103788
as told to Cy Rice
What makes a champion? Ambition., de-
termination, ability and a generous portion
of some personal, often indefinable, quality
that enables the individual to become out-
standing in his field. Richard (Pancho)
Gonzales has all the attributes of a cham-
pion, but It is liis own special mixture of
drive, single-minded concentration and sheer
boyish delight in his sport which makes him
victorious on the court just about every
time.
As a public figure, Pancho Gonzales has
fascinated both sportsmen and the general
public since his first appearance on the
court. The myths that surround him are
legion, and yet these legends have grown
and developed in spite of Pancho, for there
are few contemporary athletes who shun
publicity as actively as he does. In Man
With A. Racket Pancho Gonzales reveals the
facts behind the legends and the result is a
story remarkable for its candor and honesty.
The tale Pancho has to tell is a very hu-
man one. It is one of a great athlete fiercely
dedicated to his sport, who treads the road
to success in his own way and at his own
breakneck pace. Always the incorrigible
iconoclast, Gonzales has had only one su-
preme ambition to play tennis, and to play
it better than anyone else. Since he first
shook hands with a tennis racket, the game
has been the guiding passion of his life. As
a young man of school age he defied par-
ental opposition, the concern of his friends,
Man with a Racket
Man with cr
Racket
The Autobiography of
Pancho Gonzales
as told to
CY RICE
A. S. Barnes and Company - Neu> York
1959 by A. S. Barnes and. Company, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card. Number: 59-7068
Printed in ttte United States of America
by The Colonial Press Inc., Clinton, Mass.
To my friends of the Olympic Tennis Club,
Exposition Park, Los Angeles.
When my agent, Alex Jackinson, first suggested that I sign
Pancho Gonzales to a contract and help him construct his life
story, I jumped at the chance. Six months later I still wanted
to jump but this time straight at Mr. Jackinson, landing feet
first on tender parts of his anatomy.
"What a fine opportunity," wrote Mr. Jackinson. "Here's
the greatest tennis player in the world and no book on him.
Get it!"
Being a novice at biographical writing, I asked for in-
structions. They were delightfully simple. "Just sit down
in a big easy chair with a notebook," counseled Mr. Jackin-
son. "Then he tells his life story, you listen, you make notes,
and it all comes out in the proper sequence."
This sounded fine in theory. Only it wasn't workable. Sure,
I could sit down without suffering any hardship. I sit down all
day anyway. The trouble was that Pancho wouldn't sit. Pan-
cho can't sit. Sitting, no matter how you look at it, isn't vio-
,7
8 Man with a Racket
lent exercise, which eliminates any expected cooperation
from Mr. Gonzales.
Pancho is perpetual motion. Something seems to be chas-
ing him and he seems to be chasing something. Whatever it
is, I wish he'd catch up with it; or it would catch up with him.
If I'd known then what I do now, and had been given a choice
of helping put the book together or climbing Mt. Everest,
barefooted and in my shorts, I would have taken the latter.
Our initial talk lasted one hour. Between pleadings, cajol-
ings, and mild threats, Pancho intermittently grunted a few
monosyllables, all extremely pertinent to the conflict in the
story. They were either "yes" or "no." At the end of the hour
he arose and said, "Well, there's my life story. Just put it to-
gether."
I'd have enjoyed taking Pancho apart and putting him to-
gether again. However, this time by jigsawing the human
figure I'd create him so that he'd have two posteriors one
in the conventional place and one in the front. Then he'd
have to sit oftener and longer.
Interviewing Pancho is analogous to squeezing a slip-
pery tube of tooth paste with a blocked passage. Nothing, of
course, comes out. The feasible approach is to hurl him to the
floor, tie him up with chains. I'm not strong enough to ac-
complish this. Few persons are.
So how do you pin down a whirling dervish? The answer
is: You don't. You just follow the dervish and go into a spin
with it. The drawback is that I never came out of it. I've
hurled questions at him while he was taking a shower, board-
ing a plane, between serves on the court just about every-
where but underwater. I've hounded his very footsteps, got
into his hair at every possible opportunity.
I don't think he likes me very much.
I hare no real proof of this except from a remark he made
to me that "I never started locking doors around my house
Preface 9
until I met you/' Maybe he said this because I followed him
into the bathroom, about the only place where I had him all
to myself.
There was the day I blew my top. Four weeks had frit-
tered by. I had three scribbled pages of notes.
"Pancho," I said over the telephone, "I want one full day
with you."
"Any time," he said obligingly.
"Tomorrow," I suggested.
"Tomorrow," he agreed.
I said, "111 be over early."
"Come any time," he said.
Simple as that.
I reached the Gonzales' house at 9:00 A.M. Pancho, to-
gether with his wife, Henrietta, and three young sons, was
having breakfast. Breakfast, throughout the world, is recog-
nized as a quiet meal where people drink coffee slowly and
begin conditioning their reflexes for the day.
No such custom prevailed at the Gonzales' house. Pande-
monium reigned. The telephone rang incessantly, the chil-
dren argued, boxer pups kept leaping at me, and the friskiest
tried teething on my ankle bone. One of them ran off with
my notebook. Breakfast over, Pancho headed for the Los
Angeles Tennis Club and I climbed into his car with him.
This was going to be wonderful. At long last I had him
trapped, sitting three inches away from me with no possible
outside interference.
I started a question. It never reached the vocal stage. It
stuck in my throat, disappeared from my mind. All I kept
thinking was: "I'm too young to die." Pancho was turning
traffic-laden Wilshire into another Indianapolis Speedway. I
shut my eyes; I clutched the door; I think I prayed a little.
At the tennis club his entrance signalized a flying welter of
human bodies strapping muscular bodies eagerly sur-
10 Man with a Racket
rounding Pancho, exchanging salutations with him. Arms
and legs edged me out of the picture, but I managed to catch
up with him in the locker room where he sprawled on a
wooden bench and began yanking off his clothes. I tried ask-
ing him a question. He didn't hear it. He was pulling his
sweater over his head.
Before I could repeat it, he yelled to the locker room at-
tendant, "Willis can I have a clean towel?"
He got his towel. I started the same question. Two words
came out when a small boy wandered up to Pancho and
asked, "What do you do with your thumb on the backhand?"
