Almost a decade ago, a young boy, Andy Roddick, lifted expectations to the stratosphere. Just as the golden era of Sampras, Agassi, Courier and Chang was beginning to lose its shimmer, the torch was passed to an emerging star with a serve that thundered faster than Sampras’, a bravado suggestive of Connors, and a forehand even Courier could admire. Plus, the guy won, grabbing the ‘03 U.S. Open and becoming No. 1 in the world.
Advantage Andy.
But a funny thing happened en route to the coronation. It wasn’t so much that Roddick lost in ‘05 in the first round in New York just as an incessant AmEx ad campaign was touting the wonders of his mojo or that the ATP field got used to his monster shots and Rafa Nadal became a force. No, it was more about Roger Federer. Everybody knows the Swiss god has owned Andy. He leads 19-2 and has beaten the Yank seven times in the semis or finals of majors. But, more than this, it’s been the way the majestic man from the land of mountains has done it. Poet and whiz, grace incarnate — Federer was a streaking Ferrari, Andy was but a Buick. Even Roddick conceded, “He’s an artist. I basically hit the crap out of the ball.”
So the Texan became an easy target for dismissive critics who hammered the guy’s game: so mechanical, more than artless.
“[He’s] probably the worst ball striker of a great player that I’ve ever seen,” the unsparing former Wimbledon semifinalist Sandy Mayer told IT. Even Andy dubbed himself “the best bad player of all time.”
But, for such a bad player, Andy’s results haven’t been so shabby. Indeed, over the past decade, after Roger, he’s been the most consistent men’s player, never dipping below the top 10. And, yeah, he did okay in that Wimbledon final last year. Three times he got within two points of the title and he didn’t drop serve until the 77th and final game of the epic. Andy’s will — his meat and potatoes power grit — struck an heroic chord. Not since the nerve-wracked and weepy Jana Novotna blew her opportunity to wear the Wimbledon crown had a loss drawn such sympathy. And while sages insisted the Texan had accomplished more from this one loss than from all his other wins combined, I knew just one thing. I wanted to talk with the guy, down in his hometown of Austin, so we could explore his journey. After all, when it comes to American men’s tennis, for nearly a half-decade, this has been the (grab your hard hat) Age of Roddick.
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Andy didn’t just say yes to my interview request. He said I could stop by his house and hang out and that he would have his tireless assistant Jen pick me up at my hotel at 9 a.m.
Sweet!
So before I could say “Willie Nelson rocks,” Jen was driving through Austin’s city limits, down the Capitol of Texas Highway and past the South Taylor Slough Watershed to where the houses suddenly blossomed Tara-like columns, American flags and Lone Stars. There we reached a gated community where Lance Armstrong once lived and drove downhill to Andy’s ample house right on the edge of Lake Austin. Here there was no grass court, no clay court — well, no court (or pool) at all. But so what. I was thrilled just to be there. Then, I figured that, as Jen opened the front door, there would be the familiar 6-foot-2 man of thunder.
Wrong!
There was Billie Jean. No — not the famous femme Billie Jean King. There was a hound, the cutest pug-nosed little English Bulldog you’ll ever see. Endearing and irresistible, the micro-beast sported her very own red Nebraska Husker sweater. Rah-rah. Soon I would come to realize the obvious: there are now three B’s that fire up Roddick’s life: his new bride, Brooklyn; his freshly minted backhand, which has been a key to the new-look tennis that’s been on display from Melbourne to Memphis; and his pooch-pal Billie Jean.
For the next nine hours I would watch as the macho muscle man of tennis lovingly fussed over the little animal he adored so much — offering a continuous stream of doting “do-this, do-that” commands and comments.
“C’mon over here, Big Bill.”
“You thirsty, Billie? Have a drink.”
“Hop right up on my lap, Billie.”
“Hey Billie, do you want to fly with me to L.A.?”
—
I know Andy Roddick is a casual guy, so not surprisingly, my day of Roddickian wonder became an easy mix of simple, on-point missions — going to a training work-out, an intense practice session, our sit-down interview (see feature), all of which seamlessly combined with hanging out, sharing tennis lore and fables while watching the painful demise of our U.S. Davis Cup boys in Serbia.
