Eye Of The Tiger

He is of another time, when tennis players had grace, manners and the big serve; when they read books, ordered from Italian menus in Italian, and dressed in long pants on the court and elegant cravats off it; when they cared about the universe, the game, the opponent; when they knew how to lose. Especially that: knew how to lose. The latter-day Swedes, Bjorn Borg and Mats Wilander, were devastated by losing. Of the Americans, Andre Agassi and Michael Chang are trying to figure it out; Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe never did. Ivan Lendl, from the distant, peculiar land of Machine-ovakia, may not know the difference. It is very simple, really. All the world—including the vast majority of the tennis world—roots for Boris Becker to win, precisely because he loses so well.

Not that there are many occasions for this. Already a legend on the lawns, he is an infant Arthur who, with his mighty Excalibur, is now expected to dominate Wimbledon in the same manner as his predecessor BB; were it not for upset losses in the 1988 and '90 finals to Stefan Edberg, Becker would have won five All England championships in the last six summers, which would have compared with the great Borg's five in a row.

In real life Becker, 22 years, nine months old, is still a mere towheaded naïf who has trouble understanding fiber count, politics and girlfriends—hey, dude, welcome to Grown-upsville. But in the simultaneously insular and global realm over which he presides, Becker is nevertheless "our spokesman, our role model, the guy tennis players want to represent tennis," says Aaron Krickstein, 23 years, zero months.

It isn't just the familiar victory dives on the All England Club turf or the personal flair and politesse or even the powerful smashes and dramatic comebacks and important titles that have made Becker tennis's only significant good witch of the last decade. Lord knows the sport has had a handful of the other kind. Becker has been Arnold Palmer to a bunch of Rowdy Roddy Pipers for nigh unto half a dozen seasons now. For the true essence of Becker, the boy king...the new German...the sportsman...the man...it is necessary to observe him in all the refreshing glory of defeat. Where, as another peer, Sweden's Jonas Svensson, says, "Boris shows who he really is."

The fact is, nobody but nobody in public life loses better than Boris Becker.

•Key Biscayne. Last March, in the midst of a personal crisis with his companion at the time, Karen Schultz, Becker suffered a shocking 7-6, 6-1 defeat at the hands of a Frenchman named Jean Fleurian in the third round of the Lipton International Players Championship. What was more shocking—considering that seconds after an early loss most of tennis's megastars hop into the first Testarossa out of town—Becker stayed on at the 10-day tournament to fulfill his commitment to play doubles with Cassio Motta of Brazil.

•Monaco. At the Monte Carlo Open in April, during a close quarterfinal match between Becker and the Spanish clay-court specialist Emilio Sánchez, the Spaniard fell to the dirt, clutching his ankle. Becker immediately hurdled the net, rushed to his fallen opponent, then fetched him some water. After play resumed, Sánchez made a remarkable recovery to win 4-6, 7-5, 7-6.

Becker's essential humanity was in this case noteworthy, because Sánchez is not one of the most popular players on the tour. His coach, Pato Alvarez, is a notorious trickster, and Sánchez has been known to—ah, shall we say—emote. "It is different playing Emilio," says the Swiss player Jakob Hlasek, one of Becker's best friends on the tour. "You would never know if he really twisted his ankle, and so you wouldn't care. But Boris is so much above all these petty things; Emilio faking it wouldn't occur to him. The thing is, because Boris is Boris, Emilio would never think to do such a thing to him."

•Hamburg. In May, Becker continued his slow progress on red clay by reaching the final of the German Open, where he was summarily dismissed by Spain's Juan Aguilera 6-1, 6-0, 7-6. Aguilera had not won a significant tournament in six years, and at the trophy presentation Becker bolted from the sideline to give him a hug and whisper sweet congratulations in his ear.

•Düsseldorf. Whoops. At the World Team Cup matches in May, after his West German team had been eliminated, Becker obviously went through the (mostly slow) motions in a meaningless 6-2, 6-1 loss to Spain's Jordi Arrese, during which the crowd at the Rochusclub whistled down its countryman. "They have short memories," said an angry Becker. "Those VIPs are only interested in results, not tennis." For most players there are four Grand Slam tournaments. "But Boris has six-plus," says Hlasek. "The actual four plus Hamburg, Düsseldorf and every other time he plays in Germany. The pressure is unbelievable."