Sam Querrey: My interview with the man of the moment
Early summer means Wimbledon when millions of us—our rackets long outdated, zipped into cases, stuffed into hall closets—tune back into the game of tennis. I used to love tennis, or the idea of it anyway. Tennis whites bringing out the brown on arms and legs, the players and their idiosynchratic grunts and groans. The 70's were the heyday of my tennis ardor, Breakfast at Wimbledon a yearly tradition. The romantic possibilities of Chris Evert and Jimmy Connors. Billy Jean King and Martina Navrátilová. The sex appeal of Ilya Nastase. Arthur Ashe followed by the long-haired Bjorn Borg looking like Peter Frampton. McEnroe and his anger management problems. Those were the days I played it too, poorly, the sweet spot of victory ever elusive. Eventually I let it go, but still Wimbledon calls every year. The names familiar with year after year of victories, Pete Sampras, Roger Federer, the Williams sisters, Novak Djokovic. This year the name on everyone's lips is the Californi...