My Beginnings
Nick Bollettieri
I was born in 1931 in my grandmother's house in a village about 30 minutes outside of New York City that was called North Pelham at the time. It was a natural birth, but I've been told that it wasn't an easy delivery. Guess I started out as a bit of a challenge, and I'm damn sure I'll go out the same way.
My sister Rita told me that I was born early in the morning, and I think my natural habit of being an early riser is due to that delivery time. To this day, I am up at 5:45 a.m. I do my stretching and 50 sit-ups, work out with light weights at the gym or my "office" at IMG Academy. It used to be an old metal desk next to one of the courts at the indoor tennis center, but my staff recently surprised me with a new one. I then begin my duties at 7. I don't eat breakfast, but I always seem to have energy to burn.
My grandmother's two-story house was large enough to accommodate both of our families. The DeFillipos, on my mother's side, lived on the ground floor and we, the Bollettieris-my father, mother, older sister, younger brother and I--lived upstairs. It was tight quarters on the top floor. We all shared three bedrooms--my brother and I doubled up--and there was one small bathroom. Imagine five people maneuvering around each other in the morning before school and work. By today's standards, it would seem impossible, but back then, families managed.
The DeFillipo house was situated on a large, two-acre lot, and every inch was covered with flowers, grapevines, a vegetable garden, a chicken house and fig trees. I was responsible for collecting eggs from the chicken coop each morning. Grandpa would make his homemade wine the old-fashioned way-in our basement. The entire family crushed the grapes by jumping up and down on them in bare feet.
Because of my diminutive size and because I was the youngest, I was allowed a little leeway growing up. No one ever told me to be quiet, and my friends will tell you I haven't stopped talking to this day. We were one big happy family, both upstairs and downstairs, but make no mistake-the entire house, from the wine cellar to the attic, was ruled by Grandma DeFiIlipo.
Dinner for 12
Every night, all 12 of us sat down to eat together at the table in her kitchen. Except Grandma; she never sat. She was busy serving the different pastas, meatballs, sausages, bread and salads.
Grandma never asked us what we wanted; she simply made the selections for us. Salad always came with the main meal, never before. Things would get going when Grandpa tipped a bottle of his homemade wine above his mouth and let the red liquid flow. At that point, we ate. And Grandma kept filling the plates.
If any food dropped to the floor, she would point to it, pick it up, make the sign of the cross and put it back on our plate; and we ate it. No one in the household could smoke, though my mom and dad would sneak out to the open sun porch to get in a few puffs. Did I say no one could smoke? During dinner, Grandpa DeFillipo would always light up one of his five-inch guinea stinkers. The fumes would drift upstairs, downstairs and even to the cellar, but no one ever said a word about it.
When we were done, Grandma would take whatever was left over on the plates and the kitchen counter, and in the pots and pans, and pile it all into a huge pot. The next day, she would serve it as her most recent concoction, saying "mangia," and we ate. No matter how it tasted, we would tell her it was good. Believe it or not, my grandma would keep feeding me and say, "Sonny, God is looking at you, keep eating."
My mother, Mary, was one of a long line of Marys in my family. She was a traditional ltalian, stay-at-home mom who put all her time and energy into taking care of the family. She lived for others, worried a lot and never spent money on herself. She wore the same apron and dress all week long. After her death, we found birthday and Christmas presents given to her she'd put away in the attic over the course of 20 years--all of them unopened!
For as long as I can remember, she gave me three pieces of advice: "Save your money." "Eat." And, "Stay with the family." She repeated them to me often, even later on in life, probably because I only followed the second one.
Mom was a stickler for neatness. She didn't tolerate unmade beds, clothes on the floor or messy closets. She didn't get involved in our sports activities or schoolwork, leaving them to Dad. But she saw it as her personal responsibility to make sure all of us left the house in clothes that were clean and ironed.
In an effort to save money, she and my grandmother would wash the family clothes by hand and hang them in the backyard on the clothesline to dry. Not only was this economical, but Mom loved the way the clothes smelled when allowed to dry in the fresh, clean outdoor air.
In many ways, my dad and mom were polar opposites. He always looked on the bright side of things and knew how to enjoy himself. Handsome and flamboyant, he was meticulous about his clothes and his cars. He also was smart and had been an excellent student at New Rochelle High School. Somehow, Grandma and Grandpa Bollettieri saved enough money from their butcher shop to send him to Fordham University in New York City.
He excelled there, too, and graduated at age 21 with a degree in chemistry and became a pharmacist. When he married my mom, they moved into Grandma DeFillipo's house, which is why he opened his own drugstore on 5th Avenue and Lincoln Avenue in North Pelham. It was directly across the street from the fire station.
