The Outsider
Jimmy Connors, to be truthful, it was a little strange, to find the raffish tennis icon looking so refined—dignified, really—in the upstairs lounge of the Peninsula Hotel, a posh fortress of decorum off Fifth Avenue. He was dressed in a blazer, a tie and sharply-ironed slacks, and he was sipping an afternoon iced tea, calling no attention to himself. He politely introduced himself and summoned a waiter. Over more than an hour he never cursed or crudely gestured or spoke harshly of others. When his phone rang, he apologized for it ringing. When it rang again, he apologized again. He was a beacon of civility. Yeah: Jimmy Bleeping Connors, one of the best and brashest who ever was.
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