From the get-go, I sensed that Andy’s middle-of-a-cul-de-sac digs would be claiming few interior design prizes. Never mind that the two most decorative pieces were an almost indescribable faux moose head mounted on the wall and an oversized kitsch portrait of W.C. Fields. Still, the place has it’s own pretense-free, (“real men don’t do tidy”) appeal. A kind of post-bachelor pad, it resonated with a jolly jocks-just-want-to-have-fun vibe. Boy toys abound: a big pool table covered with Babolat gear dominates the entryway, three curious slot machines stand on a back wall and there’s a round poker table, where I imagine James Blake, Mardy Fish or maybe Sampras boozing and bluffing and going all-in during rousing high-stakes/after-midnight games of Texas Hold ‘em.
Still, one senses that Andy Roddick is a man in transition. For now, there is little outward evidence of his new bride. Andy explained, almost sheepishly, that, yeah, if Brooke were still there (she just left that morning to head West) he would have put the jar of honey away. He adds that Brooke doesn’t quite feel it’s her place and then proudly instructs me to look up the lake, a half mile up by the big bend with the long pier, “That’s where Brooke and I are building our new place — more land.”
What intrigued me at Andy’s pad was all his memorabilia. Except in a pleasant dining room and a big, user-friendly kitchen (that all but shouts “Hang Out Here”), the rooms and hallways are crowded with mementos that track the man’s considerable triumphs. There’s an invitation from President Bush, a letter from the Texas governor, an inspirational note from coach Tony Dungy and photos of assorted celebs, everyone from Ali and Michael Jordan to Elton John and chef Emeril Lagasse. Trophies from Cincy or San Jose mix with statues from Wimbledon and remembrances of the Athens Olympics and America’s poignant Davis Cup triumph in Portland. Most of all, we see a celebration of Andy’s singular Grand Slam win. A September 7, 2003 ticket to Ashe Stadium is embedded in glass. There’s a pic of boy Andy’s OMG moment hugging his trophy and down the hall, in it’s own special niche, the not that shiny silver U.S. Open trophy stands proud.
This place is like a candy store for tennis curators, but it’s too much to take in at once, so I retreat to Andy’s kick back ‘n gaze TV room, where, up on the flat screen, his friend John Isner is struggling on European clay in his first Davis Cup tie.
“This will be a tall order [no pun intended],” Andy tells me. The most successful Davis Cup player of the era concedes that “Davis Cup is a whole different animal. Playing for your team, your country — the pressure. It took me five years to get it.”
Still, Roddick yells at Isner: “Go to Troicki’s forehand, give him a chance to choke. Let him feel the pressure.”
But now my host feels the self-imposed pressure of sticking to his own regime. It’s time to head off to his workout. So Andy, Billie Jean and I hop into his black Escalade and drive through a couple of nearby neighborhoods to McCallum High. There, tucked in between the Grover Ave. bowling alley and the Grace of Nazarene Church, is an anonymous track and football field like a thousand others in the Lone Star State. Halfway across the no-frills track, an aspiring linebacker chugs out wind sprints, while Billie Jean and I watch as Andy and a friend are put to their paces by his trainer, Lance Hooten: “Knees higher. Feel the burn. Five more seconds.” Between the unsparing lunges and the stylized leaps – sweat ‘n grunt — I relay dreary Davis Cup updates and then the Texan taps his inner-Gandhi as he quickly defuses Billie Jean’s seek-and-destroy mission upon a screeching little ol’ lady and her tiny Chihuahua who had innocently sashayed into Billie’s turf.
Breathing heavy, his chest heaving — Andy finishes his work out and promptly rounds up Billie and I into the Escalade to head back to Andy’s lakeside headquarters.
The Serbian war is not going well. Like Isner, Yank Sam Querrey is being mowed down, and to make matters worse, Novak Djokovic (who’s hardly an A-Rod fave) is inflicting the damage. Again Andy barks instrucs, telling his buddy and semi-pupil to pressure Djokovic’s forehand and induce one of those mysterious ailments that so often afflict the Serb when matters get dicey.
But duty calls and Andy’s schedule marches on. So it’s back into the Escalade just to drive a few hundred yards, where we turn down an unmarked alley and come upon a humble court carved out of a steep hill where the Wimbledon finalist will, amidst the court’s stains and dips, join a couple of practice partners.
Recently, Pam Shriver said that when Federer’s practicing it looks like he’s doing yoga. Roddick’s session is closer to karate. Yes, there are some finesse drills, some two-on-one games within games, plenty of macho teases and frat-like tales about enduring Billie Jean’s not-so-fragrant bodily functions. But mostly this is an intense guts ‘n grunt session and the rocky slope that frames the outback court only amplifies A-Rod’s signature boom and blast serve and forehand: WOOSH, WACK, THOWCK!
