Marc Rosset, Barcelona 1992

It’s something that’s special because I’m proud to be Swiss. I love my country and when you have the national anthem, like when you play Davis Cup, you feel something special. It’s unique, because you have the gold medal, and the fact it was the only medal for Switzerland in ’92 meant it was even bigger. You feel proud.

For sure, it was surprising (that I won). I’m not stupid. I saw the draw and I said the first match was okay, it was against Karim Alami. The second match was a tough match against Wayne Ferreira, but I managed to win in straight sets. And then I had Jim Courier, two-time winner at Roland Garros and No. 1, so I was like, “Okay guys, you know what, soon I’m back home,” and I beat him in three sets. And then I started to say, “Whoa!”

I was starting to play more and more my best tennis, and then I was one match away from making a medal. It was against Emilio Sanchez, he was the matador and, for sure, I didn’t want to lose that game. Then I beat Goran [Ivanisevic] in the semis and then I ended up in the finals. Against [Jordi] Arrese I was two sets up but physically, I was roasted, but I managed to finish in the fifth. I can tell you honestly that after the match point, my first feeling was not, “Whoa, I won,” but it was like, “Whoa, it’s over.” I was exhausted and I didn’t realise I won the gold medal, it was, “That’s it, no more tennis to play,” because it was more than five hours I played.

It’s my No. 1 achievement, not only in my career, but I would say in my life because it’s 24 years ago and still now, I meet Swiss people, and they come back to me, “Congratulations for your Olympic medal.”
The funny thing, and the weird thing is, they come and say I remember I was in Spain, or in Italy, or in Switzerland, I was somewhere, and I remember that day. You have the feeling to share one day of your life with plenty of these people.

All of those people remember what they were doing on that day. It’s a title you keep for all of your life. They can always introduce you as a gold medallist and you will be forever an Olympic champion.

Before the Olympics you receive all the materials from the Swiss (Olympic) Committee, the training suit, the t-shirts and this and that. I received two training suits and it was 35 degrees in Barcelona, so I called the Swiss
Committee and said, “I’m sorry but this is the first time I come to the Olympics, do I wear the suit from the Swiss Olympics or can I bring my own stuff.” It was military and they said, “You have to wear this, you have to
wear that,” and I said, “Okay.”

Then I was in the Village and I met Dano Halsall, he was a Swiss swimmer, and it was his third Olympics and the guy is wearing his own clothes. I was wearing the training suit and he said, “No need to do that.” So the first day I went to the physio and I ask for the scissors and I cut my training suit to make it short. When I saw the face of the chief responsible for Swiss Olympics, it was like if I was in the army and I forgot my gun.

I really enjoyed the Olympics, being in the atmosphere in the Village. It’s the thing I remember the most, maybe even more than the victory because it was a good occasion to be with other Swiss sportsmen that I never met all year long. For ten days, two weeks, you can talk about their career, their sports, you can share things with them.
It was a nice feeling. For me it’s what was helping me to win. I took this fun energy that I was happy to meet other guys, see other athletes; I was super happy to be there and I think that’s why I won the Olympics because I took this energy.

Source: ITF Olympic book

When he was king

Bjorn Borg

By Tim Pears, the Observer, Sunday 5 June 2005

They called him the ice man, but there was so much more to Björn Borg than cool detachment and a wispy beard. Twenty-five years after the Swede’s last and greatest Wimbledon triumph, award-winning novelist Tim Pears offers a remarkable portrait of the rebellious teenager who became an accidental Nordic mystic – and an all-time great.

‘I think Björn’s greatest victory was not the way he came to master his ground strokes, but the change he underwent, with terrible determination, to tame his passionate spirit.’ Lennart Bergelin, Borg’s coach

Was ever a great champion so misunderstood, even in the broad light of his glory, as Björn Borg? By the time of the Wimbledon championships of 1980, when he was 24, he had won the grass-court competition each of the four preceding years, as well as the French Open, on clay, five times. On contrasting surfaces that required radically different approaches, this was an achievement without precedent. And yet the calm young master was widely regarded as an automaton, a robot. The Swede had is i magen: ice in his stomach. In the British press he was the ‘Iceberg’. His admirers no less than his critics described a man with cold blood running through his veins.

How wrong they were. Borg was not blessed with abundant talent, but the talent he had he surrendered to, with the devotion of an instinctive faith, until he achieved liberation. Borg was an inspiration and I wondered how others could not see that his heart was filled with joy for this game and that he hid this joy not to deny it, but rather to nurture its presence within him.

Eyes

Born on 6 June 1956, Borg was brought up in Södertälje, an industrial town of 100,000 people 30 minutes drive south-west of Stockholm, the only child of Margarethe and Rune, a clothes-shop assistant. He first appeared at Wimbledon in 1972, winning the junior title, a lanky Swedish youth with a straggle of blond brown hair. He had blue eyes that were so close together they appeared slightly crossed. He kept them averted from other people, betraying the shy evasion of a teenager who believes everyone is looking at him – the one object he focused on was a tennis ball when about to hit it. He had a sharp nose in a thin, feral face, with a long pointed chin; his wide shoulders were stooped and he walked with a rolling gait. And yet everywhere he went he was pursued by mobs of schoolgirls. Less a Viking, really, than an Arthurian knight, Borg was embraced by England. We were drawn to his modesty.
Read More

John McEnroe, 1981 US Open champion

From John McEnroe‘s autobiography, Serious:

Borg and I split the first two sets, and he was ahead 4-2 in the third. He had broken me twice, and was serving to go up 5-2, but I hit two great topspin-lob winners over his head in that game, and after the second one I could have sworn I saw the air go out of him.

From there on in, it looked as if Bjorn was doing something I had never seen from him before: throwing in the towel. After having been down 2-4 in the third, I wound up winning that set 6-4 and cruising through the fourth, 6-2. In the last set, it looked to me as though he was barely trying.

“There are times – usually in exhibitions, but sometimes even in big tournaments – when you feel so bad physically or mentally that you’re simply not able to go all-out. It’s a tricky situation. You don’t want to lose by just missing every ball, so you hit a shot and leave a part of the court open.
At that point, your body language clearly says “I’m not going to cover that – just hit it there, it’ll be a winner, and the people will think, “Look, he was too good”. That’s what happened with Sampras when he played Lleyton Hewitt in the final of the 2001 Open: Pete had just run out of gas – he looked as if he had glue on his feet.
And that’s what happened with Borg in 81 – except that it did’t look physical to me.”
Read More