I glared. I knew what I'd like to do with both my thumbs
something vicious such as stuffing them into the two
prominent holes in the boy's head. The targets were big. The
holes were wide with hero worship.
Pancho answered the boy who went away happy. I was glad
someone was happy. It wasn't me. Pancho made for the
courts. I followed. I waited three hours and he gave no indi-
cation of stopping play. Sun is hot on cement. I'm a perspirer.
I called, "Pancho when can I get to you?"
He completed an overhead smash and answered, "Be
through in about an hour. Then I'm going bowling. You can
come with me."
I couldn't stand it any longer. I headed for the nearest air-
conditioned bar and ordered a cooling drink. While I sipped
it I opened my notebook and read what I had written today
on Pancho Gonzales.
It was: "Willis can I have a clean towel?"
Time skipped by quickly while research on Pancho
progressed slowly. Then one day when I was deep in despair
of ever finishing the project, Pancho the unpredictable
pounded on my apartment door and announced:
"I feel like talking."
I certainly felt like listening; and listening, plus talking,
Preface 1 1
proved a successful equation equaling LIFE STORY. While
my ancient wire recorder rasped through its longest workout
Pancho talked on ...
Hours later, finished, he said wearily, "Those are more
words than I'll speak for the next two years."
I'd be willing to bet my life on that statement.
CY RICE
Introduction
Having toured thousands of miles around the world with
Richard Alonzo Gonzales, I probably know him better than
anyone with the exception of his mother, father, and wife,
Henrietta. I've eaten with him, slept in the same room
with him, argued with him, and been beaten on the tennis
courts by him.
I still like him.
This is hard to do when a little guy like me continually gets
picked on by a big guy like Gonzales. It's always a David and
Goliath battle; but unlike the biblical struggle, David has a
devil of a time winning.
Playing against Gonzales has improved my speed, sharp-
ened my reflexes. Self-protection is the reason. Otherwise,
that power serve coming toward me at 112 miles per hour
might knock my head clear back to Ecuador. Spectators can't
begin to estimate its unbelievable, blinding speed. You have
to face it. The racket in your hand becomes as impotent as a
butterfly net trying to stop an atom bomb.
13
14 Man with a Racket
Should you be lucky enough to make a return, a large,
blurred image charges the net with the swiftness of a whirl-
wind and powders the little white ball right back at you, or
through you.
Sportwriters have asked me to compare big Pancho's brand
of tennis with the greats of yesteryears. I'm too young to do
that. It's far easier to rate him with contemporaries easier
because he's head and shoulders above them. Believe me, we
who earn our bread and butter in the tennis business are
thankful there's only one Pancho Gonzales.
Actually, the only thing I could compare him with are
those devastating hurricanes along the Eastern seaboard.
There's a difference, though. Weather is fairly predictable.
A lot of people say to me, "You know this guy in-
timately what's he like?" Sitting in a comfortable chair I
could answer that question in about seventy-five thousand
words, but the publishers wouldn't let me because I'm told
that's the length of the book.
My only comment is: Pancho's no saint.
But then did you ever see a saint with a tennis racket?
They call him the "bad boy of tennis from the wrong side
of the tracks." I don't know what this means. Sometimes my
interpretation of the English language is faulty. This I can
say, however: One reason I intend taking out my citizenship
papers is because Pancho Gonzales is America, and America
is Pancho Gonzales. Here is a man who does what he wants
to do in a nation where he can do it. He is beholden to no one.
Perhaps I'm not making myself very clear, but after you've
read his story and discover what makes Pancho Gonzales play
tennis like a demon and run fast through life, you'll under-
stand what I mean.
Francisco Pancho Segura
Contents
Preface by Cy Rice 7
List of Illustrations 12
Introduction by Francisco Pancho Segura 13
1. I Had Arrived 21
2. The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 32
3. Conquistador 50
4. I Don't Talk Much 60
5. The Honeymoon 67
6. AlFs Well That Ends Well 78
15
16 Contents
7. The Years Slip By . 95
8. The Dead-End Street 114
9. A Tour Isn't Just a Tour 120
10. I Begin to Think 133
11. Life with a Wife 140
12. Pot Shots and Drop Shots 149
13. The Lowdown on Amateur Tennis 167
14. The Day I Exploded 173
15. And Now, Lew Hoad 183
16. My Feud with Jack Kramer 195
17. The Toughest Tour 204
18. Tips for Beginners 214
19. Not for Beginners 220
20. Questions and Answers 228
21. Favorite Stories 235
Index 251
List of Illustrations
(The illustrations appear as a group following page 128)
Pancho at five months.
Now one year old
Pancho 's parents.
Pancho's first Communion
Pancho and Johnny Shea.
Pancho and Arzy Kunz.
Pancho and Chuck Pate.
Pancho fondles Blackie.
Pancho and Henrietta with little Richard.
Japan lays out the red carpet.
National Singles Champion.
Brother Ralph congratulates Pancho.
Pancho works on his hotrod.
Catching up with a low volley.
Pancho receives the golden key to Juarez, Mexico.
Film stars congratulate Gonzales and Segura.
17
18 List of Illustrations
Ida Lupino presents trophies to Pancho.
Relaxing on plane between tours.
The young Gonzaleses.
The Gonzales family.
The famed Gonzales serve.
Pancho about to take a backhand shot.
A backhand follow-through.
Pancho readies himself to deliver serve.
Man with a Racket
/ I Had Arrived
Unzipping the cut-rate drugstore bag, I stuffed in my ninety-
eight-cent tennis shoes, my fifty-nine-cent soiled T-shirt, and
my rumpled buck-fifty shorts. Then I straightened up and
glanced at a mirror.
There stood Richard Alonzo (Pancho) Gonzales. Nineteen
years old, six feet three, 183 pounds. Tennis player.
What did I look like? A ferocious competitor? Or a lamb
being readied for the slaughter? I had never played in a
senior tennis tournament. In fact, there'd been quite a few
tournaments I hadn't played in. But now, on that May day,
1947, I had a rendezvous with destiny at the Los Angeles
Tennis Club, where the Southern California championships
were being held.
I didn't feel like a lamb. Deep inside, something seared
me with its white heat. I've heard it described as desire. With
21
22 Man with a Racket
me, it was like a pilot light, constantly burning, and neither
bad breaks, missed points nor blind linesmen could extin-
guish it. That was the only way I knew how to play.
