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“Come on, give me the ball! Bounce the ball right! Here, two balls! Give me the other ball!” You had no idea what to do—you’d just throw anything, and then he’d get pissed off at that. I really felt like punching the guy. I thought, “If I become a tennis player, I’m never going to do that”—and in fact I was always pretty good about not getting on the ballboys. I think that’s pushing the envelope. Or is that just the dad in me talking?
    However, the match I really remember from those early days is one in which I was just a spectator: Ilie Nastase against a German named Hans Pohmann. I loved the way Nastase played—he was a genius with a tennis racket, plus he brought an incredible energy to a match: both positive and negative energy. To tell the truth, he was basically out of control that day, but I loved it. Probably only four people in the stands were for him—but I was one of them. Nastase just had this quality of making people love to boo him. It’s even been said once or twice about me.
    As far as I was concerned, Pohmann was just some cocky German guy who was faking cramps. He’d run during the point, and then cramp between points—unbearable! He was really milking it. And the crowd was just eating it up. Nastase was unbelievable, though: He even spat at Pohmann once. Then he tried to shake the umpire’s hand after the match, and the umpire wouldn’t shake! I loved it!
    It was great to see all the guys who were like legends to me. Nastase was poetry in motion. Ashe’s backhand was beautiful when he let it go, but to be honest, I thought the rest of his game looked a bit mechanical. He had a sort of herky-jerky serve and a weird chip forehand. I preferred Stan Smith’s classic style.
    I liked Guillermo Vilas, the Bull of the Pampas, early on. His look was great—the big, hairy chest, the muscular thighs, the flowing hair. There was something beautiful about him: It seemed so cool that he could be both soulful (he wrote poetry; he played guitar) and strong. He was incredibly fit, worked incredibly hard. Even though I didn’t play like him, I thought his ground strokes were phenomenal.
    I was thrilled to see Laver in person, even if he was in the final act of his career, and the great Ken Rosewall, another of Hopman’s boys. It killed me the way he’d act tired in the warmup, mope around the court and look like the world was coming to an end—and four or five hours later he’d still be going strong (and his hair would still be perfectly combed)! People don’t remember how much Rosewall, Mr. Understated, used to throw his racket. I’m not talking about once or twice—he used to throw it thirty to forty times in a match! It wasn’t with the ferocity that I did it, though—he’d bounce it and toss it and kick it, but in a very, very low-key way.
    The first year I was at Forest Hills, I freaked out when I saw Pancho Gonzalez smoking after his match. I thought, This can’t be! Athletes don’t do that! And then, when I asked him for his autograph, he gave me a look which, if looks could kill, would have dropped me on the spot. He finally gave me the autograph, but he wasn’t particularly nice about it. And he definitely had a cigarette in his hand. All I could think was, Forget the autograph. How can Pancho Gonzalez smoke?
     
     
     
    I PLAYED FOOTBALL until the seventh grade. I was Buckley’s quarterback, and played defense, too, until the day I got the wind knocked out of me. I vividly remember the coach yelling, “Get up! Get up!” I couldn’t respond, because I couldn’t breathe. I thought, for about ten seconds, that I was going to die. Later that day, I staggered home, and my parents said, “Hey, what about soccer?” And I said, “That sounds like a better idea.”
    The soccer team, however, basically consisted of all the people who couldn’t make the football team. The soccer and tennis guys were considered sissies, which I found annoying. Here I was, working my guts