Kevin Patrick
Hall of Fame
"Hey Vince," Alex says, "I'm going to hit with John McEnroe tomorrow. Why don't you two just hit instead." I said that sounds like a great plan. My brother-in-law, married to my sister, Luanne — together they live in the city with their young son — comes to my hotel and gives me plenty of cash for expenses. So the following morning I cab it out to Tennisport for the big practice with Mr. Manhattan.
I arrive a few minutes early to stretch and not long after the main entrance to the club opens and through the door steps a salt gray-haired man with a bag of tennis rackets in a backpack. He looks like an older man ready to go to school only with rackets and not books in his bag. He greets me with a confident smirk on his face, shaking hands in a manly arm-wrestling grip, like we've known each other for a while and have been through some great experiences together. Which is not the case, but I know John to be cool, frank, intelligent and opinionated. Yet he still comes off as generous and warm.
"What bring you to New York? A rap video?" he asks sarcastically as he likes to tease me about my rapping interests. I tell him I’m here to hit with him and he says, "You want to hit a few balls and grind? I’ll move you around and give you a good workout." I grin and say, "Sure man, bring it on. I'm going to hit the ball heavy today. It’s the clay court season."
He laughs and moves off into the locker room for a few minutes. We start off by hitting down the middle, but hitting in any fashion with John is intense. He goes for every ball, even if I hit the ball outside the lines. He's digging, coming to net, starting a new rally from any part of the court, hardly taking any breaks; it’s non-stop hitting. He goes for a forehand, down-the-line winner and misses long, "No! Make that shot!" he bellows. But he says it with a smirk almost as if he’s mocking his own famous reputation for being a perfectionist.
A few shots later he misses another and says, "Can someone tell me what I did wrong on that shot?" His comment is directed at the eight or so people who have gathered in the bleachers to watch us hit. They chuckle, but no one responds, as they assume correctly that it’s purely a rhetorical question on John’s part.
Does John McEnroe really want theirs or my thoughts on the state of his tennis game or is he just frustrated after missing a simple shot? You don’t have to be Jim Loehr to come up with the right answer.
I can still see the competitiveness in his eyes. His footwork has slowed, but his will hasn’t. His shots still have pace, depth and consistency. His volleys are crisp, effortless and efficient, though he misses more than he used to. Even so, his reflexes are still second to none. I’m hitting fierce heavy- spinning ground strokes in a grunting tireless mode and he could have a Pina Colada in one hand as he easily responds to my shots at his body without a flinch. His volleys cut into the court with minimal bounce and hurry away from me as if I’m trying to run them down on a treadmill.
His serve is as accurate and consistent as ever. His classic stance, with his back facing me as he manipulates his left arm and slices his serve out wider and wider into the service box, gives me a déjà vu feeling of watching the video tape of his brilliant 1980 Wimbledon Finals match against Borg.
John floats into the net smiling as he swats one of my duck-like, returns away with an angled volley that paints the lines. Thirteen years after his last year on tour, I still can't get a lob over his racquet — McEnroe was famous for his lightening first step when scooting back for an overhead. His conditioning is at a high level especially for someone 46-years-old. His running out wide for balls isn't vintage anymore, but something’s got to give.
He’s generous and helpful with tips as we play, complimenting me—saying, "nice shot" — on my winners. On our water breaks we talk about tennis in general. I ask him, "How many majors will Federer win? Will he beat Sampras’ record of 14?" Mac responds, "If he stays healthy, he can win 10 maybe 11."
Interesting, Johnny Mac doesn't think Federer can break the record, but he does think highly of him. "Ten ain’t too shabby if he stays healthy," he says again. I ask him about his television talk show, The John McEnroe Show on CNBC, that was cancelled at the beginning of the year not even six months after it debut on July 4, 2004. He says the problem was that he had sat through thousands of interviews, but he had been the person receiving the questions and responding. He had never been in the position of asking the questions and listening for the responses. He says that he was just getting the hang of it when they canned him and the show.
"Maybe I should have had you rapping on the show," McEnroe says.
"You know, that would have changed your ratings, John," I say. Actually, the producer for his show came to the 2004 U.S. Open looking for possible guests and I told my agent to try to get me on the show, but his producer said they were only looking for semifinalists or better. That was low, and guess what? Now there’s no more show. Because John wasn’t the CEO of flow. I’ve got more dough. My name’s Edgar Allan Poe.
"Hey John," I ask him in all seriousness, "How can I develop a big weapon at the age of 30?"