"Richard!" Mom's voice halted me at the front door.
She came from the kitchen, a damp dish towel in her hands.
"You going to the . . . the . . ."
"Tournament, Mom," I helped.
"There will be many people, yes?"
"Sure, lots of them."
"And they'll be looking at you, Richard?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Some of them will, I guess."
"Your clothes are clean?" she asked, eyeing the bag sus-
piciously.
"Yes, Mom, they're clean," I answered, hoping I wouldn't
have to stand inspection.
She studied me for a moment. "You expect to win, yes?"
I said, "Sure."
"If you lose, you won't show your temper before all those
people, will you, Richard?"
"Of course not," I answered quickly. "But I'm not going
to lose . . ."
Mom patted my hand now, like she did so many times when
I was a little boy. "You will not give up this . . . this ten-
nis?"
"Mom, not again," I pleaded, hoping to stave off still an-
other full-scale discussion on the time I was squandering on
the game.
"You know how your father feels about it ..."
"Yes, yes, I know. I've heard it a thousand times."
Mom sighed and shook her head, and changed the subject.
"You have eaten lunch?"
"I had some beans," I said.
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. I left the house.
Halfway down the block I heard Mom's voice.
/ Had Arrived 23
"Win, Richard!" she called from the porch.
I waved my hand. I would win, I told myself.
I boarded the first of three street cars that would take me
within walking distance of the Los Angeles Tennis Club.
Riding a street car was sheer boredom its monotonous
speed, the never-changing route. I had a flair for speed and
thrills, and I got none of these for my ten-cent fare.
I found a morning newspaper on the seat and quickly
thumbed through the pages until I reached the sports section.
They'd have my name in the schedule of the day's matches, I
thought. I got a surprise. I was in the lineup, sure. But there
also was half a column of type building up my second round
match with Herbie Flam.
I got the feeling that the interest in "Pancho" Gonzales
was not based on what I could do with my racket, but, rather,
on what I had achieved off the court as a non-conformist. I
was a curiosity number. Only a few weeks before, when I
turned nineteen, my period of suspension by the Southern
California Tennis Association had ended. The officials hadn't
become softhearted. I simply had outgrown their iron-clad
authority over boys of school age. Now I was on my own. Some
wondered how I would react.
The story of my suspension had been somewhat distorted
in the telling. It painted a picture of me as a "bad boy" a
budding delinquent. The Association had banned me from
competitive play in an attempt to rid themselves of the rotten
apple that could spoil the rest of the bushel.
Actually, the only offense involved was hooky-playing.
Southern California tennis was ruled by Perry T. Jones.
He was major-domo over all U. S. Lawn Tennis Association
tournaments in his area; controlled expense accounts of the
players; and decided which junior and senior players would
be sent to play on the big-time Eastern circuit. Contrary to
general belief, I bore no animosity toward Mr. Jones. I had
24 Man with a Racket
tried to play tennis and play tag with the truant officer at the
same time. Mr. Jones had rules, and they were inflexible. It
was either attend school or be suspended from tournament
play. I refused to go to school. Mr. Jones simply did his duty.
Prior to my suspension, I outranked Herbie Flam in the
Southern California Boys' division, having beaten him four
out of five times. Herbie was sent East, where he captured the
National Boys* championship, while I remained in Los
Angeles to continue my battle of wits with the attendance
officers. It wasn't an easy game. In fact, I'm sure I covered
more ground in one morning than a player would in a whole
tournament.
I hadn't played Herbie since 1943, but I knew his game
and it hadn't changed very much. Herbie, a well-propor-
tioned boy with crew-cut blond hair, was a favorite of the ten-
nis patrons. He didn't play the so-called "big game." His
service was weak, and he never really blew anyone off the
court with any of his shots. But what he lacked in power he
balanced with his determined, all-court play. He was a speedy,
tireless retriever, a superb defender. What I had to do, I was
convinced, was to overpower him, particularly on service.
Leaving the third street car, I walked several blocks to the
tennis club, showed my player's pass, and entered the
grounds. Hundreds were milling about. The men wore smart
sports attire and neckties. The ladies flashed the correct after-
noon wear. I didn't exactly match their fashion standards. I
wore what might best be described as a pair of pants and a
shirt open at the neck. I don't like to button collars, and I
hate neckties. They bind me. With this particular shirt, how-
ever, I had no choice. It had no button at the collar.
I found not a familiar face as I started for the locker
room. Suddenly, there was Herbie Flam, encircled by a group
of well-wishers mostly pretty girls. They smiled at him and
appeared to swoon when he spoke. No one smiled at me. No
/ Had Arrived 25
one even talked to me except one guy I'd never seen before.
Accidentally stepping on my toe, he said, "I'm sorry/'
I felt better. Someone had broken the ice.
As I drifted along, I wondered if any of my old friends
from Exposition Park would show up. Probably not, I
thought. Most of them couldn't get off on a weekday after-
noon. Others wouldn't have the money to buy a ticket. Ex-
position Park was where I had learned my tennis. It wasn't
as swanky as the Los Angeles Tennis Club not quite. It was
a public playground with eight hard-surfaced courts, standing
in the shadow of the Los Angeles Coliseum. Many Mexicans
and Negroes learned the game there. Many others who
yearned to play but who couldn't afford even a small fee,
watched enthusiastically from the sidelines. Most of us at Ex-
position Park had two things in common very little money
and a love of tennis.
I dressed quickly in the locker room and found myself
more comfortable in my tennis togs when I returned to
the crowded clubhouse grounds. I propped myself against the
wall of the tennis shop, awaiting the call to the post, and
amused myself by studying the crowd and by attempting to
pick up snatches of conversation.
As I saw it, the tennis public was divided into two classes.
The first group included the week-end duffers those who
played a little and were anxious to see how the better players
did it. The other segment was composed of those who were
there not to see, but to be seen. The society-celebrity bunch!
I watched the Hollywood movie stars stroll by. Male jaws
jutted as smiles flashed on and off. The lovely ladies had
much to attract the eye, but I was fascinated by their hair.
Almost every color of the rainbow was accounted for, and
seldom were there two shades alike. This seemed strange.
The women of the race from which I have descended leave
their hair as God intended it to be.
26 Man with a Racket
In the midst of this amusing exercise, a voice suddenly
pierced my thoughts. "Pancho," it came.
