, and 19–17. It was the longest Wimbledon final ever in terms of games—eighty-three!—and the energy of the crowd, which had been let in for free on the extra day, made me forget how tired and stiff I actually was. Not too shabby for an old man.

It was the end of my marriage and the end of my tennis career, both at the same time, and almost nobody knew about it except Tatum and me. I felt as though the bottom had dropped out of the world. I couldn't go on, but I had to go on. In Paris, I was literally crying on the changeovers. I would put my head in a towel and fake being angry.

Look at almost any of the great players. Would they have succeeded anyway if they hadn't been pushed? That's the unanswerable question. Would Agassi have been a great champion if he hadn't been pushed by his father? Would Monica Seles, if her father hadn't quit his job and pushed her? It's difficult to say.

My life feels good—and better all the time—but as good as it gets, sometimes it's hard to forget those tremendous victories…. That's when I have to remind myself that I really had no one to share those victories with. That's when I remember how cold the top of the mountain was.

And very few people have great natural ability. Everyone else—and this is true of most players these days—is in the middle: On a given day, a guy is a world-beater, then the next day he's just not there.

Who's Who of

Arthur and I had had our differences, even our clashes, but I'd had a huge amount of respect for him as a man, a black man, and a positive force for world tennis. I realized too late that he was the greatest ambassador our sport had ever had, and I was determined to try to do better myself.

I had once told myself that after my playing career was over, the two things I would never do were commentary and Seniors tennis. Never say never.

And I want you to understand: I felt terrible. I've felt awful virtually every time I've had one of my on-court meltdowns, with the exception of a few occasions when I really believed I needed to let someone have it. But those really are the exceptions. I've apologized a number of times afterward to umpires and players. And to anyone out there who felt they deserved an apology but didn't get one: I apologize now.

Where money and publicity meet, there's always excitement, but good behavior is rarely a part of the mix. Manners are the operating rules of more stable systems. I got caught up in the rising excitement of pro tennis—in some ways, I was the personification of that excitement—and yes, my behavior got away from me. That's a big subject.

Week by week, I was rising to new heights, and when you ascend that quickly, and at such an early age, the oxygen doesn't always flow to your brain.

To me, "manners" meant sleeping linesmen at Wimbledon, and bowing and curtsying to rich people with hereditary titles who didn't pay any taxes. Manners meant tennis clubs that demanded you wear white clothes, and cost too much money to join, and excluded blacks and Jews and God knows who else. Manners meant the hush-hush atmosphere at tennis matches, where excitement of any kind was frowned upon.

Why couldn't the game be more accessible to the average person? Why shouldn't tennis get the same kind of treatment—and interest—as baseball, basketball, or football?

I always had to fight to find my best self, to be aware of other people's feelings—and the devil's bargain of it is, the players who are more aware of others struggle more. Boris Becker was like that, too. We would have brilliant moments on the court, and total meltdowns. There was just too much going on inside.

I firmly believe that one of the hallmarks of a champion—any champion—is the ability to absorb losses and regain confidence immediately.

I wouldn't have told this to a soul back then, but as early as my first Wimbledon in '77, I realized I had the potential to be the very best: the best tennis player in the world. I confirmed it for myself as I rose through the rankings—but then, more and more, the problem became that almost everybody was somebody I shouldn't lose to. The pressure became incomprehensible.

Once you've put in the work, though, the game becomes extremely mental. I had enough inner strength to know I could beat anyone at all, anytime, on any surface. But behind my defenses were some very dark places. There was always a devil inside me whom I had to fight. And the devil was fear of failure.

Tennis really is single combat, and it's exhausting to be a gladiator.

What I didn't realize was this: It's never possible to be prepared when the future takes over from the past.

As I got older and started moving up the ranking, the matches got more important, and my emotions ratcheted up. I guess I hid my real feelings behind the anger.

In general, people are administered drugs too readily.

I thought doubles was a good way for me to practice and get some reps in - I didn't like to train in the gym as much as players these days.