A few years later, he became fire chief. He had political aspirations and ran for mayor, but lost by one vote. Dad wrote and spoke his parents' native language fluently. I've been accused of speaking four languages--Italian, Spanish, English and with my hands-but I've never had difficulty getting my point across.
Dad’s Influence
At the tennis academy, my approach has helped me communicate with its many foreign students. In my dad's case, being bilingual allowed him to help many of our Italian neighbors who didn't speak English with their income tax filings--at no charge.
In fact, he helped everybody in whatever way he could. Everyone in our little town knew everyone else and many of the residents came to my dad's drugstore. It seems that most had charge accounts, and he didn't want to take legal steps to collect the money owed to him. It wasn't long before my dad went bankrupt. Unfortunately, I think his lack of smarts regarding finances rubbed off on me.
I certainly inherited his genes when it comes to seeing the best in others, as well as his ability to bounce back from failures and try again. He never stopped striving to improve himself.
After he lost his pharmacy, he managed to achieve high positions with the Winthrop Chemical Company and later moved north of Philadelphia, to become vice president of Baxter Laboratories, which manufactured medical devices and pharmaceuticals.
My sister Rita was a few years older than me and was an excellent student. Many thought she would become a doctor, but in the end she became an outstanding nurse She was married twice and had a son, Phillip, and a daughter, Mary Lou. Rita and I didn't have much to do with one another because we lived far apart most of our lives, but we stayed in touch. My parents willed all their money to Rita which was probably the right thing to do. By then, I had already experienced a few divorces.
Actually, Rita played another important role in my life. Like my mom, she was a "glass-half-empty" type of person who worried about everything, and it was obvious to me that it affected the quality of her life. I vowed to take the opposite point of view, which was one of the best decisions I ever made and taught me early on the power of positive thinking.
My brother, James Thomas Bollettieri--Jimmy Boy, as we called him--was a kind and gentle soul. Although we shared the same room, we got along well. It didn't hurt that he idolized his older brother!
He loved learning and spent all his free time with his nose in a book. While I was out playing sports, Jimmy Boy was reading. He was so bright that by the age of 14, he skipped two grades ahead in school! He wanted to be a doctor, and I'm sure he would have been a successful one--maybe a brain surgeon--but God had other plans for him.
The neighborhood was all one happy family, a true melting pot. It made no difference what color, religion or ethnic background you were, and I grew up without prejudice toward anyone. Again, my father set the tone. When I spent time in his pharmacy, I'd see him treat all of his customers with equal respect.
We met on the streets, mingled in school, played sports together and we all got along. Several of my uncles were cops. The police force and the fire department were integrated, too. In those days, parents never seemed to worry if their kids were safe. We walked everywhere, to grammar school about two miles away, and later on, to Pelham Memorial High School, an even farther distance on the rich side of town. We were seldom concerned with drugs, bullying or violence.
One time, though, I came home from grade school crying. My uncles asked me what happened. When I said that a big boy beat me up, they were furious. They told me exactly what to do the next day: "Walk up to the big boy and punch him right on his nose-and then run as fast as you can." I did! In fact, I'm still running.
Nickers Aren’t Snickers
The neighborhood was filled with kids and we were given our freedom. Every day when I got back from school, Grandma DeFillipo would look at my knickers. (For you youngsters, I don't mean Snickers. Knickers, short for knickerbockers, were baggy pants that fell just below the knees.) If mine were the slightest bit dirty at the knees, Grandma would smile because she knew I had been playing marbles on the side of the road.
If there was no dirt, she knew I was wandering about--and that was a no-no. She would give me a smack and say, "Sonny, go and play and be a good boy." At dinnertime, Grandma would go to the front door and yell, "Sonny, come home!"
If I didn't hear her, a few of my friends would find me and deliver the message. All my friends were terrified of Grandma.
Before my father opened his pharmacy, the Bollettieri family's popularity was due largely to my grandfather, who had a super-duper butcher shop in New Rochelle. He carried all the meats that Italian mothers would use to prepare the family meals. In addition to a variety of pastas, he also had a selection of meatballs, sausages and other delicacies. Back in those days, family togetherness was everything. During the month of June, Dad would take vacation and Mom would prepare food, drinks and umbrellas for our weekend trips to Orchard Beach, only a few miles away. Sometimes we would brave the much longer journey to Jones Beach on Long Island, which had lots of crashing waves.
