FOURTEEN
As a famous singer says, “Some days are diamonds, some days are rocks.”
The year 2008 was not a diamond. It was bad news followed by bad news. It was one damn thing after another. It started with Robert Lansdorp, who’d become such an important part of my team and my life. He was crazy; he was a pain in the ass; he was difficult and he was weird—but I loved him. Apparently, my father did not. Apparently my father could no longer stand to work with him, or vice versa.
The story?
It depends on whom you ask, and what time of day you ask it.
My father will tell you that things change, that time passes, that people grow apart. We had taken what we had needed from Lansdorp, he will say, and Lansdorp had taken what he had needed from us. It was no one’s fault. It was just over. It was just time to move on. My father believes that it’s important to change coaches and routines every few years—it keeps you learning and it makes life interesting.
But Lansdorp will dismiss all this talk of natural endings and people growing apart as bullshit. He cites a specific incident instead, a specific day.
I was playing Nadia Petrova, a Russian girl who I didn’t think much of. It was just something about her. Maybe it’s more intense when you’re facing another Russian. It’s like you’re playing for the love of the same parent. That intensity can feel like hatred. I assume, when I stop playing, that everyone will be able to forgive me and that I will be able to forgive everyone, but as long as I am in the game, I need that intensity. It’s never really personal. It’s never really about the other girl. It’s fuel. I need it to win. The match was getting nasty, and all eyes were on my father, who was sitting with Lansdorp in my box. Yuri had become a famous tennis parent by this time. He did not give interviews, did not comment in the press, did not do any kind of grandstanding, which made him seem mysterious and interesting. Before he knew it, he’d become a caricature in the tennis world, a cartoon of the crazy Russian father, pacing in his hoodie, frowning, grumbling, keeping to himself. The crowd picked up on this, and the mood around the Petrova match turned stormy. Finally, right in the middle of things, someone in the stands threw a tennis ball onto the court. I had one ball in my hand, and was preparing to serve, when here comes this other ball, arcing down from the sky. Everyone started to hiss. Then I heard my father’s voice, booming over everything: “Just finish the point!”
The press played it up. Another outburst from the wild Russian. A reporter called Lansdorp and asked him what he’d thought of the episode. Lansdorp did not say much, but what he did say, and what the newspaper published, infuriated my father. Lansdorp, in essence, said that he did not believe that Yuri should be yelling down from the box. At the next match, in Lansdorp’s version, my father was daggers and laser beams with Robert. They sat side by side in icy silence. Tension, tension. I began to fall behind on court, and the worse it looked for me, the more evil the mood became. Finally, after I lost a point, my father turned to Lansdorp and said, “See? That’s what you get when you don’t yell down from the box.”
How did Lansdorp respond?
Well, if you’ve ever met Robert, you probably know.
He said, “Fuck off, Yuri. Don’t give me any shit.”
And that was it—the end of my time with Robert Lansdorp. He never coached me again. It was a bigger loss than you might imagine. It was not just the flat shot or the repetition that Lansdorp gave me. It was friendship, confidence. It was a kind of stability and balance you rarely encounter. It’s not a surprise that so many great players cite the role that Lansdorp played in their success. And it’s not technical stuff they mention. You can get that from anyone. It’s the intangibles, the relationship, the sense he gives you that, no matter what sort of slump or hole you have fallen into, you will survive because you are a champion. Want evidence? Well, would he be at your side if you weren’t? It was something that I’d miss over the years, but especially in the months immediately ahead. In other words, Robert Lansdorp bugged out at exactly the wrong time—just as I was about to enter one of the most difficult passages of my career.
The year wasn’t all bad. I did win my third Grand Slam. This was the Australian Open. It was some of the cleanest tennis I’ve ever played at a Grand Slam. I remember everyone talking about where Lindsay Davenport would end up in the draw because she had been injured and wasn’t seeded. It turned out she was going to be my second-round opponent. I didn’t like that. It doesn’t matter how well you’re doing or how high you’re flying, if a great player has a great day, there’s a good chance it won’t be a great day for you. And Lindsay Davenport was a great player. So I prepared for that match like nothing else mattered even though I still had a first-round match to win. It was the toughest draw I’ve ever faced in a Grand Slam. After Davenport, I had to beat Elena Dementieva, Justine Henin, and Jelena Jankovic, all world-class competitors.
I played Ana Ivanović in the final. It wasn’t my best tennis of the tournament. I was better against Davenport and Henin. It was pretty close in the first set. Ivanović had a few chances to lead. That all turned around during a particular rally. She tried to hit a drop shot in the middle of a rally that didn’t really need it, and the ball bounced in front of the net. That’s when I saw it in her eyes. Fear? Nerves? It’s a tell. It said she was not up to the task. From that moment, I took over the match mentally even more than anything else. I beat her 7–5, 6–3. It was a big deal—winning my third Gland Slam. I’d won all the majors but the French Open.
One of the first calls I made after I won at the Australian Open? It might surprise you. It was Jimmy Connors.
It was Michael Joyce who first made that introduction. This was back in 2007, during our prep season training for the new year. Joyce suggested we go see Jimmy Connors in Santa Barbara. Have him be part of our practices, go to dinner together, benefit from his experience. I immediately agreed. As an athlete, being in the presence of champions is humbling, inspiring. You listen to their every word, inspect their every move. Michael and I drove up to Santa Barbara, where Jimmy resided, in early December, listening to U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name” the whole way. It was Michael’s favorite song, and soon became mine. We spent four days practicing alongside Jimmy. I was nervous. To miss a ball, to say the wrong thing, to not have an answer to his questions. He had a calm, mysterious demeanor and spent every water break talking about his mother’s influence, her guidance, and her no-bullshit attitude.
He had me jump rope at the beginning and end of practice until my arms were ready to fall off. He explained that in the old days they didn’t do any of the gym bullshit they do now; it was all practical, simple stuff. So jump rope it was. I liked his approach, and I liked the feeling I left Santa Barbara with even more. I don’t remember the particular U2 songs on our drive home, mostly because I was dead asleep in the passenger seat, emotionally and physically drained from the hours of practice. It occurred to me that, although Michael was still running the practices and we were doing similar drills to those we had been doing for years, having Jimmy Connors on the sidelines watching my every move—silently, like a hawk—adds another gear of concentration, and desire. I didn’t want to miss a single ball in front of Jimmy Connors. I didn’t want to let any winner get by me. I pushed myself, scrambled, laser-focused.