Boris: “Herr Fritsch, I’ve just won Wimbledon. I realize something can still happen, but…”

Headmaster Fritsch: “So you are not coming back? I just have to hear it officially.”

Boris: “No, I’m not coming back.”

First Round, March 1985. Milan. №1 seed John McEnroe was cruising through his encounter against an unseeded teenager, who seemed to be expending more energy whining to the umpire than the match itself. “Why don’t you win something before you start complaining?” scoffed McEnroe, the irony of his comments not lost on him. Little did he know that four months later, his defeated foe would take him at his word.

In the bath enjoying a hot soak, a physiotherapist beyond his means at the time, Boris couldn’t help but think back to his childhood coach. “You’re not going to break an egg with the serve you have,” barked Breskvar, as he laid down jump mats on the indoor courts for his young prodigy. His pupil would lunge and dive for everything, and Breskvar worried that such enthusiasm might lead to serious injuries. Boris’s enthusiasm was only matched by his appetite for hard work, and it is a tribute to his determination that he would improve his serve so much that one day, the world would know him for it.

“Focus on your classes” urged his mom, who wanted his son to grow up to be a lawyer or a doctor. Boris listened, but the distractions and temptations were growing harder to ignore by the day. His father, an architect, was commissioned to design the local tennis club (Blau-Weiss Tennisklub). By eight, Boris was a regular at the club, even competing in some tournaments. At twelve, his life revolved solely around tennis. He dropped out of school in the 10th grade, and the reigns to mold his precious talents were taken up by the West German Tennis Federation, where he began his schooling under a Romanian-born German, Günther Bosch. Mama Boris was not happy.

As he honed his skills, Boris never abandoned his original style of play. He romped through his matches like an overgrown, over-sugared child. He hurled himself around like a puppy, and by the time he would finish his matches his clothes would have an entirely new colour pattern. But there was nothing innocent or cuddly about the way he served. Knees bent deep, he would go flying through the air on contact, and by the time you’d hear the strings pop, he would be rushing forward to the net, ferociously and with alarming speed, as if his tennis life depended on it. It was not a welcome sight for a lot of the older established players at the time. He did not play like John McEnroe or Jimmy Connors, the preeminent champions of that era. Boris relied on raw power, took the ball early and boomed in his first and second serves. Suddenly, the finesse that McEnroe had used to win three of the previous four Wimbledons, looked like it had come from another century. At sixteen, Boris made it to the third round at SW19, before tearing his ankle ligaments. He hopped to the net on one leg and shook hands with his opponent, Bill Scanlon, before being carried off on a stretcher. The fairytale had to wait one more year.

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June 17, 1985. Queen’s Club, London, England. Boris would face South African Johan Kriek, a two-time Grand Slam champion, in the final of the last grass court tournament before the start of Wimbledon. After the final, an awestruck Kriek quipped, “He gave me a lesson in serving. I’ve never seen a guy that could serve you off the court like that with angles. If he plays like that, he’ll win Wimbledon.” His ominous message echoed across the tennis world, and the organizers handed the seventeen-year-old teenager, who had just won his first ever top level tennis title, a first-round match on Centre Court. It was perhaps their way of saying: the stage is yours kid, show us what you got.

And thus, Boris Franz Becker, the boy from Leimen, forever 17, permanently frozen in the dreams of a tennis nation, arrived at Church Road SW19 5AE, Wimbledon, London.

Belly-flopping Boris, who threw himself at balls with teenage abandon, started nervously, the memory of last year’s torn ligaments still fresh in his mind. He would lose the first set, but regain his composure to reel off the next three to win his opening match on Centre Court. By comparison, at the age of 17, Andre Agassi, Pete Sampras and Roger Federer all lost in their first rounds. In the third round, with six former Wimbledon Champions — Don Budge, Lew Hoad, Budge Patty, Manuel Santana, Vic Seixas and Stan Smith — nodding approvingly from the gallery, Becker broke back on two occasions when world №8 Joakim Nyström served for victory. Postponements due to rain and poor light meant the match lasted three days, as Boris struggled to an epic 3–6, 7–6, 6–1, 4–6, 9–7 victory. In fact, three of his first six matches were suspended and held over another day, a circumstance that would unnerve even veteran players. Becker would later say: “My English wasn’t very good, so I didn’t read the papers and was living in my own little bubble.”

But the papers were taking notice, with the British press going out of its way to not let anyone forget that he was a German, relentlessly using war analogies in describing him. In the later rounds, when regular programming was interrupted on German television to broadcast Becker’s matches, respected journalist Rex Bellamy of The Times would muse: “How odd it is that Germany should have such a personal interest in a court on which, in 1940, they dropped a bomb.” That was true, a bomb did land on the roof of Centre Court in October 1940, obliterating 1,200 seats. One British newspaper likened Becker’s serve to “the missiles of the Wehrmacht.” But just as he was gaining new fans with each passing match, Becker would eventually win over the British press as well.