I looked up and there were my friends moving in on me.
Frank Poulain, who ran the Exposition Park Tennis Shop,
which, among other things, was my hideout when the truant
officers were hot on my trail; Larry Negrete, my old doubles
partner; Chuck Pate, who analyzed the flaws in my game;
Fernando Isais, the national horseshoe pitching champion;
Arzy Kunz, who operated a tennis shop; David Doughty,
leader of the Olympic Tennis Club; and Hubert Scudder,
who worked without compensation to develop the tennis
talent found in the poor sections of town.
They pounded my back and pumped my hand, and de-
manded that I blast Herbie Flam off the court.
I nodded, happily. I was no longer lonely.
At match time, I elbowed my way through the crowd,
walked onto the court, greeted Herbie and got ready for our
warm up. We were on the No. 3 court, right next to the swim-
ming pool. This was mighty convenient, I thought. If I lose,
I can drown myself before my buddies have a chance to string
me up with the net cord.
The crowd buzzed a little as I gunned my serve in practice.
I chased a stray ball near the seats, and as I bent over to pick
it up I heard someone in the front row tell her companion,
"Look at that scar on his face. It must be a knife wound.'*
They were referring to my left cheek. No one could miss it.
Today, I'm oblivious to the crowd, but there was a time
when my ears picked up everything. I suppose that isn't so
strange. Gussie Moran once told me: "I'm conscious of in-
dividual faces in the crowd. I remember the same ones from
match to match, although I don't know the owners person-
ally." I'm sure Gussie saw expressions on faces that I would
never see in my audience. My legs aren't as good as Gussie's
and I've never worn lace on my shorts!
/ Had Arrived 27
When the match started, Herbie raced through me like he
was scheduled to catch a train to Forest Hills. I was over-
shooting the baseline and missing the sidelines by inches.
That's the heartache of tennis it's a game of inches. Grad-
ually, I began to zero-in on the painted lines, but it wasn't
soon enough. Flam wrapped up the first set, 10-8.
My concentration improved in the second set, but so did
Herbie's dogged determination. My first service, hit hard and
fiat, was cannonading off the cement, landing in the extreme
corners. Whether it was to Flam's forehand or backhand, it
mattered not. I followed it to the net faithfully, hoping to
put away a feeble return. But Herbie's returns weren't feeble.
Living up to his reputation as a scrambler, Herbie was get-
ting everything back getting them back and putting pres-
sure on me, to boot. It was very discouraging.
At 5-all, I fell into a streak of inexplicable errors and my
touch left me, momentarily. Flam pounced on the opportu-
nity, revved his game into high gear, and moved out in front.
To make things worse, he won the next three points on my
serve to stand at love 04 and match point.
In the meantime, the crowd around our court had become
ten-deep, even though Ted Schroeder, the nation's number
two player at that time, was performing on the center court.
The word of our spirited tug of war apparently had been re-
layed to the grandstand, bringing hundreds of spectators on
the run.
The crowd stood in hushed silence as I started what could
have been my last serve. One more point for Herbie and I'd
go down the drain. It was too late for planned strategy; too
late, it seemed, for prayer. I took a deep breath.
An ear-splitting cry shattered the silence.
"Now, Pancho!"
It was the booming voice of one of my buddies from Ex-
position Park.
28 Man with a Racket
I served an ace.
Again the cry came, "Pancho!"
Another ace.
It was like a battle cry now, and I aced Herbie for the third
time.
My confidence returned, but the danger flags were still
flying. Twice more Herbie moved to match point, but each
time I rallied to deuce the score. Silently, I took up the cry
of my friends. "Come on, Pancho." I'd tell myself, "make it
good, make it good, make it good . . ."
Herbie scurried for every shot as though his life was at
stake, but a well-plastered backhand to the corner was out of
his reach. Another deep drive caused him to misfire and I
pulled out the game. Ten minutes later, I had the set, 8-6.
I had survived one crisis, but now there was the final set
staring me in the face. I paused for a sip of coke and heard a
spectator say:
"Look at him! The worst thing he should do when he's
overheated/'
"Oh, I don't know," another voice suggested. "After all the
fiery food he must put in his stomach, it doesn't really mat-
ter."
The voices faded out as I forced my thoughts to dwell on
that deciding set. Barring a broken leg or an earthquake, I
knew nothing would keep me from winning it. My fists
clenched tightly as I weighed my desperate mission. It was
only a second round match in a sectional championship tour-
nament, true. But to me, at that moment, it might just as well
have been the championship for the entire world.
There was no indication that Herbie would run and hide
in the third set. He'd be there on the baseline, sending back
everything that came his way. He'd battle it every step of the
way. He didn't scare easily. And he didn't discourage me,
either. In the final showdown, Flam was at his best. But it
I Had Arrived <>9
didn't matter now. My game had answered the call to an all-
out attack: I had the shots the big guns when I needed
them most. And in the end I had the set, 6-4, and the match.
I ran to the net and whacked Herbie on the back, and he
smiled and said something kind. And then I sort of drifted
off on a pink cloud for a moment to heights that had been un-
known to my little world. When I touched down again, I took
a solemn oath. I was going to be the best tennis player this
game has seen, I told myself. Nothing would stop me now. I
didn't care how long it would take, or how bumpy the path
would be. I would make it. Damned right I would.
My friends surrounded me now. Quite a few new friends,
too. Beautiful girls joined the group some of the same girls
who had been magnetized by Herbie before the match. Every-
body loves a winner, I guess.
Leaving the locker room after my shower, a cashmere-
coated fellow offered his hand and introduced himself. The
name rang a bell. He was a well-known playboy and man
about town. He owned a mansion in Bel Air, complete with
private tennis court, horses, show dogs, cars, and several mis-
tresses.
"I want you to drop by the house tonight, Dick," he offered.
I said, "What's happening?"
"Cocktail party."
I told him I didn't drink.
He seemed shocked. "Nothing at all?" he asked, incredu-
lously.
"Well, I like a little beer now and then," I conceded.
"Beer? Well, we'll get some. What else do you like?"
I told him I liked beans, and he stifled a laugh.
"Beer and beans . . ." he repeated, pausing as if to double-
check his hearing.
The pause told me I wouldn't be heading for Bel Air that
night.
