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however, maybe he’d mellowed with age, because he treated me differently.
    I guess he saw something in me right away. He used to bring us in and give us the jumping jacks and double knee-jumps and all the rest of it, which most of the time I would do, but basically, I hated calisthenics and stretching. To me, that wasn’t what I was there for. I always wanted to get to the tennis court. Because I was running around all the time anyway, I wasn’t out of shape, so whenever I didn’t show up for the calisthenics, Harry would just smile and say, “Oh, McEnroe’s hiding in the bathroom.”
    It meant a huge amount to me that he had coached Rod Laver. Laver was the first guy I saw who did everything—hit topspin and slice on both forehand and backhand, served with different spins. He utilized every possible shot, all the angles. I used to have a poster of him on the back of my bedroom door. The fact that he was a lefty like me was a big deal, and that massive Popeye forearm of his just seemed so cool—bizarre, but very cool. I remember trying to figure out how I could make my arm like that.
    Just like Laver, I used the same grip on every shot: forehand, backhand, serve, and volley (I still do—slightly toward the forehand from a Continental grip. I don’t think anyone else does it now.) The wristiness of his strokes was supposedly what had built up his forearm, but no matter how hard I tried to play like Laver, no matter how many times I squeezed my wrist-builder, my left arm stayed the same size as my right. No muscles. I swear, I think I’m the only number-one player in history whose two arms are the same size.
    I may have been short, but I wasn’t short on self-confidence. After I’d been working for a few months at Port Washington, one of the pros set up a challenge match between me and a newly arrived sixteen-year-old from New Jersey named Peter Fleming. Peter must’ve been at least a foot taller than I was at that point, well on his way to his full height of six-foot-five. There’s also a huge difference in strength and maturity between a twelve-year-old and a sixteen-year-old. I knew Peter thought I was an insect, beneath contempt, and he confirmed it when he offered me a handicap: He’d give me an advantage of 4–0, 30–love a set before we even walked out onto the court.
    I beat him five sets in a row. Never get an insect mad! It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
    Tony Palafox was a very laid-back guy, so while our playing styles were alike, my intensity was something new to him. I had energy and desire—the willingness to do what it takes—and part of that, I was starting to realize, was the willingness to set myself apart from other people. It was one of the first lessons I learned in tournament tennis: The better you get, the more you get put on some kind of pedestal. And as my British readers would say, the more people look to take the piss out of you.
    I saw early on that there were a lot of great advantages to winning, but there was also one big disadvantage: Once you’re on that pedestal, you’re alone.
     
     
     
    T HE FUNNY THING IS , if you’d asked me when I was twelve what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would’ve said, “A pro basketball player.”
    I loved basketball, and I was good at it (though whether I could ever have become another John Stockton is another question). It was the same with soccer, football, and baseball: I always enjoyed being part of a team. I loved the camaraderie. It’s what I loved about Davis Cup. It’s what made doubles so important to me. If you’re on a team, and you’re angry or upset at something that happened in a game, you have people to share it with. It’s the same thing when you win.
    If you’re not at your peak, you can hide it so much easier in a team sport. In basketball, you can play decent defense or set a pick; you can do a lot of little things to help out that aren’t related to scoring. It’s the same with soccer. As long as