Sampras Becomes Highflier Again: Veteran Leaves Struggle Behind
September 9, 2002
NEW YORK - Pete Sampras came in as a lame duck and departed soaring, transformed as a phoenix in short pants and popping out of the ashes of his career.
You don't find many phoenixes in the Flushing Meadow aviary. Some sparrows, seagulls, and pigeons, but Sampras's once-brilliant career was strictly for the birds when he stepped into Arthur Ashe Stadium 12 days ago to wing it against a stranger from Spain named Albert Portas. Sampras loyalists were relieved after he showed Portas the portal in three sets even though the Spaniard out-aced him, 13-10. At least Pete'll be here manana was the general feeling. You couldn't say that too often this season.
A few more mananas went by and he was still hanging around, thinking maybe he'd apply for phoenix wings. If there was an opening, of course. In his heart he believed that this US Open, in a town of too many ashes, could use a phoenix, a beat-up guy showing the world that he could get off the asphalt floor and fly again.
That looked as likely as Tweety Bird punching out Sylvester, but Pete stuck with it. He'd been going nowhere for 26 months, traveling the planet, picking up endless frequent-flyer miles but essentially treading water, mired in the quicksand of one of the longest slumps since the Washington Generals traveled as foils for the Harlem Globetrotters.
Twenty-six months and 33 tournaments without a title seemed a lifetime on a bread line, even for a millionaire. But the fourth game of the fourth set as he beat Andre Agassi, 6-3, 6-4, 5-7, 6-4, last evening for his fifth US title must have felt almost as long. A deuce of a game - seven of them, as well as two break points - went on and on and on for 20 points.
If Agassi had gotten one of the breakers to go up 3-1, a fifth set would have appeared inevitable, and Pete admitted he was feeling weary. However, as an applicant for a phoenix flyer's license, Sampras just was not going to continue as a lame duck. He kept boring to the net, making stunning volleys and half-volleys with his pass-me-if-you-can attitude.
When Agassi rushed and missed a makeable backhand passer on the second break point to slide into the seventh deuce, his fate was sealed. Sampras held fast to 2-2 and would not budge again. Stretching his male record to 14 major titles, he said, ''that takes the cake. Nobody expected it.''
He was right about that. If you're talking pastry, instead of cake he was the ideal candidate for a custard pie in the face from one of those Laurel and Hardy movies. A fall guy being set up for a series of pratfalls. But that was when Sampras's ranking had plunged to No. 17, and the Lleyton Hewitt bandwagon was rolling along merrily as it had in the final of 2001, making Sampras a hit-and-run victim.
Old pal Andre - ''the toughest I've ever played ... he brings out the best in me'' - did Pete a big favor by taking out Hewitt in Saturday's semis, enabling himself to bring out the best in Pete again.
So the Geezers Gala was maybe their last gavotte in a major showdown, although don't bet against these two admirable antiques tangling again. Now that Pete has been fitted for phoenixing. Their duet filled the Ashe canyon for the first time with 23,157 screaming parishioners, who couldn't quite believe what they were seeing, but were glad they were seeing it.
A few other phoenixes have flitted through the US Championships, but not for considerable years. Big Bill Tilden, the world's only No. 1 guy for six straight years until Sampras came along, had been out of the winner's circle for four years when, at 36, he triumphed again, snatching his seventh title in 1929. Kenny Rosewall, the diminutive Doomsday Stroking Machine out of Australia, saw 14 years slip by between titles, yet won again in 1970 at age 35. But both of them were higher rated than Pete.
There was crow, not cake, for some of us, including me, to munch on, those of us who declared that Pete would never win another major, and blabbed about his curious swan dive off a cliff this year. He arrived in the Meadow batting .556 (20-16). For Sampras that's like Ted Williams hitting .230.
When would this ghastly drought end? Surely not at the US Open. They were lined up to take a swat at Pete, grab a scalp that could be bragged on for years. Guys have always tried to sucker punch ex-heavyweight champs just to say they did it. But nobody landed one. His phoenix suit was armor-plated. He was a born-again crashman, smashing through the put-downs.
No wonder he felt ''awesome,'' and wore a smile wider than the length of his losing streak. A great champion had pulled his greatness out of the dusty trophy case for all of us to look at again. It was a new role for the old champ - lame duck to phoenix in two weeks. It suited him well. After all, when has a phoenix ever served 33 aces, 12 service winners, baked a cake for himself and fricasseed crows for the press?