Commentary : Most-Spoiled Athletes Are Tennis Stars

Boris Becker, child multimillionaire, walked off the dusty clay court at the West Side Tennis Club in Forest Hills that hot Sunday afternoon in a sour mood. He had just lost a doubles match that he had not been that eager to play. His wrist ached slightly. And, as he walked through the metal gate leading from the court to the path that would take him to the locker room, he was met by a human swarm.

Some wanted autographs. Others wanted his picture. A few had notebooks and wanted to fill them with Becker’s wisdom. Several had microphones. Becker had seen all this before. Most of the time he is gracious with autograph seekers, patient with the media. Not this time.

“No, no, not now,” he said, pushing his way through the crowd. “I have to go.”

Could he sign just a few? Could he talk for just a minute?

“No!” he thundered and charged off.

It was not the lost match or the aching wrist that was making Becker uptight. He was late for a plane. The last New York-to-Rome flight was leaving in less than an hour, and if Becker didn’t catch it he would have to wait 16 hours for the next one. Since he had a match in Rome in 36 hours losing 16 was not an appealing thought. Most people would not have even thought about catching an international flight in so short a time. Couldn’t be done. But Becker had a limousine waiting for him at the locker-room door and airline officials waiting to whisk him through the airport. Airlines take care of celebrities--especially celebrities who always fly first class.

And so he pushed his way through the crowd, unable to understand why people couldn’t understand his problem. And the people being pushed had trouble understanding why an 18-year-old millionaire with the world at his beck-and-call, should be in such a lousy mood on a gorgeous spring afternoon.

It is almost impossible for most mortals who cannot wield a tennis racket as if it were a magic wand to comprehend the lifestyles of the rich and famous people who own this game. Last year, when Ivan Lendl lost the Wimbledon final to Becker, he went directly from the All-England Club to Heathrow Airport, boarded the Concorde and was home in his Greenwich, Conn., mansion six hours after accepting the runner-up trophy from the Duke of Kent. Most of the reporters covering the tournament were still on the grounds at Wimbledon when Lendl drove through the gates of the estate known in the tennis world as Fort Lendl because it is so heavily guarded.

What makes Lendl’s journey so remarkable is that in the world of tennis it is quite unremarkable. Lendl, Becker, John McEnroe, Jimmy Connors, Mats Wilander, Martina Navratilova and Chris Evert Lloyd lead rock-star lives. Not only are they so rich that they can travel in any style they choose, they are so famous that they are given white-glove treatment wherever they go.

Last Monday night, after the tennis season officially ended with the final of the Nabisco Masters Tournament, Lendl walked away with a top prize of $210,000 for six days’ work. That doesn’t include $800,000 in bonus money. And the prize money figure (Navratilova won almost $2 million this year) doesn’t even begin to touch the money these people make for endorsements, exhibitions, clinics and appearances. The figures are staggering. But so are the lives the name players lead.

Tennis players are the most spoiled group of athletes in the world. Baseball, football and basketball players ride buses as teen-agers; tennis players take the Concorde. In no other sport do the athletes train by traveling to Paris, London, Sydney, Athens, Tokyo and New York. In no other sport do the athletes look up and see the Queen of England, the Duke of Kent, the Princess of Wales, all of them decked out in their flowery summer-best, breathlessly watching their every move. Or, if they’re in New York rather than London, they settle for Vice President George Bush, King of Comedy Johnny Carson, Queen of Soaps Linda Evans or Sultan of Splat Chevy Chase.

That’s not to mention the groupies. At Wimbledon, there is something called, “The Viewing Lane,” outside the locker room. Quite literally, it is an area set up for people to stand and gawk as the players come and go. In no sport do the groupies dress like tennis groupies. If a woman--or teen-age girl--doesn’t look like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine, she isn’t going to get a second look. Many of them do step out of fashion magazines panting for a date with a tennis player. McEnroe married an actress; Connors a Playmate; Wilander a model. Lloyd dated a President’s son and Burt Reynolds, and admitted to an extra-marital affair with a rock star in the second autobiography she wrote before age 31. Does any of this sound real?

Last fall, Connors and Lendl were both scheduled to play in a tournament in Sydney, Australia. Both asked for--and received--24-hour postponements in their first-round matches. This is routinely done for top players. Connors was scheduled to arrive in Sydney on a Tuesday morning flight. A horde of media awaited him since he had not played in Sydney for several years. But, at the last minute, Connors delayed his arrival saying that his wife was ill. But it was too late to get word to the waiting media.

In the meantime, Lendl had boarded the flight Connors had been booked on. When he learned about the Connors welcoming committee, Lendl panicked. An unscheduled press conference? No, no, no. Get me out of here, Lendl told the airline. Naturally, he was accommodated, letting him avoid the press by going through a back door on the jetway.