30 Man with a Racket
"Thanks just the same/' I told him.
I felt a touch at the elbow, and a small fellow explained
that he was a reporter and had some questions to fire at me. I
didn't help him very much and, after a few minutes of "yes"
and "no" answers, he looked at me rather hopelessly.
"You don't like to talk very much, do you?" he said.
"Not about myself," I told him.
"You'd better fix that idea," he said, half smiling. "Don't
you ever want to be important enough to be misquoted?"
"I just want to play tennis good tennis," I said with a
shrug.
He shook his head and walked away.
Perry Jones stopped me and offered congratulations, and
then mentioned that someone was waiting for me in the ten-
nis shop. I went in and encountered a representative of a
major sporting goods company.
"How about some equipment, Pancho? What do you need?
he bubbled.
"Sure, I need equipment, but I haven't the money right
now . . ."
He chuckled and slammed me on the back.
"Who said anything about money?" he roared. "Just call
out the size of your shoes, waist, shirt and we'll dig into some
of this stuff."
I rattled off the figures for him and soon my arms were
filled with an assortment of tennis clothes and two new rack-
ets, I felt embarrassed by his generosity.
"I don't know what to say. What do I have to. . . ."
"Forget it," he interrupted. "You don't have to say any-
thing and you're under no obligation. Now, how're you going
to get home with all this stuff?"
"The same way I came, I guess on the street cars."
He led me outside the club and he whistled for a taxi. He
handed the driver a bill.
7 Had Arrived 31
"Take this gentleman home," he said. "And keep the
change/'
I jumped into the cab and piled all my new treasures on
the seat beside me. The clothes, I quickly decided, I'd give to
my brother, Manuel. The rackets I'd take to Frank Poulain, as
a part payment for all he'd done for me.
These decisions made, I sank into the cushions, tired,
happy. The city streets flashed by. The meter ticked away. It
seemed to be clicking out a telegraphic message that I HAD
ARRIVED. ... I HAD ARRIVED. ... I HAD AR-
RIVED.
Tfie Slums Were Always
at Our Heels
I was born in a small apartment near Wrigley Field, which
used to be the home of the Los Angeles Angels until the
Dodgers headed West. The date was May 9, 1928, which is
important only because it establishes the fact that I was a
"Depression Kid" one of the many millions who grew up
during our country's most hectic days.
Throughout my early childhood, right up to the day I
married, the slums were always at our heels. Mom and Dad
would find a neighborhood that was respectably middle-class
a good environment for raising a family. We'd move in.
Then, invariably, it happened. Poverty crept in and, in its
wake, all the undesirable conditions we were trying to avoid.
"Again," Dad would murmur, as he looked out the window
at the disorderly, paper-littered street.
32
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 33
Mom wouldn't reply. She knew what would come next
moving day. Even if we couldn't afford it.
"I don't mind poor people/' I heard Mom say to Dad one
night. "We're pretty poor ourselves right now, and we don't
know what tomorrow will bring. But we do know what's here
and it's bad. What kind of children will we raise in this filth
and misery?"
So we'd move. And before long, the slums would follow us.
It was like a game of tag, and often we became tired of run-
ning.
Los Angeles, like any other big city, has always had a seri-
ous juvenile delinquency problem. Big cities have slums, and
invariably the slums produce many children restless kids
seeking adventure and excitement. In the neighborhoods
where we lived at various times, parents had to hold tight
reins on their youngsters to prevent them from falling into
bad company and all kinds of trouble.
We had few luxuries at our house. Food wasn't abundant,
but it was simple and filling, and we never went hungry. Our
clothes were just clothes inexpensive but clean. We wished
for many things that never came. And, yet, we were never
bitter and we never got into trouble. The reason was simple,
I think. My brothers and sisters enjoyed each other's com-
pany. Home was a place to congregate. It was something
Mom and Dad had drummed into our heads from the day we
were born. If you made a friend at school or in the street, you
brought him home and he'd become part of the family, too.
My greatest pleasure in those days was to watch a Western
movie with a bag full of candy in my lap. This didn't happen
too often, which is probably the reason it was such a joy. It's
still a favorite pastime. There's only one difference; now I
eat the candy more quietly.
I loved beans, milk, oatmeal, salads, and tortillas. Today,
money has changed my eating habits. I like beans, milk, oat-
34 Man with a Racket
meal, salads, tortillas and steak! I never tasted coffee until
I was seventeen, and never smoked until I went into the U. S.
Navy. Hard liquor meant little to me then and still does. I
like an occasional glass of beer or a vodka drink. My biggest
vice not too long ago was poker. But I took the cure one night
in a certain California city, where the game is legal, when I
discovered that money that comes fast can leave even faster
when you're playing with cautious players who can sit and
wait for a hand I couldn't.
The poker sessions were a result of the restlessness that
constantly gnaws at me. It's as if some giant hand cranks
the mechanism of my body too tightly and never lets it run
down. I must be doing something every minute of th,e day,
be it tennis, bowling, shooting pool, playing basketball, or
driving my "hot rod" wide open. I detest easy chairs, and a
bed can claim me only when my body demands sleep. Even
at bedtime, I'll take a Western paperback with me and I'll
spend the next couple of hours riding the hero's horse.
I've always been this way. As a child, my mother told me
to relax. A thousand times a week she'd say, "Sit for a while,
Richard." But it was like being sentenced to the electric chair.
When my boyhood pals tired of playing games, I wanted to
keep going. I remember one boy the fat boy in our bunch
sitting on the curb, out of breath. "Don't you ever get
tired, Dick?'* he asked between pants.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Golly, I think you must have swallowed a Mexican jump-
ing bean," he said, shaking his head.
Maturity, marriage, and fatherhood have had no quieting
effect on this desire for perpetual motion. I love my wife and
three kids. I like to be with them, but that go-go-go still has
me in its grip. Domestication could take place, I suppose, if
I broke a leg or something. Or maybe it will happen when
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 35
I reach the age of seventy. Even then, I might take up dueling
with canes!
As a youngster, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I
grew up. Living near the ballpark, I suppose I might have
considered baseball as a career if someone had belted a ball
through our living room window. But the Los Angeles club
had no sluggers with that much muscle.
