Mr Nastase: The Autobiography. Ilie Nastase

the $300 I had had stolen from Roland Garros the previous month, and in a similar way, made changing in the locker rooms of Paris and London an expensive privilege.

      After getting past the German Jurgen Fassbender in straight sets in the next round, I faced Tom Gorman, from the USA, in the 4th round. Tom was my pigeon: in the twenty-one matches we played, I beat him eighteen times, so I was confident. The match was scheduled on Centre Court, and I knew that a win here would take me into the second week of the tournament for the first time ever. I had already noticed that the British public definitely fell into two camps when it came to supporting me. Some of them obviously liked me, particularly the girls and the women, but others definitely hated me. In my behaviour, I represented all that was un-British: I did not have a stiff upper lip, I hadn’t been to the right school, and I dared to question authority. In that match with Gorman, I remember one military-looking man, with dark glasses (resembling a member of Russia’s secret police), clapping one of my double faults for a very long time. Still, he didn’t get any satisfaction, because I beat Tom in four sets.

      After this win, I could see the draw was looking good for me. I had Jimmy Connors in the next round, and either Spain’s Manuel Orantes or the Aussie Colin Dibley in the semis. At the time, I was beating them all a lot. I thought if I could pass these guys, I could make it to the final and win it. Even better, the press weren’t yet taking much notice of me.

      In the quarterfinals I played the nineteen-year-old Connors on Centre Court. He, too, was a crowd favourite, but Jimmy, who was later to become one of my best friends on the circuit, was playing his first Wimbledon. He was so pumped up for this match that he was spraying his shots all over the place and trying to hit harder and harder. I, meanwhile, was playing my usual touch game, which Jimmy found very difficult, because he hated it when he wasn’t given pace to hit against, as Ashe understood when he beat him in their notorious 1975 Wimbledon final. Everything I did seemed to work for me that day, and I beat Connors easily 6-4, 6-4, 6-1.

      By the time I reached the semis, the press was waking up to my chances, especially because, out of the four semifinalists, only Stan had a track record on grass. The other two, Jan Kodes and Manuel Orantes, were like me relatively inexperienced. I was drawn against Manuel, who was the 3rd seed and who had beaten me on our previous encounter indoors in Washington. I, however, was playing much better than him on fast courts, like cement and grass.

      This time, despite my initial nerves, I was playing so well that I shot off to a quick 3-0 lead before Manuel had time to work out where he was. I just tried to stay the way I normally am on court, talking to myself, walking around a lot, playing my usual non-percentage tennis. I won the first two sets 6-3, 6-4, and at 5-4 in the 3rd I reached match point with a service ace winner. At that stage, I remember trying hard to concentrate on staying in the point, letting him take the chances, and not to think about the importance of where we had got to in the match. I missed the first serve. My second went in, and Manuel advanced to the net. I whipped up a high ball to his forehand side, and he put the volley into the net. I had won, I was through to the final, and I threw my racket high into the air, knowing that I was the first Romanian ever to appear in a men’s singles final at Wimbledon. I never thought it would have been possible. The crowd cheered loudly, I remembered to bow to the Royal Box, and I left the court a happy man.