For Pete’s Sake, Get in Trouble!

INDIAN WELLS, Calif. —  Each year I come to the Newsweek tennis tournament here, I have this dream. In it, I see this headline: “Tennis Star Netted in Vice Raid. “

Or, in my mind’s eye, I read this story in which the world’s best tennis player either a) fails to show up for a final and has to be disqualified; or b) refuses to take the court unless the promoter ups his appearance fee by a million or so; c) gets picked up for spousal or girlfriend abuse; d) kicks a photographer, chokes a coach; f) gives the finger to a booing crowd; g) robs a bank, hits a cop, leads a high-speed chase, or all three; and g) tries to argue his way out of it because he has this split personality and it was one of the other guys in his body who did it.

Alas! Pete Sampras has only one personality. He’s the kind of guy who repairs divots, pays his taxes, is in bed by 11. He doesn’t get into bar fights, throw anybody through plate-glass windows. He doesn’t drink and drive, probably goes to church, takes his spoon out of his coffee before drinking it. He gets his hair cut and doesn’t dye it purple. He wears white on the court. He doesn’t even have an earring.

What he does do is play the best tennis day-in, day-out of anyone since Rod Laver. He has won Wimbledon four times.He has won 10 Grand Slam events. Only three men have won more and they’re long gone. No active player is within five of him.

He smiles all the time. He’s steak-and-potatoes, vanilla ice cream, white bread and probably puts sugar in his coffee. He doesn’t even have a Roman numeral after his name.

He’s not only the best player today, he could be the best player ever. A case could be made, given the competition today. I mean, nobody had to worry about the Swedes or Russians in Bill Tilden’s day. Or Czechs. Just a few guys with “vons” in their names, and a lot of Brits named “Bunny.”

He’s as American as fudge. And if you think that isn’t unusual today when a tennis cloakroom sounds like a UN meeting, you don’t follow tennis.

So if Sampras has all this going for him, if he’s, like, our last best hope in this ritualized sport, why does he get a sitting ovation? Why are the only ones asking for his autograph tax auditors? Why isn’t he taking the court looking like a shoe billboard? Or on TV slobbering catsup all over his shirt?

What does he have to do?

Well, let’s see. He can begin by calling Wimbledon officials “the pits.” He can punch out a parking attendant. Bite his opponent in the ear. Argue line calls with four-letter words audible in the royal box.

I mean, what does he think this is--a game?! Get a life, Pete! Hit somebody! Stiff a White House invitation like Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods. That way you can snub a whole country.

Get sued for back taxes or back alimony. What? You’re not married?! Well, get married! To some movie star so you can hit the tabloids regularly.

Why isn’t he making movies like Shaquille O’Neal? He’d be perfect for Disney. As wholesome as Flubber. Bambi, for all of that.

But, no. That would be too much exposure for Sampras. This way, he has to carry his American Express card when he leaves home. No ticker-tape parades, no paparazzi staking out his London apartment.

Let’s face it, we like our idols flawed in this country. Even Babe Ruth drank.

So what Pete needs is a make-over. A Latrell Sprewell goes to a public relations specialist for a make-over to show he’s really a nice guy who tried to talk some sense to his coach and found the best way to do it was to begin by choking him.

Pete’s P.R. is different. He needs a make-over in another direction. I mean, you can just hear the publicist telling him, “First, Pete, we gotta get you a beard. Get you to look less like an altar boy. Now, how do you go to work? By Beemer? No, Pete, you gotta get a motorcycle. Put your hat on backward and run over chickens. Snarl at autograph hounds, call head-linesmen ‘chokers,’ and maybe you could give some thought to spitting. Biting? Wear scruffy clothes and you might want to consider a ponytail. You know, just rub everybody’s nose in it. You might want to scare up some scandal in your groupies. Look what it’s done for the president of the U.S. People love it. I could get you on Letterman.”

But Pete Sampras is down here for Charlie Pasarell’s “Wimbledon West” at Grand Champions this week, where, for two years in a row, he has been knocked out of the tournament early.

So, the only part of his persona or apparel Pete’s concerned with this week is his racket. He has gone to a thicker gut, he tells you, because he thinks the dry air added unexpected distance to his shots in past rounds here and cost him crucial points.

But never mind that. We’re not interested in technical trivialities here. Does he plan to creep into the hearts of his countrymen by smashing his racket, cursing, vilifying, raging at authority and, in general, acting like your basic tennis spoiled brat?

Pete looks startled. “No,” he said, “not my style. I don’t like to lose control like that. That’s not who I am. Sure, I get mad, but never to where I have to make a fool of myself.”

As you can see, he’s hopeless.