prizefighters, and Bill had spent his youth ringside at Madison Square Garden, soaking up the showbiz atmosphere. Boxing had a big influence on his vision for the future of tennis. He also believed in the appeal of the Eastern European contingent of Nastase, Tiriac, and Kodes. With their talent and theatrical personalities, the Riordan circuit stoked interest and created controversy, and Bill milked it for all it was worth. He encouraged his players to kick up the energy in arenas like the Coliseum in Hampton, Virginia, where eight or nine thousand people would scream and shout as if they were watching a heavyweight bout.
It was loud and it was in your face, but it wasn’t just about the spectacle. Riordan also knew his tennis. Back in the late 1950s, in his home state of Maryland, he formed the Salisbury Tennis Association and ran clinics in the local parks that produced a string of high-quality junior players. He also coached his local high school team to great success, promoted the United States national men’s indoor tennis championships in Salisbury and, in 1964, had even joined the enemy, the USLTA, as an official delegate—until the power struggles brought on by the Open Era pushed him out and forced him to set up his show.
Bill had no fear of going mano a mano with anyone, slugging it out like the street fighter he was. Mostly this worked in my favor, but it could also backfire, when he went after people he felt had done him wrong, like that time he sued Ashe and the ATP. Hell, he even sued me once. All in all, Bill had a huge impact on the game of tennis. This was boom time, the gold rush, and he was at the heart of it. Pretty soon the moneymen caught on, and big holiday resorts started giving up expensive real estate to build courts for their guests to play on. My timing could not have been better.
Since Nastase and I were already friends when I turned professional, the fact that he was a part of the Riordan circuit was a giant lure.
Nasty was the big name in the IPA ranks in 1972, but Bill also knew he needed someone else who would represent all that his tour stood for—taking tennis to the heartland, playing in front of real sports fans. When he signed me he got exactly that: a young, brash, hard-hitting American. A maverick. An outsider.
He made me the star of the show. As I won more and more tournaments, Bill used to schedule my matches for Wednesday, rather than Monday, so that I could spend the early part of each week meeting sponsors and local dignitaries, shaking hands, making small talk, playing exhibition matches. I didn’t mind one bit. I understood that this was part of Bill’s master plan to ride me to the top.
Bill would introduce me at cocktail parties with the words “The one and only Jimmy Connors,” even though I hardly deserved the title. After that kind of buildup, you can’t just sit there with your thumb up your ass. You have to jump in, schmooze the money guys, and give the fans what they want—the kind of show that will keep them coming back. It didn’t matter if I was tired or in a crappy mood; when I was on, I was on, and I got to be pretty good at it.
I wonder sometimes how I learned in those first couple of years to speak in public without making a fool of myself. Of course, some people might think I never learned that lesson, but this is my book; I can write what I want. I wasn’t really looking for star billing, and I honestly don’t know how it all happened. It just did. Playing tennis was my thing, but I eventually got a Ph.D. in marketing and promotion from Riordan University.
I remember reading, years later, an interview in Sports Illustrated where Bill said, “With Jimmy, sometimes it was like leading a symphony. And I don’t believe anyone could have done it like Connors. He never deviated from the script I wrote him. Even today, at his press conferences, some of my best lines surface.”
Attaboy, Bill.
Life on the tennis circuit has a reputation for being
It was loud and it was in your face, but it wasn’t just about the spectacle. Riordan also knew his tennis. Back in the late 1950s, in his home state of Maryland, he formed the Salisbury Tennis Association and ran clinics in the local parks that produced a string of high-quality junior players. He also coached his local high school team to great success, promoted the United States national men’s indoor tennis championships in Salisbury and, in 1964, had even joined the enemy, the USLTA, as an official delegate—until the power struggles brought on by the Open Era pushed him out and forced him to set up his show.
Bill had no fear of going mano a mano with anyone, slugging it out like the street fighter he was. Mostly this worked in my favor, but it could also backfire, when he went after people he felt had done him wrong, like that time he sued Ashe and the ATP. Hell, he even sued me once. All in all, Bill had a huge impact on the game of tennis. This was boom time, the gold rush, and he was at the heart of it. Pretty soon the moneymen caught on, and big holiday resorts started giving up expensive real estate to build courts for their guests to play on. My timing could not have been better.
Since Nastase and I were already friends when I turned professional, the fact that he was a part of the Riordan circuit was a giant lure.
Nasty was the big name in the IPA ranks in 1972, but Bill also knew he needed someone else who would represent all that his tour stood for—taking tennis to the heartland, playing in front of real sports fans. When he signed me he got exactly that: a young, brash, hard-hitting American. A maverick. An outsider.
He made me the star of the show. As I won more and more tournaments, Bill used to schedule my matches for Wednesday, rather than Monday, so that I could spend the early part of each week meeting sponsors and local dignitaries, shaking hands, making small talk, playing exhibition matches. I didn’t mind one bit. I understood that this was part of Bill’s master plan to ride me to the top.
Bill would introduce me at cocktail parties with the words “The one and only Jimmy Connors,” even though I hardly deserved the title. After that kind of buildup, you can’t just sit there with your thumb up your ass. You have to jump in, schmooze the money guys, and give the fans what they want—the kind of show that will keep them coming back. It didn’t matter if I was tired or in a crappy mood; when I was on, I was on, and I got to be pretty good at it.
I wonder sometimes how I learned in those first couple of years to speak in public without making a fool of myself. Of course, some people might think I never learned that lesson, but this is my book; I can write what I want. I wasn’t really looking for star billing, and I honestly don’t know how it all happened. It just did. Playing tennis was my thing, but I eventually got a Ph.D. in marketing and promotion from Riordan University.
I remember reading, years later, an interview in Sports Illustrated where Bill said, “With Jimmy, sometimes it was like leading a symphony. And I don’t believe anyone could have done it like Connors. He never deviated from the script I wrote him. Even today, at his press conferences, some of my best lines surface.”
Attaboy, Bill.
Life on the tennis circuit has a reputation for being
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