Andy will be flying in a few hours to L.A., so the practice is an hour shorter than his usual two-and-a-half-hour drill. So, again we return to the house, where FOA (Friend of Andy) Justin Gimelstob is reporting Querrey’s demise. Roddick again hollers: “Not to his backhand!” and then concedes that foe Djokovic has incredible preparation: “That guy’s always in place.” And these days Andrew Stephen Roddick is invariably in place at the epicenter of the text-and-twitter universe of American tennis. His Tweet today shares how cool last night’s hip-hop sing-along was. Then he announces, “That was Mardy [Fish texting me]. He wants to know the Davis Cup score.” Next he tells us, “That’s John [Isner from Serbia],” dealing with the wounds of a match he had hoped to win. Andy reflects on Agassi and asserts there’s no way Andre would ever do performance-enhancing drugs. And as for his buds since childhood — Venus and Serena — he says that, away from the spotlight, they’re so relaxed and real and that it’s only when they’re on stage that a wall goes up. As for Serena’s tirade in New York, he offers off-the-record insights that are brimming with insight, sense and sympathy. This guy knows his trade.
In the feisty era of Mac ‘n Connors, it was just presumed that the top American players would be sworn foes. Now it’s just the opposite. The man who named his dog after Billie Jean (and is always there at her annual fundraiser) and proudly announces that Agassi is his hero, mentored Sam Querrey big time, has an assistant who’s tight with Isner, is pals with the Williamses, Sampras, Courier, Fish, Blake and the Bryans.
Whew! You get the close-knit picture.
So why do so many feel a connection with Andy? It’s not just that he plays Davis Cup well, golf poorly and poker intermittenly and is a regular at charity events. It’s more that this alpha male man delivers. He’s paid so many dues. His big match experience — scars and all — give him an unmistakable (“when Andy talks, American tennis listens”) gravitas.
The guy’s courageously put it on the line.
In fact, no other tennis player in history has taken so many big fight punches and still come off the mat to go another round, another day. Plus, Roddick’s brusk, quip-and-run, locker room candor has appeal.
No wonder, without fanfare or attention, he’s become beloved in the inner sanctum, the leader of that merry nomadic brotherhood, that team of rivals that now defines American pro tennis.
But Billie Jean doesn’t care. She just snorts, where’s my food?
—
Andy’s about to take a private jet out to L.A. to meet Blake and Fish for a couple of days of practice and then plans to join Sampras for 18 holes on Sunday before driving down to Indian Wells. So Andy collects his bulging Babolat bags stuffed with gear, a huge bag of dog food and a comfy (but so incongruous) circular bed for his pet.
But Billie doesn’t care.
Lingering at will, the pup stalls our ascent into the Escalade. But once there, Andy calls Jim Courier, who’ll be staying at his Austin house shortly.
“Hey man, why are you insisting on renting a car when you come in? I have two perfectly good ones sitting in my driveway.”
But the ever-willful Courier just won’t listen.
Still, clearly there’s one person who’s all ears. Andy’s (not-just-a pretty-face) wife Brooke is fresh off the triumph of being on the cover of SI. In fashion this is like winning Wimbledon and now her (Hawaii one day/London the next) career is soaring to a heady new dimension, complete with a big-screen part in an Adam Sandler movie. As he chats with her on the phone, I think, “Brooklyn and A-Rod — when has there been a more dynamic sports and fashion couple?”
And now as he cuddles Billie Jean on his lap, the 27-year old is being a caring, been there/done that husband, telling his 22-year old bride that the surge in her career “is a good problem to have.” Then, after soothing his mate, the kid we not so long ago dismissed as a wisecracking jock — who time and again climbed withering, heights of sarcasm — shifted gears and became a caring citizen with keen insights about the important work of the Andy Roddick Foundation. First quizzing, then advising his assistant, he focused on the knotty dilemmas the youth friendly group faced, before serving up one adept decision after another on how to help the most needy of kids.
So, as we pulled up to a nifty private airport the term “wise guy” suddenly took on a totally different meaning.
Then — as nomad Andy gathered his bags, the bulky bag of dog chow and that bulldog bed — he emerged into the public eye for the first time all day. Elvis was in the house.
“Andy, Andy,” elated fans screamed spontaneously.
But Billie Jean didn’t care.
