Lendl lets everyone in on jokes

NEW YORK -- A funny thing has happened to Ivan Lendl. He got funny.

Actually, he always was. It was the rest of us -- the public led astray by the media, led astray by a sense of humor a bit beyond us -- that didn’t get it.

In his playing days, Lendl was arguably the best male in the world for much of 1983-88, maybe even into 1990, when he won the last of his eight major titles at the Australian Open. In that span, there were guys named McEnroe and Connors who would argue that best-player point, but then, they would argue all points, which is part of their charm.

One thing even they wouldn’t argue: Lendl had the best run of any male player ever at the U.S. Open. He got to the final eight straight years, 1982 to 1989, and won three in a row in the middle, 1985 to 1987.

“The first one was the best. I didn’t expect it. John had beaten me twice that summer,” he says, referring to McEnroe. “Then I got into the zone. Sometimes, you can get into the sub-zone, but almost never the zone.”

It was during this run that Lendl somehow became, in the eyes of a public influenced by the typing fingers of the written press, the dour Czech, the sourpuss champion, the dull guy with the Eastern European accent whose news conferences seemed like give-and-take with a robot. Or worse, David Nalbandian.

“I always had a good sense of humor,” Lendl says, laughing. “It was just one that you guys never understood.”

Now, that’s something worth a chuckle. But at the time, it was hurtful. After he won one U.S. Open, Sports Illustrated put him on the cover, with a headline that said: “The Champion Nobody Cares About.”

On Tuesday, at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, the champion that nobody cared about signed autographs for an hour and needed security guards to break up the waiting line and run interference for him when his time was up. He had a smile for all, sometimes a story. Dour and dull had become quick with a quip.

“I love it when they tell me they watched me play when they were growing up,” Lendl says. “One guy tells me that today and I asked him how old he is. He says 54. I’m 47. I wonder how that works.”

As a player, he used to keep a watch under his wristband and few knew why. Turns out, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t letting the match go so long that he’d miss a tee time.

The only major he didn’t win was Wimbledon, and he even skipped it one year, telling the press he was allergic to grass. Then he stayed home and played golf.

He loves golf and golf stories.

“I hear Seve [Ballesteros] talk about a round,” Lendl says. “He four-putted. They ask him how he did that. He says, ‘I hit a putt. Not in. I hit another putt. Not in. Another. Not in. The fourth one. In.’ ”

Lendl became an American citizen in 1992, is married to Samantha, lives the summers in Goshen, Conn., and the winters in Bradenton, Fla. He has five daughters.

“Three play golf, one rides a horse and the other is 9,” he says.

Lendl, a scratch golfer who has tinkered with playing in pro events, holds the record at the Lake Waramaug, Conn., course with a 64. The women’s record is 67, held by Marika Lendl, 17, his oldest.

Other daughters are twins Isabelle and Caroline, 16, and Nikki, the 9-year-old.

And Crash, 14.

Crash?

“Her real name is Daniela,” Lendl says, “but she’d be insulted if you used it.”

So why the nickname?

“She was supposed to take the dog for a walk,” Lendl says. “So she gets in the golf cart, ties the dog to the cart, takes off and keeps looking back at the dog, instead of the tree. The dog was fine.”

Thanks to his longtime agent, Jerry Solomon, Lendl is his own blossoming corporation. He has a regular gig on the Tennis Channel, endorses analgesic creams and wristbands that are supposed to generate positive energy for the wearer, is back making appearances for Adidas and represents some Taylor Made golf equipment. Solomon also is planning a movie for 2009, to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Lendl’s first Grand Slam title, the 1984 French.

And there are the autograph signings.

“I don’t want to say how much he gets paid,” Solomon says, “but he does nicely.”

That, of course, wouldn’t be the case if he weren’t an attraction. Solomon says, “He’s more popular now than when he was No. 1.”

Lendl is past caring about popularity. He’s busy talking about the peace and quiet of rural Connecticut and how he rode his bike 24 miles Monday and didn’t see more than five cars on his way home.

“But I’ve got to be careful that Crash never finds out the way I go,” he says.

Rim shot, drum roll.

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Bill Dwyre can be reached at bill.dwyre@latimes.com. For previous columns by Dwyre, go to latimes.com/dwyre.