For most top players, this kind of treatment begins at a very early age. These days, agents and coaches blanket promising talent by the time a player is 14 or 15. They wine and dine the teen-ager and his or her family and tell them in detail all the wonderful things they will do for them. Tennis parents are like stage parents. They see stars and they see dollar signs. They see their own blunted dreams coming true through their children. They live through their children.

Often the agents who come calling on the star-struck parents deliver what they promise. Jimmy Arias and Aaron Krickstein, neither of whom has ever won a title more prestigious than the U.S. Clay Courts (Arias, once) were millionaires long before their 20th birthday. Krickstein hasn’t even reached his yet.

At 16, Krickstein reached the fourth round of the U.S. Open. He immediately became the subject of an intense fight to sign him between the sport’s two major management groups. Krickstein signed with one, then was wooed away by the other when his contract expired. Krickstein has never reached the quarterfinals of a Grand Slam tournament, his ranking has dropped steadily for the last two years and now, at 19, people wonder if he will crack the top 10 again. But his agent sees almost every match he plays and Krickstein, who does not have a high school diploma, is wealthier than 99% of the world’s college graduates will ever be.

The top players’ agents become virtual baby-sitters for their stars. For many years, Gerry Solomon, Lendl’s long-time agent, actually carried Lendl’s rackets to and from the locker room for him at major events. He was snidely referred to by some as the world’s best-paid valet. Lloyd used to walk the grounds at the U.S. Open with Lynda (Wonder Woman) Carter trailing in her wake. No one can remember Carter’s being asked for an autograph. Next to Lloyd, one of the most glamorous stars in television was suddenly invisible.

Because tennis players are so wealthy they can routinely afford to have traveling entourages as large as they want. Navratilova travels with her coach, Mike Estep and his wife, Barbara; her friend Judy Nelson and, often, Nelson’s two children and her parents. Navratilova has made almost $12 million in prize money alone; why not have as many people with her as she chooses? At the U.S. Open each year, Lloyd flies in her chef from London to cook for her family and friends. McEnroe has never been one for entourages, but last fall when he and Bjorn Borg played a seven-city exhibition tour, each of them had a Lear jet that flew them from site to site.

They are rich, they are famous and they are worshipped. What people often fail to understand is that even below the rock-star level, tennis players are welcomed to each city they play in like MacArthur returning to the Philippines. They are greeted at the airport by courtesy drivers (often doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers or the like taking a week off from work) who carry their bags to their courtesy car (usually a corporate sponsor of the tournament) and are driven either to their hotel or a private home where they are spending the week.

People line up for the privilege of turning their houses over to tennis players for a week. Not just to the superstars. Tennis is very much a sport for the wealthy; a recent survey done by one men’s tournament revealed that the median annual income of the fans in attendance was $89,000--and those who hack away at the game like nothing more than to brag to their friends about having some tennis player stay in their house for a few days. You want my house? Take it. My pool? It’s yours. Anything else? You got it.

During the Assn. of Tennis Professional’s annual tournament in Cincinnati, each player in the draw is provided with the free use of a car, free lodging (that is not uncommon around the world) free golf and a week of entertainment. A story about this year’s tournament carried in the players’ weekly newspaper, while noting that the tournament was well run, suggested several ways to improve conditions next year--perhaps limousines, for example.

The rock stars don’t have to bother staying in other people’s houses--they stay at home. Lloyd stays at her own house in London during Wimbledon; Navratilova stayed in her Trump Tower condo during the U.S. Open in New York. Both settle for suites at the Plaza D’Athene in Paris. That hotel is so upper crust that morning joggers are instructed to come and go through a side door so as not to ruin the atmosphere of the Just-So lobby with their running outfits--even if the running outfits were bought at Gucci.

Tennis players become comfortable in this unreal world, accustomed to being told by Greats how great they are. No wonder they posture and whine when a call goes against them on the court. Wait a minute, don’t you know who I am? I could buy and sell you. And they could.

To lump all the players together is unfair. The women, as a rule, are much less enamored of themselves than the men. And among the men, people like Becker (when not running for a plane), Henri Leconte, Tim Wilkison, Paul Annacone, Bud Schultz and a number of others are gracious, warm people. But they are exceptions.

Most tennis players come a lot closer to being like Lendl, who complained so bitterly about the interview room’s being 100 yards away from the locker room at a tournament last year that the interview room was moved to accommodate him.

But why shouldn’t tennis players expect that kind of treatment? It has been given to them almost as a birthright. At an age when most kids are trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl to the senior prom, Becker stood on Centre Court at Wimbledon and traded jokes with the Duchess of Kent. Becker, the Duke and the Duchess had a lovely chuckle together.

And why not? Royalty, after all, understands royalty.