Fourth Round. Becker would face American Tim Mayotte in a dramatic encounter that would forever be etched in Wimbledon folklore. The Stanford graduate had beaten Becker 3–6, 7–5, 6–2 in the semi-finals of Kent Championships at Beckenham less than a month ago and was up two sets to one going into the fourth set. During the 12thgame of the fourth set, Becker took a tumble on the baseline. Hobbling, he motioned with his right hand to Mayotte. “I thought there was no point. I was behind in the match and in desperate pain, I just wanted to go over and shake his hand” Becker would recall afterwards. Luckily, Mayotte was too far away for Becker to shake hands with him, which would have signalized his retirement. As he was walking towards the net Günther Bosch and manager Ion Țiriac started screaming in German “Three minutes, three minutes, time out!” The chair umpire was oblivious to what was going on, after reportedly having been told by Becker that he was finished. Amidst the commotion Becker sat down on his chair. Mayotte objected, but it was more of a nice guy from New England kind of objection. It took ATP trainer Bill Norris close to fifteen minutes to get through the crowd that surrounded the court, tape up Becker’s ankles and give him anti-inflammatories. Becker should have probably been defaulted for the overly long delay but play resumed thanks to Mayotte’s sporting forbearance. Becker came back to court playing better than ever, and Mayotte finally lost his nerve. Becker would win 6–3, 4–6, 6–7, 7–6 6–2 to become the first 17-year-old to reach the quarterfinals since Bjorn Borg in 1973.

Lots of ice and massages. That’s how Becker prepared for his quarterfinal. No practice. He lost a set, but finished off his training partner with a thunderous ace. With a tired smile, Leconte: “His age is his strength. He never thinks about pressure. He just plays, hits the ball, wins, and says ‘Thank you and good bye’.” Fifth seed Anders Järryd was up a set and a break in the semi-final, but Becker engineered another comeback to book his date with destiny. South African Kevin Curren awaited.

Curren was having a tournament of a lifetime. The eighth seed made it to the final having lost only a solitary set, in the process wiping the floor with some of the who’s who of tennis. Fresh from a safari in the South African bush, he took care of Stefan Edberg in the fourth round before crushing two Wimbledon giants: the two-time defending champion John McEnroe for the loss of an astonishing eight games and Jimmy Connors in front of Her Royal Highness, The Princess of Wales, where the ludicrous score-line read 6–2, 6–2, 6–1. With his huge serve working smoothly, he was confident and relaxed, and banked on the fact that the teenager was sure to crack under the pressure of a Grand Slam final. Curren decides to forgo his regular routine, and remarkably attends a Bruce Springsteen concert the evening before the Final. Usually not a big concert-goer, who admits now that it was a bit “insane”. “It was phenomenal. You have to understand; he was THE man back then.”

Becker meanwhile eats spaghetti at an Italian restaurant on Old Brompton Road.

Match Day. Becker eyes Curren in a mirror across the changing room from locker number seven. Curren doesn’t interact. As the players walk out to Centre Court on a perfect sunlit afternoon, Becker makes sure he is the first to get to the nearest chair, a chair preferred by Curren as well. He spots his parents who had arrived three days ago. He has not spoken to them, and is totally oblivious of the big secret they are holding from him. His grandfather, to whom he owed his middle name, had passed away on the eve of the Championships. A record 11.5 million viewers watch BBC’s coverage. German President Richard von Weizsäcker is seated in the front row of the Royal Box.

The scoreboard clock flickers to 5:25 p.m. Two championship points has already passed — at 5–3, with a backhand in the net and on serve at 5–4, 40/15. Becker throws the ball high, bends his knees and leaps into a second serve with everything he has. It rattles down the backhand of Curren who can only muster a token lunge. In that flash of his Puma G.Vilas racquet, his life would change irrevocably. He would go from being a shy teenager and self-conscious stutterer to a public figure famous enough to secure an audience with the Pope.

He couldn’t legally drive in Germany, he cut his own hair and had toothpaste sent to him by a mother worried about his teeth. In an era where the top players were nearer to 30 than 20, to think that a 17-year-old could win Wimbledon was unfathomable. At Wimbledon, a tournament that prizes tradition above all else, Becker challenged the past and won. Never had anyone so young claimed the gentleman’s title at The Lawn Tennis Championships. Never had an unseeded player been fitted for a singles crown. Never had a German male ascended to the most prestigious throne of tennis. “With the passion of a Friedrich Nietzche or Ludwig van Beethoven,” wrote Time in its next issue, “this unseeded boy from Leimen turned the tennis establishment of Wimbledon on its head.” At 17 years and 228 days, Becker was younger than the junior champion, Mexican Leonardo Lavalle. “Boy King,” lauded the British newspapers. “King Boris the First.” In an unusual gesture usually reserved for football players and Olympic gold medalists, the German President sent a congratulatory message to Becker. Shortly afterwards, for the first time ever in German sporting history, the President joined Becker on television for the “Aktuelle Sportstudio” on ZDF.

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Within five days, every German had read about Becker’s exploits. From his eighteen interviews the day after, to his stay at the Old Beach Hotel in Monte-Carlo where his manager Ion Tiriac added an extra “zero” to every deal, the storm that comes with celebrity status was well and truly upon him.

As champagne flowed freely through the festivities, Boris Franz Becker calmly sipped his orange juice. The hard work had only just begun.