8701310985
DETROIT FREE PRESS
870701
Wednesday, July 01, 1987
STATE EDITION
1D
Photo Associated Press
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION, 1D
Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press
POINT OF RETURN
CONNORS MAKES AN EPIC RALLY
WIMBLEDON, England -- The last American tennis man was getting the hell
beat out of him. His racket was bleeding. He looked weary, overmatched -- he
looked old, and that was the worst thing, because Jimmy Connors is old,
he's 34, and by tennis standards that's ancient, at least to be center court
at Wimbledon, taking on a guy more than a decade younger. Clunk! He put a shot
into the net. Clunk! He hit long and out. The tennis fans who had been
watching him here since 1971 shook their heads grimly, like loved ones on the
edge of a hospital bed.
"What a shame," someone whispered.
"Will he quit after this?"
"So much for the American players . . . "
What was the score then? Connors down two sets to zero? Down four games-to
one? Even the non-tennis fan could recognize this disaster, just a few games
away from being swept out of Wimbledon like an empty strawberry cup.
Yes. Well. Can we have music please? Can we have the lights? This is a tale
of the greatest comeback in modern Wimbledon history, and you can argue that
all you want, but you can't dispute it, because when you are getting dumped
on, taking punches to the chin -- "Face it," Connors would say of Sweden's
Mikael Pernfors, "he was kicking my butt so badly, I didn't have time to be
embarrassed !" -- and besides that, you have every reason to lose, go quietly,
blame your age or your match yesterday or whatever, and instead you start to
win, despite all reason, you start like an old car under a three-year snow
drift, well, what else can you call that?
"Phenomenal? . . . " Connors would suggest.
Same old Jimbo.
But OK. Love him or hate him, you cannot ignore him. Put aside his flippant
gestures of the past, his "bleep you" tennis racket, his screams, his tantrums
-- and put aside also the phony Mr. Nice Guy he's been playing since he got
married and had a few kids, because that's a lot of garbage -- and you'll
still have the essential Jimmy Connors. A battler. Dig and grind. Scratch
your eyes out.
But not every second. In fact, for the first 58 minutes Tuesday, Pernfors
stuffed the ball down his throat. The Swede won two sets in that short time,
6-1, 6-1. He did it with every kind of shot: winners down the line, slices
that tickled the net, bloops that fell dead and seemed to laugh at the old
guy. ("How would you play Connors differently?" someone would ask Pernfors
when this was all over. "When you're up 6-1, 6-1, I'd say you're playing him
pretty well," Pernfors would reply.)
And so he was. And since all the other American men had been eliminated by
this, the fourth round, the U.S. contingent was preparing for the worst. A
cold wind blew. The sun was hidden by the clouds. Perfect for a burial. When
do we begin?
We don't. Call it a rush, call it panic, call it the silent alarm of a guy
who's been playing professional tennis since Nixon was in office. Connors won
a point. Then another. Then a game. Then another.
Push. Grind. Dig. He did not come up for air until the score went from
4-1, Pernfors, to 4-4, even. In that stretch he ran off 14 straight points,
coming to the net with a ferocity of years ago. The balls that had clunked,
now whistled, the long shotsfound the line instead. How do you do that? What
do you call it?
"Were you surprised at yourself?" someone would ask Connors later.
"Why do you ask that?" he would snap back. "I can still play. I'm not out
there for any other reason but because I can play tennis. If I was ready to
go out 6-1, 6-1, 6-1 I shouldn't even be out there."
Instead he somehow wrestled that set, he used every trick, he slowed it
down by going to his towel, he pointed at fans, he argued, he distracted
Pernfors just a bit, and suddenly, he had the lead, 6 games to 5. And at set
point, he hit a backhand drop shot that Pernfors returned too long -- "GAME
AND SET TO MR. CONNORS," bellowed the umpire -- and the last American marched
off as if to new music, shaking a fist, "EEYYAHH!" He had only closed the
gap to two sets-to-one, Pernfors. He was still miles way from any great
achievement. But he had dodged the sword. His legs were coming back. The rest
of him was close behind.
Sports is for drama, and drama needs a stage. Could there have been a
better one for what took place next? Center court Wimbledon, with the British
royalty looking on from their box, with the same grassy court surface as 55
years ago? Everything here reeks of age and tradition. What a spot for the
oldest player in the tournament!
And he fell behind.
Behind? Again? Yes. Three quick games. And the comeback which has teased
the fans seemed suddenly just a breeze. Pernfors was back to his old new
tricks, whizzing shots -- he could have put the ball through the teeth of a
comb -- hitting the line almost at will. At one point, Connors lobbed a
return out of bounds, and Pernfors watched it come down, and reverse-kicked
it. "See ya, Pops," he seemed to say.
But remember who made showmanship fashionable. This is James Scott
Connors, the kid with the page-boy cut, the original brat, now turned yuppie
brat. He rallied again, won a game, then another, with solid returns and
well-placed volleys. On one shot, Pernfors gave chase and returned the ball
with his back to the net, a magnificent swipe through his legs. But Connors
was waiting, he dinked it over. His point.
"GAME, MR. CONNORS. . . . "
"GAME, MR. CONNORS. . . . "
He won five straight, lost one, then won the next to capture the second
set, 6-4. Now the very breath of this competition seemed to be coming from
Connors' nostrils. Pernfors, who had played so brilliantly for such a big
early lead, found himself back at square one. "I was still thinking I could
win," he would say.
Deep down, he must have known otherwise. It was past dinnertime by now.
All kids have to come inside.
T he fifth set was a battle with the outcome suspected, like a Star Wars
movie, or a rerun of The Dirty Dozen. "I was rolling," Connors would admit.
He dropped the first game, then won the second, third, fourth, fifth. He shots
had developed, well, youth. They kissed the line, they dropped perfectly
then died. The match had come full circle. Pernfors was now the one slow in
getting to the ball. Connors was the one with the magic. He developed a leg
cramp at one point, and he stumbled through a few points, rubbing his right
thigh. Not to worry. "I would have stayed out there if I had to crawl," he
said.
And finally, the ending. Connors stood ready to serve, his sweat drying in
the cool air. He led, 5-2. He took a breath, put his hands on his hips, and
the crowd began to roar. Serve, return, and a cross-court backhand winner --
two handed of course, vintage Connors -- and it was over. All over.
"GAME, SET AND MATCH, MR. CONNORS . . . "
He threw himself into the air. He looked at the heaven as if a special
secret had just been shared. Perhaps it had. How long had they played? Three
hours and thirty-nine minutes? A lifetime? Both?
As Connors and Pernfors walked off together, the old guy appeared to put
his arm around his opponent. "Nah," he would say, grinning, "I was just
pushing him ahead of me so he wouldn't see me pass out."
OK. End with a joke. But here was a magic afternoon. Alchemy had taken
place. Young was old, old was new, new was tired and tired was lifting his
fists in victory as they disappeared into the tunnel. The last American
tennis man? The greatest comeback in modern Wimbledon history? Yes. You only
live once.
Or in Connors' case, twice.
CUTLINE:
Jimmy Connors returns a shot from Sweden's Mikael Pernfors Tuesday.
MAJOR STORY;JIMMY CONNORS;WIMBLEDON;TENNIS;RECORD