I just played this great tournament and lost in the final to Nasty in three sets. I’m playing too well now. I’ve got to take my chance. I’m turning pro. I promise I’ll go back to college once I’ve given this a try and made some money.”
OK, so I lied.
Her reaction surprised me. “You do what you think is best, Jimmy.”
I quit school, turned pro, entered the first tournament possible, on the hard indoor floors of Jacksonville, and won. I made something like $1,500.
Then I got drafted.
6
NASTY ENTERTAINMENT
T he Vietnam War still had a year to go before the official ceasefire, and the draft was ordering up troops through the lottery system. I should’ve been in the lottery the year before, but I had a student exemption. Turning pro cost me the exemption, and because I had a low number I’d be near the front of the line when the call came. My brother, Johnny, would’ve picked up his bags, his gun, and his uniform and been out the door before they even finished saying his name, but—and I’m not ashamed to tell you this—I was terrified. Now, let’s get one thing straight: I had and will always have the utmost respect and gratitude for the men and women who serve our country and keep us safe. As scared as I was, when it came right down to it I was willing to do my duty.
I went through all the physicals and was mentally prepared to go, when suddenly I was told I was no longer needed. To this day I don’t know why, and to be honest, back then I didn’t ask too many questions. But I promised myself that I wasn’t going to waste the gift of time that had just been handed to me.
OK, a little history lesson, Connors style.
When I turned professional, in January 1972, I had some big decisions to make. I had to figure out what tournaments I wanted to play because there were so many options.
Grand Slam events, which are also called the majors, are the ones where you make your reputation, then as now. They have the most ranking points, the most prize money, and they attract the most attention. Winning the Grand Slam means winning all four of the majors—the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open—in the same year. Rod Laver is still the last man to have accomplished that feat, and he did it twice, in 1962 and 1969. Before 1968, only amateurs could play in the majors, but that year was the beginning of the Open Era, so professional players could compete as well.
And there went the neighborhood. Two-Mom always said, “Beware of open tennis.” I didn’t know what she meant, but I soon found out.
Suddenly there was a whole load of money to be made in tennis and a whole lot of people were fighting for a piece of the action.
On one side you had the central governing authority, the International Lawn Tennis Federation (ILTF), allied with a bunch of national associations, including the United States Lawn Tennis Association (USLTA). The ILTF sanctioned the most important world tournaments, including the four Slams.
On the other side was the World Championship of Tennis (WCT), dreamed up by the legendary sports promoter Lamar Hunt, the first guy to put players under contract. The WCT sanctioned its own circuit and controlled which players could participate. It’s too bad that when things spiraled out of control, and too many rival promoters muddied the waters, Hunt decided to take his expertise—and considerable resources—to other sports. He could have owned tennis, because he gave players a way to earn a living. He made the game more popular by increasing prize money and giving the players a choice of where they wanted to play. But in the end, Hunt refused to get caught in the petty politics between the different factions, which ultimately proved detrimental to the game. Basically, the World Championship of Tennis threatened to overtake the Grand Prix circuit, organized by the ILTF. And they didn’t like it.
Both sides dug in their heels until it all came to a head, in July 1971,
OK, so I lied.
Her reaction surprised me. “You do what you think is best, Jimmy.”
I quit school, turned pro, entered the first tournament possible, on the hard indoor floors of Jacksonville, and won. I made something like $1,500.
Then I got drafted.
6
NASTY ENTERTAINMENT
T he Vietnam War still had a year to go before the official ceasefire, and the draft was ordering up troops through the lottery system. I should’ve been in the lottery the year before, but I had a student exemption. Turning pro cost me the exemption, and because I had a low number I’d be near the front of the line when the call came. My brother, Johnny, would’ve picked up his bags, his gun, and his uniform and been out the door before they even finished saying his name, but—and I’m not ashamed to tell you this—I was terrified. Now, let’s get one thing straight: I had and will always have the utmost respect and gratitude for the men and women who serve our country and keep us safe. As scared as I was, when it came right down to it I was willing to do my duty.
I went through all the physicals and was mentally prepared to go, when suddenly I was told I was no longer needed. To this day I don’t know why, and to be honest, back then I didn’t ask too many questions. But I promised myself that I wasn’t going to waste the gift of time that had just been handed to me.
OK, a little history lesson, Connors style.
When I turned professional, in January 1972, I had some big decisions to make. I had to figure out what tournaments I wanted to play because there were so many options.
Grand Slam events, which are also called the majors, are the ones where you make your reputation, then as now. They have the most ranking points, the most prize money, and they attract the most attention. Winning the Grand Slam means winning all four of the majors—the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open—in the same year. Rod Laver is still the last man to have accomplished that feat, and he did it twice, in 1962 and 1969. Before 1968, only amateurs could play in the majors, but that year was the beginning of the Open Era, so professional players could compete as well.
And there went the neighborhood. Two-Mom always said, “Beware of open tennis.” I didn’t know what she meant, but I soon found out.
Suddenly there was a whole load of money to be made in tennis and a whole lot of people were fighting for a piece of the action.
On one side you had the central governing authority, the International Lawn Tennis Federation (ILTF), allied with a bunch of national associations, including the United States Lawn Tennis Association (USLTA). The ILTF sanctioned the most important world tournaments, including the four Slams.
On the other side was the World Championship of Tennis (WCT), dreamed up by the legendary sports promoter Lamar Hunt, the first guy to put players under contract. The WCT sanctioned its own circuit and controlled which players could participate. It’s too bad that when things spiraled out of control, and too many rival promoters muddied the waters, Hunt decided to take his expertise—and considerable resources—to other sports. He could have owned tennis, because he gave players a way to earn a living. He made the game more popular by increasing prize money and giving the players a choice of where they wanted to play. But in the end, Hunt refused to get caught in the petty politics between the different factions, which ultimately proved detrimental to the game. Basically, the World Championship of Tennis threatened to overtake the Grand Prix circuit, organized by the ILTF. And they didn’t like it.
Both sides dug in their heels until it all came to a head, in July 1971,
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