Tennis Lessons, Life Lessons

I've Got Your Back: Coaching Top Performers from Center Court to the Corner Office
by Brad Gilbert, James Kaplan

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A coach shouldn't be just a boss, or a teacher, but a protector.

"John Wooden had so much love for talking about the team, and the foundation of the team, that he would never discuss a single player. He inspired every one of his players to put aside his ego in pursuit of excellence. How did he do it? By putting aside his own ego first."

— B.G.

Some people call me a great coach. After all, they say, I've taken two tennis players - one of them, Andre Agassi, slightly stuck in neutral and not playing the way he should; the other, Andy Roddick, a hot-tempered kid with genius but less than great discipline - to the very pinnacle of the game, at the very point when the world was starting to think about counting them out. There must be a magic wand in my tennis bag!

There is no wand. To those who call me great, I say thanks for the compliment, which I respectfully decline.

This isn't fake modesty. I love what I do, and I think I'm very good at it. But I am by no means infallible. And if I have any special skill - besides knowing as much as almost anybody out there about what goes on inside the 27 by 78 feet of a tennis court - it's that I'm pretty darn good at paying attention. And I've had the amazing fortune to have had at least two great teachers in my life to pay attention to.

One of them is named Andre Agassi.

What's this? Isn't the player supposed to learn from the coach, rather than the other way around?

Well, sure - sometimes. But show me a coach (or a boss) who doesn't listen - really listen - and I'll show you a probable loser. Show me a coach (or a boss) who domineers and demeans, who manages through fear, and I'll show you an accident waiting to happen. Show me a coach or a boss who doesn't think it's just as important to empower the lowliest scrub on the team as it is to cater to the star, and I'll show you a real short timer.

A true story, about a coach who's become an inspiration to me, Dick Vermeil, of the Kansas City Chiefs: Last summer, Dick gave a barbecue at his house for the entire team, not just the stars. Dick did all the cooking and every bit of the cleaning up, all by himself. No caterers, no maids, no hired help. And he was happy to do it. How do you think the Chiefs' third-string defensive tackle felt after that barbecue?

Like he was ready to move heaven and earth for Dick Vermeil, that's how.

Likewise, going to get Andy Roddick his morning coffee and egg sandwich when we're traveling together is one of my favorite things in life. It makes Andy feel totally taken care of; it makes me feel like a powerful guardian. It makes us feel like a team.

In fact, you might say I'm a team player in an individual sport. One of my coaching idols is UCLA's great former basketball coach, John Wooden. The man is ninety-three years old now, but he's still an inspiration. I saw Jamal Wilkes interviewed on TV a little while ago - here was a guy in his fifties, his face full of joy as he talked about his coach. (That's what he still calls him.) The interviewer asked Jamal if he still finds himself doing things in life that Coach Wooden taught him, and Jamal just beamed. "Every day," he said.

John Wooden has so much love for talking about the team, and the foundation of the team, that he will never discuss a single player. He inspired every one of his players to put aside his ego in pursuit of excellence. How did he do it? By putting aside his own ego first.

An expression I've used with both Andre and Andy is, "I've got your back." That says it all about me, in a nutshell. I've got your back. If it was four in the morning, and my guy called me up and said, "I need you to come over," I wouldn't ask what it was about. I wouldn't think twice. I would think once, and this is what my thought would be: If it's important enough for him to call on me at that hour, it's important enough for me to go. And whatever the situation was, we would figure it out. That's just the way I am. Or, I should say, the way I learned to be.

It all started with Chiv - Tom Chivington, the tennis coach of Foothill College in Los Altos Hills, California. Foothill is a community college, a two-year institution, a stop along the way for kids who, for whatever reason - emotional, financial, academic - need a little boost before they can make it in a four-year school.

I was a bit different. True, I was never much of a student (to put it mildly): Graduating from college wasn't my dream. No, I had this nutty idea that I could become a professional tennis player.

How nutty? In 1979 I was the number 35 junior player in the country. Which sounds pretty good - until you realize that at most only six or seven of the top ten juniors ever make it to the pros. I was a scrawny little runt who'd done amazingly well for a guy who didn't have much of a serve, volley, or backhand. My success, such as it was, was pretty much based on the fact that I was, first of all, fast on my feet and second, one tough little scrapper. It didn't matter if the other guy was bigger, stronger, better - I just kept coming. Never gave up. Took no prisoners. You'd be surprised how many matches that'll win you.

I was originally recruited to Arizona State, a good tennis school, but as soon as I reported to Tempe that fall, the coach who'd signed me got fired. The new coach brought in his own players, and I was told I could take a backseat. I decided to relocate. Foothill was close to my home in Piedmont, California, and for a junior college, it had a very strong tennis reputation, thanks to its coach, Tom Chivington.

On January 2, 1980, I reported to Foothill, their hot new singles prospect - and a definite question mark, in the coach's eyes. I was five foot eight, 120 pounds soaking wet, with big hair and a big attitude. (Little did I know that one day a kid named Andy Roddick - a kid who wasn't to be born for two more years - would give me a very hard time about that big hair.) Chiv, who talked softly but looked you right in the eye, put me on the spot. He'd heard I was a bit of a bad actor on the court.

I saw right away that this was a man I had to be straight with. I swallowed. "I've stepped over the bounds a few times," I admitted.

"Can we work on that?" Chiv asked me.

I didn't have to think twice. "That's what I'm here for," I told him.

It was the right answer. That day, for some reason, Chiv saw I was a work in progress and decided to take me on as a project. He knew I didn't have much game, but I almost made up for it with my fighting spirit. He resolved then and there to make a player out of me.

I told you I had mediocre strokes - the truth is that one of my shots was even worse than that. My backhand was strictly a defensive shot, pushed rather than struck, and I couldn't get out of jail with it. Any guy with a strong serve could spin it to my left side, cruise in to net, and have me for lunch.

Lots of coaches had tried to get me to change, but they were always totally negative about it. "You have to do it like this or you're never going to be any good," they'd tell me. Or, "If you don't go to a two-handed backhand, you have no hope. Your backhand sucks. Your grip is terrible." It was always, "You can't, you won't." And my first thought was always, "How good were you?" That was my brashness talking. But I couldn't help it - it's always really ticked me off when someone tells me I can't do something. For a long time, my anger drove me more than anything else.

I could tell right away that Chiv was different. He was quiet and friendly - he had an incredibly calm voice - but he was firm at the same time. I knew he liked me, yet he also wasn't about to put up with any crap from me. When I showed up twenty minutes late to my very first tennis practice, he said, "That's the last time you will ever show up late - ever." I was genuinely puzzled: Nobody had ever called me on that before. But Chiv said, "If you don't come on time, you do not respect me." I was never late - for anything - again. In fact, I'm notorious for showing up a half hour early for everything.

I respected Chiv because he clearly knew what he was talking about, because he radiated self-respect and quiet authority, and because every day, at every practice, he was pumped just to be there - excited about working with every guy on the team, from the strongest to the weakest. I knew right away it was for real: That's the kind of thing you just can't fake.

Copyright © 2005 Brad Gilbert, James Kaplan. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.

About the Author

Brad Gilbert is the author of the tennis classic Winning Ugly, which has sold more than 125,000 copies. Before he became a coach, he played professional tennis from 1982 to 1995, winning twenty pro titles.

James Kaplan is the co-author, with John McEnroe, of the #1 New York Times bestseller You Cannot Be Serious.