He doesn’t hesitate in responding, "You're better off honing what you have. Consistency is rare in today’s game. But go ahead, try to prove me wrong. You already did by coming back from your losing streak and making a great comeback. The youngsters can learn from that."
http://www.sportsmediainc.com/tennisweek/index.cfm?func=showarticle&newsid=14402&bannerregion=
I arrive a few minutes early to stretch and not long after the main entrance to the club opens and through the door steps a salt gray-haired man with a bag of tennis rackets in a backpack. He looks like an older man ready to go to school only with rackets and not books in his bag. He greets me with a confident smirk on his face, shaking hands in a manly arm-wrestling grip, like we've known each other for a while and have been through some great experiences together. Which is not the case, but I know John to be cool, frank, intelligent and opinionated. Yet he still comes off as generous and warm.
"What bring you to New York? A rap video?" he asks sarcastically as he likes to tease me about my rapping interests. I tell him I’m here to hit with him and he says, "You want to hit a few balls and grind? I’ll move you around and give you a good workout." I grin and say, "Sure man, bring it on. I'm going to hit the ball heavy today. It’s the clay court season."
He laughs and moves off into the locker room for a few minutes. We start off by hitting down the middle, but hitting in any fashion with John is intense. He goes for every ball, even if I hit the ball outside the lines. He's digging, coming to net, starting a new rally from any part of the court, hardly taking any breaks; it’s non-stop hitting. He goes for a forehand, down-the-line winner and misses long, "No! Make that shot!" he bellows. But he says it with a smirk almost as if he’s mocking his own famous reputation for being a perfectionist.
A few shots later he misses another and says, "Can someone tell me what I did wrong on that shot?" His comment is directed at the eight or so people who have gathered in the bleachers to watch us hit. They chuckle, but no one responds, as they assume correctly that it’s purely a rhetorical question on John’s part.
Does John McEnroe really want theirs or my thoughts on the state of his tennis game or is he just frustrated after missing a simple shot? You don’t have to be Jim Loehr to come up with the right answer.
I can still see the competitiveness in his eyes. His footwork has slowed, but his will hasn’t. His shots still have pace, depth and consistency. His volleys are crisp, effortless and efficient, though he misses more than he used to. Even so, his reflexes are still second to none. I’m hitting fierce heavy- spinning ground strokes in a grunting tireless mode and he could have a Pina Colada in one hand as he easily responds to my shots at his body without a flinch. His volleys cut into the court with minimal bounce and hurry away from me as if I’m trying to run them down on a treadmill.
His serve is as accurate and consistent as ever. His classic stance, with his back facing me as he manipulates his left arm and slices his serve out wider and wider into the service box, gives me a déjà vu feeling of watching the video tape of his brilliant 1980 Wimbledon Finals match against Borg.
John floats into the net smiling as he swats one of my duck-like, returns away with an angled volley that paints the lines. Thirteen years after his last year on tour, I still can't get a lob over his racquet — McEnroe was famous for his lightening first step when scooting back for an overhead. His conditioning is at a high level especially for someone 46-years-old. His running out wide for balls isn't vintage anymore, but something’s got to give.
He’s generous and helpful with tips as we play, complimenting me—saying, "nice shot" — on my winners. On our water breaks we talk about tennis in general. I ask him, "How many majors will Federer win? Will he beat Sampras’ record of 14?" Mac responds, "If he stays healthy, he can win 10 maybe 11."
Interesting, Johnny Mac doesn't think Federer can break the record, but he does think highly of him. "Ten ain’t too shabby if he stays healthy," he says again. I ask him about his television talk show, The John McEnroe Show on CNBC, that was cancelled at the beginning of the year not even six months after it debut on July 4, 2004. He says the problem was that he had sat through thousands of interviews, but he had been the person receiving the questions and responding. He had never been in the position of asking the questions and listening for the responses. He says that he was just getting the hang of it when they canned him and the show.
"Maybe I should have had you rapping on the show," McEnroe says.
"You know, that would have changed your ratings, John," I say. Actually, the producer for his show came to the 2004 U.S. Open looking for possible guests and I told my agent to try to get me on the show, but his producer said they were only looking for semifinalists or better. That was low, and guess what? Now there’s no more show. Because John wasn’t the CEO of flow. I’ve got more dough. My name’s Edgar Allan Poe.
"Hey John," I ask him in all seriousness, "How can I develop a big weapon at the age of 30?"
He doesn’t hesitate in responding, "You're better off honing what you have. Consistency is rare in today’s game. But go ahead, try to prove me wrong. You already did by coming back from your losing streak and making a great comeback. The youngsters can learn from that."
http://www.sportsmediainc.com/tennisweek/index.cfm?func=showarticle&newsid=14402&bannerregion=
