McEnroe - But Seriously

5:14 a.m., June 8, 2015, Paris

I wake up in a sweat. My pillows damp and I dont know what day it is. Did I miss the match? Am I playing later? For a few seconds I dont even know where I am. Then it hits me. I already played the match. I already lost it. Jesus, it was back in 1984 and Im still haunted by it. Even now, more than thirty years later, Im as hot as I was in the fifth set and I can taste the red clay on my tongue.

It was a match I should have won and it turned into the worst loss of my career. Id been playing my best tennis ever, I was undefeated that year, and although serve- volleying wasnt the obvious way of winning the French Open on the slow clay of Roland- Garros, I was playing Ivan Lendl. Ivan had so far lost four Grand Slam finals in a row and I sure as hell wasnt planning on breaking that run for him by handing him his first title. In fact, I was planning on beating his ass.

At first, thats exactly what I did. After two sets, I was up 63, 62, and I was all over him. The crowd was behind me, Allez, John! Allez . As far as I was concerned, I was in control, I had this in the bag. But as it got hotter, the crowd started losing focus. Then my friend Ahmad Rashada great former wide receiver for the Minnesota Vikingswho was there rooting for me, got up to leave. You got this, Mac! Ill see ya back at the hotel. Shit, the last thing I needed was a jinx. Its an unwritten rule in sports that friends and family dont leave until the match is over. Not that Im blaming Ahmad for the loss, but thats when little doubts started creeping in for the first time. I still thought I was going to win but those negative thoughts began to get to me.

Everything suddenly became a distraction. At the next changeover I couldnt help but notice the noise from a nearby cameramans headphones. Someone was obviously trying to get this guys attention. The third set had barely started when, I swear to God, I heard something like, When the match is over, well focus on John and then stick with him through the trophy ceremony. Hes got this, so make sure hes in the shot. In English. In Paris. It was the American TV cameraman listening to the producers instructions in his headphones, but they were so loud I could hear them too. Unbelievable! Now I was feeling even more jinxed. So I walked to the guys chair, grabbed the headphones off his head, and screamed as loud as I possibly could into his mic: SHUT UP ! I knew immediately that my frustration wasnt a good enough reason for me to do this, and while I didnt care about the cameraman, I did care about the crowd. I needed them. But they sure as hell didnt need me and my bad attitude. That was the point when they turned on me. They just wanted the match to go onwho could blame themand what better way than to change corners and root for my opponent? After all, that French crowd was known for being fickle. I tried to block them out. I was still the best tennis player in the world and there was no way I was losing to Lendl.

I failed to break his serve at 22 in the third, despite him being 040 down. No matter. I still had my mojo. I was still convinced I could win this thing, all I needed to do was stick with my game plan: serve- volley, and break himas soon as possible. Except he won the set 64.

I had to pull it together. I reminded myself I was two sets to one up; better than him. Dont panic. Dont let the heat get to you. Dont let these people get to you. They know I can beat this guy. I know I can beat this guy. But it didnt happen.

In the fourth set, I found myself serving, 43, 4030. Id broken him and was five points from the title. I really thought I could close it out. But in the heat of the moment, my normally soft hands pushed my first volley a fraction beyond the baseline. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, the set was over. Hed won it 75 and we were now two sets all.

In the fifth, the heat became stifling, Lendls confidence ignited, and the crowd got behind him. My legs felt more and more like Jell- O and, with my strength draining fast from my body, I lost my grip on the match. I tried and tried, but in the end, I was the one walking to the net with my head down, while Lendl was smiling goofily, his hands up, jumping around as he sealed his first Slam title.

Does it surprise you that I still have that nightmare, all these years later? It wakes me up every year when Im in Paris, commentating on the French Openat least once, usually twice. But every time I have this bad dream, its a little easier to get over. Maybe Ive gained some perspective on this dark moment in my career. Maybe time does heal all wounds. But any way you look at it, this was the closest I ever came to winning this clay- court major.

Thankfully Ive had a couple of small chances for revenge since then (although let me be clear: nothing could EVER EVER EVER make up for what happened that day). The first was in October 2010. And it was in Paris. That morning when I awoke I didnt have to have the nightmare, because after eighteen years, I was finally going to be playing Ivan Lendl again. For me, it was a big deal to meet him on court once more. My chance to get one back on him. Im not kidding. That 1984 Roland- Garros defeat still burned my guts. Wed come up against each other on a number of occasions since then; sometimes Id won, mostly Id lost. Wed last played each other on the main tour back in 1992 in Toronto, but by then we were both on the downward slope of our careers, so it hadnt felt like a proper opportunity for payback. Once I started on the seniors circuit, there was a long period where Ivan was kept off the court because of a clause in an insurance policy that looked like it would stop him from ever playing again. But somehow that got ironed out. So now, in the city where Id suffered the most painful loss of my career, I finally had the chance to lay that ghost to restthe one that had been haunting me for twenty- six years.

The setting, Stade de Coubertin, was totally different from the famous red clay of Roland- Garros, even though the two stadiums are only a stones throw apart. Coubertin is a big enough indoor sports venue that they played the year- end Masters there in 1971 and 1980. But its also a gray, nondescript building on the edge of the giant Paris ring road. On top of that, I remember the air conditioning wasnt working that evening; packed to full capacity, that place was about as hot as Ive ever known a stadium to be. It was an oppressive atmosphere, literally and psychologically. The crowd were into it because they know the game pretty well in France and they understood this was a big match for me.

Generally, on the seniors tour, players get along fine, despite whatever differences they may have had in the past, and theres an element of camaraderie and even light- heartedness in the locker room. Not here. There was an intensity in each of us because we both knew we were going to play as hard as we could. I wasnt going to lose a point if I could help itI wanted to make him suffer and show him who was the boss. When Ivan arrived at the stadium, I was on the trainers table getting a massage. He entered the room, and without so much as a hello, he said in his heavy accent: So, John, are we going to make each other look good, or are we going to kick each others asses? I paused for a moment and replied, Id prefer the latter.

I never thought that, when at long last I found myself on court against Ivan again, Id be the fitter of the two of us. The guy had been a machine when he was younger. He was known for his fitness. I was the opposite, known for playing doubles as a way of getting fit. Here we were now, and I was clearly in better shape and moving better than him, although God knows hed worked hard to come back after a long period out of the game and had lost in the region of forty pounds in the months leading up to the match, which is a lot in anyones book. Trouble was, he still had another twenty pounds to go.