I might have become a crooner if it hadn't been for my
sister Terry. There was much piano playing at our house,
and one day I got up and rumbled a few notes. Terry's hands
went limp on the keys. Wheeling on the stool she stared at me,
asking sarcastically, "That's singing?" Later my musical ef-
forts were described as sounding like "a pair of kettle drums
falling downstairs."
I toyed with the idea of being a professional dancer until
the night I took Bertha to a dance and asked her, "How am I
doing?"
That old career-busting sister of mine promptly led me to
a chair, sat down, removed her shoes, revealing a series of
criss-crossed red welts and said, "What do you think?"
I might have gone into the fruit business if the boss I de-
livered for hadn't fired me for sticking pins into cantaloupes.
My motive was unclear. It simply fascinated me to stick pins
into cantaloupes.
I do know for certain I never would have become a tennis
player if I hadn't wanted a bicycle.
"Too dangerous," Mom discouraged. "You're only twelve.
I'll get something safer."
She went to the May Company and bought me a tennis
racket. It cost fifty-one cents, including tax.
At first I wanted no part of it. I wouldn't even touch it.
"Watch, Richard," Mom said, swinging it wildly and barely
missing a statue of St. Anthony.
36 Man with a Racket
She extended it toward me, saying, "Here, try it."
I shook my head, backing away a few steps, paling slightly.
"What's the matter, Richard?" she asked.
"A a cat, Mom," I faltered.
Turning around, her eyes searched the room. "Cat? What
cat? Tobey's outside/' she said, referring to our household
"The strings, Mom," I said. "Tennis strings come from a
cat's gut, somebody told me/' I loved cats. Perhaps I'd even
known this one.
Mom laughed. "Not a cat, Richard. The strings are silk.
The salesman said so."
Reassured, I took the racket and swung it. St. Anthony
nearly got it again.
"Not in here, Richard, Take it outside."
I did, straight to a tennis court a few blocks away where I
found a beat-up ball worn down to the skin. Standing outside
the wire enclosure of the court, I tried bouncing it up and
down on the racket surface. Most of the time I missed. When
I was lucky enough to make contact, a feeling of triumph and
excitement rippled through me. And suddenly I found it
challenging.
In the days, months, and years that followed the challenge
of hitting a white, fuzzy ball squarely on the strings of a racket
grew and grew. Such is the strange hand of destiny.
Undoubtedly the two most significant influences on my
early tennis years were Chuck Pate and a Negro youth named
Willie. Willie had no hands. How he lost them no one ever
knew. No one ever asked him. To me, Willie was the most
skilled competitor in the world. He could beat everybody I
knew in a game of marbles by using his toes. Willie was an
inspiration. When things looked gloomy for me, I'd think of
him, and his handicap, and immediately feel better. I never
forgot Willie.
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 37
Chuck Pate was older. I gravitated toward older compan-
ions. Chuck was a fine tennis player, a real student of the
game. Why, even today, if something goes wrong with my
stroking, Chuck can straighten me out, pronto. The first time
he came to our house I wasn't home. Mom didn't know him.
"Is Pancho around?" he inquired.
My mother shook her head. "You must have the wrong
house."
Stepping back, Chuck squinted at the number and said,
"It's the right house."
Mom said, "No Pancho lives here."
"I'm sorry," Chuck apologized, "but he does."
By this time Mom was becoming a trifle irritated. "Young
man," she addressed Chuck, "it's true I have a large number
of children. Still, I happen to know all their names. I have
no Pancho."
Chuck wouldn't give up.
"Suppose you tell me his last name," Mom said, growing
angrier by the second.
"Pancho Gonzales."
Mom's eyebrows shot up. "My sons are named, Manuel,
Ralph, and Richard," she said curtly.
"The last one is Pancho," Chuck said.
From that day on the name stuck. Mom fought it, but finally
bowed to superior numbers. The official family acceptance
came during the finals of a tournament. I was trailing Hugh
Stewart and both my parents were in the stands. After a long
rally, which I concluded with an overhead putaway, Dad rose
to his feet and yelled, "Good work, Panchol"
When he sat down, Mom tugged at his sleeve. "Did you say
Pancho?"
"I said Pancho," Dad replied fiercely.
Mom shrugged. Recognition had been established.
By the time I was thirteen, I was madly in love. It was a
38 Man with a Racket
blinding, choking, loyal love filled with devotion and dedica-
tion. Obvious to all, it was understood only by a few. The
object of adolescent affection was my tennis racket.
My love spread from the first racket to the game itself and
its many facets. The love was, and is, undying and possessive.
With all due apologies to my wife, I'm wedded to it until
old, faltering legs doth us part.
Some might think it strange for an adult to cling so
passionately to a sport. I disagree. I'll always remember Roy
Campanella's answer when he was asked to describe the key
ingredients that make a ball player great. The Dodger
catcher, who stands with the best receivers of all time, ticked
off "ability/* "desire" and some of the other qualifications
commonly accepted as essential equipment in the big leagues.
"But, I'll tell you something," Roy added, finally. "I think
there has to be a lot of the little boy' in a fellow who expects
to play baseball the way it should be played."
Campanella's point applies to all sports. The athlete who
can approach his game with all the zestful enthusiasm of a
"little boy," even when that sport has since become his bread
and butter, will always be a tough guy to beat. It's won many
matches for me.
That first racket of mine, to me, was the eighth wonder of
the world. Loosely strung, producing none of the banjo-like
music heard when you twang a tightly-pulled racket of split-
lamb's gut, it would shatter today on a second service hit. I
never let it out of my sight. I took it to bed with me to protect
the strings and a warping frame from the temperature changes
of the room. I coddled it like a helpless human. I gave it coats
of varnish, and with Mom's manicure scissors clipped the
frayed edges of the worn, unravelling strings.
To find the proper grip, Chuck taught me to extend my
hand toward it, shaking hands with the handle. I overdid
this. I shook hands with it all day, more often than a politi-
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 59
cian pumps the hands of prospective voters. Sometimes I even
talked to it.
I'd say, "Good morning, Senor Tennis Racket/'
And, in my own falsetto, the racket would reply, "Good
morning, Senor Gonzales."
Then the daily conversation would begin.
"Are you going to be a good racket today?" I'd ask.
"It all depends/' came the high-pitched reply.
"On what?"
"The way you use me/'
"How should I use you, Senor Racket?" I'd inquire.