This was always my favorite jaunt because I got a chance to surf, which is one of my most enjoyable pastimes. I turn 86 in 2017 and I still surf every chance I get, especially with my sons Jimmy Boy (named after my brother), twelive-year-old Giovanni and nine-year-old Giacomo.
Throughout my youth, I was something of a hustler. I would get candy and ice cream from my father's drugstore and sell it to my friends. I probably contributed to him going bankrupt. There was a lady living nearby who had beautiful dahlias in her garden. I'd steal them and sell them back to her. She knew that I had taken them, but bought them anyway.
I had a lemonade stand, too. Later on I caddied, washed cars and worked as a lifeguard. I loved being outdoors and getting a tan. But all I ever really wanted to do was play sports. Touch football on a dead-end street, king of the mountain, ice skating on a nearby frozen lake or sledding down hilly streets-I lived for sports.
My uncles on the DeFillipo side-Charlie, Tony, Joseph and Michael-were all big guys and outstanding football and basketball players (many of them received athletic scholarships to college), and they would often play tag football with me. I would be the quarterback and over a period of time developed confidence that I could deliver the ball to the receiver. When I entered high school, I was introduced to Coach Schilling, the football coach who was there when my uncles played for the team. I became captain of the team in my senior year.
Finally Tennis
During the summer months, I would spend a good deal of time at the Hampshire Country Club in Mamaroneck, New York, another upscale community. My cousin was the caddie master there, and that connection allowed me to make good money as a caddie and valet parking attendant. I would also act as a server at the big parties that the club occasionally hosted.
My uncle, John Lightfoot, was well-to-do and a member of a tennis club in New Rochelle. The Hampshire Country Club was closed on Mondays and one day he asked me to join him at his tennis club. He was one of the best players there and his opponent hadn't shown up, so he asked me to hit balls with him. I said, "Are you kidding? Tennis is a sissy sport!"
But I obliged him, and I had no idea what I was doing. I chased the balls around, trying to hit them back any which way I could. I was almost too embarrassed to admit that I had had a great time and ask if I could play more often with him. That was my sophomore year in high school, and even though I didn't go out for high school tennis, I continued playing with my uncle from time to time. By senior year, he encouraged me to tryout for the tennis team when I got to college, and I did.
During my senior year in high school, my parents bought a new house on Lincoln Avenue and Young Avenue. It was a bit larger, but still in the same neighborhood, and we moved there to have more room to ourselves. My dad also bought himself a new car-a sleek, green Buick Riviera. Sixty-five years later, I can still see it in my mind, sitting proudly in our driveway.
One particular day is imprinted on my memory as if it were yesterday. It snowed in the morning. My closest friend, Richie Daronco, came by to see me and, as we were talking, my dad surprised me by handing me the keys to his new Buick. "Take it for a spin and let me know what you think," he said.
Richie and I looked at each other and away we went. We drove to the next town where my girlfriend attended New Rochelle High School. I was excited to show off the new car, but as we arrived I spotted her getting into a four-door convertible with another girl and two boys. I said to Richie, "What the heck is going on?" and stepped on the accelerator to catch up to them. By then it was late in the afternoon and little did I know that the melted show had turned into slippery ice. When I took a turn too fast, I lost control and the car slid up on the lawn of a house that had huge rocks spread throughout the front yard. BANG!
We got out to assess the damage. We had smashed the passenger door. A lady came out of the house, but we jumped back in the car, took off and just kept going. I quickly made up a tale about us watching a basketball game at the high school and when we came out, we saw the car all banged up. Richie looked at me with his eyes as big as snowballs. I told him not to worry, just stick to our story.
When we got home my dad was standing on the porch of our new house. He asked, "So, how do you like the new car?" I said, "Dad, I love the car, but you'll never believe what happened!" When I had finished, Dad asked me to repeat my story.
Before I could complete the first sentence--Pow!--he popped me for the first and last time in my life. Then he delivered a memorable message, "When you have to make up a story, at some point it'll catch up with you and the truth will come out. So no matter what—always tell the truth right off the bat and accept the consequences!"
I was as stunned by the unexpected blow as by the realization that he knew exactly what had happened. How could he have known? Well, I later learned that the lady from that wrote down my license plate number and called the New Rochelle police, who tracked down the owner's name. She then called the North Pelham police station where three of my uncles were cops!
The Buick Riviera experience is a fond memory and it delivered an important life lesson about telling the truth (well, maybe not always the whole truth). It also offers a revealing insight into my dad's character and values, which I have built on, hoping that I would one day possess the same characteristics and be admired by my own children. I know that he's smiling down on me as I follow in his footsteps.
