By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
In a moment, McEnroe will begin serving, the crowd will begin cheering him even louder, and the fiery 39-year-old will begin cursing out the chair umpire as he has done for 20 years. Kriek will hold serve in the first set, take McEnroe to a tie-breaker, then go down quietly in the second set. The two players will, every now and then, turn a single point into a graceful, muscular marathon. They will dive for balls, swear in anger, pump their fists in defiance and delight. They will play not like so-called "seniors" with aching knees and sore arms, but like the young men you might remember seeing on television in 1982.
As recently as a decade ago, perhaps, a match-up of two men once ranked among the top 10 male tennis players in the world might have meant something. A decade ago, the humid air in Las Colinas might have bristled with something close to electricity. But on this September 25 night, there is barely even a breeze. What unfolds in front of the crowd of 3,000 more often than not barely resembles tennis.
Oh, they use rackets, they wear white. But somewhere between then and now, between McEnroe's storied career and its forthcoming undignified end, it stopped being a game and turned into a traffic accident. The most courtly of all professional sports has become Jell-O wrestling. McEnroe's matches with Kriek and, eventually, Jimmy Connors degenerate into temper tantrums. Dignity, McEnroe dare not speak thy name.
"This is the senior tour," Kriek says later, his voice shaking in anger. "This is not Wimbledon finals. This is the twilight of our careers. We don't need to act like it. I'm sick and tired of it, and if the owners of this tour want to kick me off the tour, go ahead, knock my ass right off the tour. That guy [McEnroe] has got a screw loose."
Welcome to life on the Nuveen Tour, the corporate-sponsored senior circuit where 40-year-old legends, shoulda-beens, and never-weres keep picking up paychecks till they can no longer hold a racket or play with their balls.
"It beats working for a living," McEnroe says when asked why, dear God, why? "I don't need the money, but the bills are still coming in. I don't want to dip too much into my savings. I'd rather be safe than sorry, and it keeps me in shape. I don't think I'll be doing it when I'm 50 years old, but this is my time right now. I get to compete. It's at a lesser level, but it's in your blood. My goal is to be the George Foreman of tennis."
Apparently, tennis legends do not retire; they do not disappear with grace and dignity. Out of the spotlight and in such places as Richmond, Virginia, and Aaland, Finland, and even Las Colinas, they continue to make money playing the golden-oldies tours. Such former greats as Connors, Bjorn Borg, Ilie Nastasie, Yannick Noah, even Stan Smith dust off their old rackets, rub down their tired legs, and keep trotting out onto the court to make some quick scratch by entertaining the crowd with their monkey acts.
On this weekend, McEnroe and Connors--the only players anyone has come here to see, and they know it--and a few other lesser-knowns have brought their show to a part of the country where McEnroe and Connors played some of their finest matches so very long ago. McEnroe last played a professional tennis match in Dallas nine years ago, when he was still ranked the No. 4 male tennis player in the world. He was a 30-year-old superstar at the bottom of the top of his game, and he beat a forgotten Brad Gilbert in the World Championship Tennis finals at Reunion Arena, taking home his fifth WCT title in a decade. Ten years earlier, at Moody Coliseum, McEnroe won his first--beating both Connors (in straight sets) and Borg during a single tournament for the very first time in his then-young career.
Now, as he steps onto the court at the Four Seasons, that WCT victory seems like a lifetime ago. The tennis courts at the Four Seasons are hardly the old slabs once brought into Moody, much less Centre Court at Wimbledon. This is the playground for the vacationing rich, the rich and the puffy, not legends. It's like going to a high school gym to watch Michael Jordan play a game of pick-up ball, or going to Loos Stadium to watch Joe Montana throw deep.
Watching McEnroe play tennis in 1998 is like watching a ghost chase his shadow. He looks the same, moves the same--every now and then, he covers more court than concrete--but he is not the same. He is still sharp, though the blade can no longer cut through tin cans the way it used to. Even he readily admits, "Of course I don't have the same passion for the game I had 20 years ago." Still, most old-time tennis fans would rather watch McEnroe versus Johan Kriek than, say, Petr Korda take on Jonas Bjorkman. If nothing else, watching McEnroe throw a hissy fit is to be reminded that today's male tennis star is a bland superstar at best, just one replaceable part of a broken machine. Mark Philippoussis, Patrick Rafter, Carlos Moya, even bad-bad-bad-boy Marcelo Rios combined don't add up to McEnroe on his worst day during the 1980s. And will any of them ever be involved in a match as thrilling as McEnroe-Borg in the 1980 and 1981 Wimbledon finals? Never.