"Hit me in the middle. Squarely. Never on the handle.
"Never on the wood."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Also bend your knees. You got to bend your knees.
Always."
"Anything else?"
"Face properly. Know where your opponent is."
"Why?"
"So you can hit it where he isn't/'
"Anything more?"
"Yes," the racket would reply. "Listen to Senor Pate. He
knows. True, I belong to you but he knows me better than
you do. He will tell you how to use me."
"Yes," I would answer meekly. "I will do as you say, Senor
Racket,"
Anyone overhearing this routine might have sent for the
man with the white coat. But the repetition of this ritual
hammered home the basic rules I learned in practice.
For nearly eight months I hung around tennis courts
watching the players their strokes and maneuvers. All the
while I stood outside the wire fences bouncing a ball. on my
cheap racket for hours on end. Eavesdropping, I learned how
to keep score. The painful process took many weeks. It was
40 Man with a Racket
so illogical and confusing to the child mind. If you scored
one point, it was 15-love; two points, 30-love; and three points,
40-love. Somewhere along the line five points were lost.
To this day I haven't found the missing points.
Cropping up frequently as it did in the scoring, the word
"love" bothered me. "Zero" or "nothing" seemed like such
perfectly fitting words. Why "love," I wondered. The term,
"foot fault" was also puzzling. At first I thought it meant a
defective shoe.
I had met Chuck Pate while I was attending Edison Junior
High School. He was a student at Fremont, and in the after-
noon I would watch him practice with the tennis team.
"What's your opinion of the game?" Chuck asked me one
day.
Reflecting a moment, I said, "Like it, but . . ."
"But what?"
"Well, it's what everybody says about it . . .you know
. . . that it's a sissy game/'
Scowling, Chuck spat out, "They're crazy as belli" Grad-
ually calming he asked, "What sports do you consider
rugged?"
I mentioned basketball and football.
"Those are team sports," he snapped. "Tennis is different.
You go it alone. No help from anybody. In football the action
is concentrated. You wait between plays or after a whistle
blows or for a ball to come your way. Tennis has action every
second. You've got to make split-second decisions.
"Who's the toughest kid in your school?" he suddenly asked.
I named him.
"Could he beat me in a fight?" Chuck asked.
I grinned. "With one hand. He'd crush you like a tomato."
"Okay," Chuck nodded. "Granted. One thing you don't
know, though, is that if he played me a set of tennis I'd have
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 41
him out on his feet helpless and gasping trying to suck air
into his lungs."
I'd never thought of this. I
"You still think it's a sissy game?" Chuck demanded.
'I've changed my opinion," I admitted.
"You're damned right it isn't," he said convincingly. "It's
the toughest."
I was beginning to see the light.
The next four years saw me enrolled at four different high
schools. Intermittently I worked, delivering papers from
3:00 A.M., until 8:00 A.M., fought with Dad, and outsprinted
truant of&cers. Tennis was my only reason for ducking school.
Once bitten by the bug, the sport ravaged me. And it spread,
unchecked, despite Dad's efforts to stamp it out. Prior to that
I had been a good student; in mechanical drawing and drafts-
manship I was outstanding. But now I wanted no part
of school, even though school wanted a big part of me.
My tennis career started inconspicuously. After a little
coaching from Chuck, I played my brother, Manuel. He beat
me easily. One week later I reversed the decision, playing
him left-handed.
Manuel regarded the defeat with amazement. "How come
and not even right-handed?"
I answered his question with a question. "Did you want to
win very badly, Manuel?"
He shrugged. "Not particularly."
"I did," I said.
Since that early game with Manuel it's been the same with
anyone who ever beat me. I wanted to know why. I went over
the matches carefully in my mind, mentally replaying every
point remembered. I reconstructed. If opponents had a stroke
I didn't have, and it was effective, I copied it to perfec-
tion, even tried to execute it better than they had. I borrowed
42 Man with a Racket
Jack Kramer's rise hitting, tried Ted Schroeder's looped
cross-court shot, Pancho Segura's volley, and many others. I
borrowed them and I tried to improve them.
School became an increasing chore. How could I listen to a
teacher explaining history when the only history I wanted
knowledge of was tennis? How could I study mathematics
when I only wanted to diagram the trajectory of a tennis
ball in flight? How could I study chemistry when the chemis-
try in my own body kept urging me to go to a court and run,
run, run?
When I wasn't playing I lolled around Frank Poulain's Ex-
position Park Shop, soaring up atmosphere and learning the
language of tennis. Ever since Frank took a love set from me,
I hung on his words of advice.
"I've been watching you play and I like you/ 7 Frank told
me one day, "because you're a boy who knows how to cry."
"You've got me mixed up with someone else, Frank," I
said. "I never cry."
"To get you mixed up with someone else is impossible," he
replied. "There's only one Pancho Gonzales, remember that.
Never try to be anyone else."
"Okay, but what's this about me crying?"
"You cry," Frank said lightly. "You cry when you lose.
Always."
"Never! I haven't cried since I was a baby," I insisted.
He smiled and said, "Not from your eyes, Pancho. You try
inside. I can't see it happen, but I know it is."
I frowned and became uncomfortable.
"Don't be ashamed of doing it. It's the mark of a champion.
You wouldn't be worth a damn if you weren't bitterly disap-
pointed when you lose."
Frank Poulain is one of the finest men I've ever known.
He's been like a second father to me. Many times I slept on
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 43
the old couch in the back of his Exposition Park tennis
shop and it was there I found sanctuary when the truant of-
ficer chased me. Frank taught me to string rackets, and gave
me rackets worth far more than the little work I did for him
around the shop.
After several lectures on the value of an education and the
importance of finishing high school, Frank threw up his hands
hopelessly and said, "I give up, kid. It's no use. I guess you
know what you want to do with your life."
I replied, "Yes, Frank. I want to play tennis. Nothing else
matters."
"Then play," he advised. "But one thing else become the
best. I think you can do it, too."
My father didn't subscribe to the idea. Although both Mom
and Dad were born in Chihuahua, Mexico, they didn't meet
and marry until years later in Arizona. They soon realized
that, in this country, education is generally the pathway lead-
ing to success. They vaccinated my brothers with this thought
and it took. With me the verbal needle was sharp enough but
my flesh and mind were unyielding.
