ON A SERIOUS NOTE
In his long-awaited follow-up to his best-selling memoir, former tennis champion John McEnroe reveals why he’s not a rock star
Once I started going to Europe to play Wimbledon every year, I went from being the kid who played the sissy sport to someone who was cool enough to hang out with the British rock stars who’d been my heroes.
The highlight of the fall of 2002 was undoubtedly joining Chrissie Hynde onstage at Madison Square Garden when the Pretenders opened for the Rolling Stones. No two ways about it, that was one cool gig. In the early years of being on the tour, I’d never realised how good it could be to play music as well as listen to it. When you’re on the road, there’s a lot of time to kill in those hotel rooms and playing the guitar helped relieve the boredom.
I’ve been playing and making music — well, that’s what I call it — for some years now, though I’ve long since accepted that I’m never going to be Grand Slam-standard when it comes to rock ’n’ roll. My wife [Patty Smyth] once memorably said that I “wrestled the guitar into submission”, which sums up my relationship with the instrument.
Much as I love playing, the guitar doesn’t love me back. The same goes with singing. In fact, I’m no longer allowed to sing at home when Patty’s around, which I understand, given that she’s the singer in the family and has built a whole career from writing and singing great music, whereas I can just about sing in key. She put her foot down one day, not too long after we were married, making a couple of things crystal clear. First, if I was still harbouring any hopes of getting to play with her onstage regularly, I’d better let them go, because she’d never worked with anyone she was involved with and never would. Second — and this was the killer blow — “The Lord doesn’t let you be one of the greatest tennis players that ever lived and then be Keith Richards. It just doesn’t work that way.” As so often, Patty was right, advising me — no, telling me — to stick to jamming with friends, something that I still enjoy doing to this day.
Occasionally though, a friend will be generous enough to invite me onstage during a gig. Which is how I came to play with Chrissie Hynde. Actually, it wasn’t the first time I’d played a song with her on stage, but in front of a sold-out crowd, at the Garden? That was amazing and definitely one of my top 10 rock ’n’ roll experiences. She told me which song I would be doing
— Middle of the Road — and I practised and practised to make sure I got it right.
When I arrived, I was told it would be the second-to-last song, so I sat backstage, trying to enjoy the evening, but understandably a touch nervous as I waited to be called.
Inevitably, the moment came. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Chrissie announced, “I’ve got a friend of mine, a special guest, who’s gonna come out and play with me: John McEnroe!” That’s when you hope you don’t walk out to “Boooo” from half the Garden crowd — which luckily I didn’t.
Anyway, we started the song, although I was too worried about messing up to be able to enjoy the moment. Then, halfway through, I broke a string. I’m not going to pretend that the whole show fell apart, but it was a pain. I had wanted to feel I was adding something, and Chrissie knew I had the chords down. Even though I wasn’t going to be playing an intricate guitar solo, I wanted her to feel I was hitting the right chords and doing something to justify being on stage with her. So losing that string put
me out-of-tune a bit but, as they say in rock ’n’ roll, “the show must go on”.
I’ve never had any illusions about my level of musical ability. On the rare occasion when anyone is kind enough to give me a compliment in that area, I’ll usually reply to their somewhat over-generous “You’re a good guitar player,” with: “Yeah, for a tennis player, really good. But for a musician, er . . .”
I can’t deny that the time when I suddenly found myself hanging out with the rock musicians I’d admired from afar was one of the most exciting experiences of my life. One minute I was playing air guitar in Rob Ellis’ basement with my high school fraternity friends, and going to see Led Zeppelin at Madison Square Garden as a fan and complaining ’cos the gig didn’t sound exactly like the records. The next thing I knew I was hanging out with Robert Plant and he was telling me what I did was cool.
THERE’S A quote by the film director Richard Linklater, where he says, “If someone says to me the best years of your life are in high school, I’d say that’s f***ing pitiful.” Well, that’s me in a nutshell. If I didn’t ever talk again about the first 18 years of my life, I’d be perfectly fine. Because to me, it all changed in a dramatic way when I went to Wimbledon in 1977. Before that I don’t remember much anyway.
The tennis wasn’t full-time until I was 18 but it was always enough to make me feel separated from the other kids at school, because most kids didn’t play tennis. Unlike football or baseball, tennis wasn’t considered cool — everyone thought it was a sissy sport, so I felt out of the loop.
As a teenager, I remember sitting up and taking notice when the girls started screaming for Bjorn Borg in his first year at Wimbledon. It was like something out of Beatlemania. I began to take the sport I was playing a bit more seriously.
Once I started going to Europe to play Wimbledon every year, I went from being the kid who played the sissy sport to someone who was cool enough to hang out with the British rock stars who’d been my heroes. I’d never have imagined rock guys like Robert Plant being into Wimbledon — that was the opposite of what I would’ve expected. But the Stones, Zeppelin, all these bands I’d grown up loving — even Tony Iommi of Black Sabbath — were telling me “You’re great” or, “Wow, I really respect what you’re doing.” I was still only a kid at the time, and I remember thinking, “Holy shit! This is amazing!”
The first time I met the Rolling Stones was in 1981, on the Tattoo You tour at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. It was Vitas [Gerulaitis, tennis champion] who took me backstage. After making our way through all the different areas, we eventually got back to a room where only Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood and the guitar tech were hanging out, and they said, “Come on in.” They were warming up before the show, having a drink and partying pretty hard. I was thinking, “How the hell are these guys going to play?” I’m not sure what the exact time was. I think they’d announced to the crowd they’d be going on at 9.30, but the crew knew the real time would be well after 10. As they were hustling us out so they could finally go on stage, someone said, “Mick Jagger wants to say hello,” so the next thing we know, Vitas and I are smoking a joint with Mick Jagger. He’s talking away and seems reasonably happy to see us, but all the people running things were totally freaking out, because by now they were well past the time that even the Stones knew they were meant to be on at — heading for what would later become Axl Rose territory. That was a memorable night.
The next time I saw them was not long afterward, when Ronnie and Keith came to the ATP Finals at Madison Square Garden. I was playing [Guillermo] Vilas in the semis. Of course they showed up late. I was at the changeover and someone started tapping me on my shoulder. I’m trying to ignore it, because that’s how you are in a match, but this guy’s going, “John, John.” I’m about to tell him to get lost, but when I turn round, it’s Ronnie! I had this incredible jolt of adrenalin, I’ve got to say, to see Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards sitting in their leather pants at a tennis match.
THEY’RE TWO very different disciplines — rock ’n’ roll and sports. People ask me: “If you had the choice, would you rather have been a tennis player or the guitarist in a rock band?” And even though there’s something unbelievably intoxicating about the idea of being in a band, ultimately I’d always pick sports.
First because I love sports — not just tennis, but basketball, football, athletics, boxing, whatever — but also because, for me, there’s always a certain time of night where I’ll get jittery and start to think, “I’ve got to go to sleep.” That time might have been 4 in the morning when I was younger. But now if there’s a gig someone wants me to go to that doesn’t start until 11 or 12, I’ll say, “Isn’t it a little late?”
Maybe age has turned me into a lightweight, but I couldn’t handle the world Keith and Ronnie live in — although I did try.