The inevitable showdown came one night when Dad
said to me, "Richard, go to your room."
I obeyed. My brothers and sisters and Mom became silent.
I walked into my room, Dad following. He closed the door.
I sank into a chair.
"Get up!" he rasped.
I jumped to my feet like a recruit.
Dad is a quiet-mannered man who seldom raises his voice
and rarely displays temper. He helps run our family by
kindly words, pointing out and encouraging what is right
rather than enforcing his wishes by actual commands. It was
different now. His patience had left him.
"I want you to have an education!" his voice boomed. I
44 Man with a Racket
had never heard him speak so loudly. "I want you to be a fine
citizen. I want you to take advantage of the opportunities this
country gives a boy. You understand, Richard?"
I signified that I understood.
"You will go to school every day, then?" he asked hope-
fully.
"I I can't truthfully promise that, Dad."
His eyes flashed and he bellowed, "Why can't you?"
"Because I have to play tennis," I said. "It . . . it's like
it's part of me. Like a leg. Or an arm. It's hard to explain, but
I can't give it up."
"I think you will," he said evenly. His eyes focused on my
racket and he moved toward it. "This will help you give it
up."
Seizing the racket, he broke it over his knee.
"That won't stop me, Dad," I said. "I can get plenty more."
I said it with no feeling of belligerence. I was merely
stating a fact. He glared at me.
"You will also give up your friendship with Charles Pate,"
he said, still operating under a full head of steam.
"Why single out Chuck, Dad?"
"He's a bad influence."
"No. He's my friend."
Dad was adamant. The discussion lasted for over an
hour. Mom came in and saw me standing. I must have
looked tired for she asked Dad if I couldn't sit down.
"When I'm through with him, not before," he answered.
Thirty minutes later he was through with me, but I wasn't
through with either tennis or my friend, Chuck Pate.
Dad discovered my affinity for Frank Poulain and his ten-
nis shop and this was the next target. Storming into the shop
one day, he announced, "I'm Richard Gonzales' father."
"Fin happy to know you," Frank greeted.
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 45
"I doubt if you will be," Dad said abruptly,
Frank came from around the counter and faced Dad.
"What's wrong, Mr. Gonzales?"
"Specifically this/' Dad replied. "You encourage my son to
play tennis. He doesn't need tennis. He needs an education."
"I know/' Frank said thoughtfully. "Yet there's nothing I
can do. The boy has a strong will."
"I'll break it/' Dad said.
"I doubt that you will, Mr. Gonzales," Frank warned.
Dad mulled this over, countering with, "I can try."
Dad started to leave when Frank halted him. "Mr. Gon-
zales."
Dad turned.
Frank said, "The boy will have made more money from
tennis by the time he's thirty than you will make in all your
life."
Acting like he didn't believe his own ears, Dad wheeled
and faced Frank. "What was that you said?"
Frank repeated his prediction.
"You mean," Dad said incredulously, "that he'll make
money out of these?" He pointed at Frank's collection of
rackets for sale. "A man makes money from this this game?"
"The exceptional players do," Frank explained. "And I
think your boy's going to be one of the best."
Muttering something unintelligible, Dad left the shop.
He was gradually won over to my side. The process was
slow. When full realization came that I was dedicated to ten-
nis, he said to me, "Richard, it seems hard for you to go to all
these tournaments on street cars,"
"I don't mind it, Dad," I said.
"How do the other boys travel?"
"Mostly in their own cars."
"Then you shall do the same/' he said. The next day he
46 Man with a Racket
bought an eleven-year-old car for me. I practically dismem-
bered the engine, but when I put it together again not a part
was left over. And it even ran better.
It was while I was in junior high school that I won my first
tournament, held at the Slauson playground. There were
only three entries. With the flip of a coin I drew a "bye/' call-
ing "heads" and winning the toss. To this day I still call
"heads" if I get involved in any coin tossing and invariably
call "rough" when a racket is spun. Heads just seems more
important than tails and rough seems to be the treatment I
dish out to some opponents.
Anyway, I won the tournament by beating Gene Connors,
a man eighteen years older than myself. The third set went
to 19-17. My reward was a yellow ribbon and a large chunk of
confidence. The ribbon I took home to Mom. The confidence
I stored for the future. Bringing trophies to Mom became a
habit. Her living room is overflowing, and there's no use
planting flowers in them or the family would have to hack its
way through a jungle to go out the front door.
Awards I treasure most are the Davis Cup replica of 1949;
three sports awards trophies for accomplishment from the
Los Angeles Times, presented by sports editor Paul Zimmer-
man and Braven Dyer; and a tiny, battered piece of fast-
fading silver won in 1939, at South Park, Los Angeles. The
award was for a kid's decathalon events consisting of paddle
tennis against a wall, roque, checkers, caroms, chess, basket-
ball free throws, horseshoes, and ping-pong.
After winning a few boys' tournaments, George Davis,
sports editor of the Los Angeles Herald Express, mentioned
me prominently in a column titled "Southern California
Cradle of Tennis Champions." Frank Poulain clipped the
article, slipped it into his pocket and said to me, "Come on,
Pancho, we're going to see Perry T. Jones."
"Who's Perry Jones?" I asked.
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 47
"Mr. Tennis."
"Pretty good player, eh?" I speculated.
"He was once," Frank recalled. "Now he doesn't touch a
racket."
"What's so special about him then?"
Frank tried to explain as we headed toward our meeting
with Mr. Jones. He used the terms, "Brass hat" and "bigwig,"
but I didn't understand them.
Let me digress for a moment. During the last decade it has
become a popular pastime to take pot shots at the brass hats of
the United States Lawn Tennis Association, either in print
or by the spoken word. Frequently you hear those totally un-
familiar with the setup comment: "The boys are okay it's
the brass hats that cause the trouble." Nothing could be
more untrue. I ought to know. I caused trouble.
To some of the disgruntled, a brass hat was a cuspidor up-
side down. To me it was a badge of authority placed on an
intelligent head, a symbol of leadership and organizational
ability. Somebody had to wear those mythical hats.
Getting back to my trip with Frank, my first impression of
the Los Angeles Tennis Club was unforgettable. I'd never
seen such a layout. There were tennis courts everywhere and
the place had a restaurant, cocktail bar, beautiful furnish-
ings. It had, of all wonders, a locker room. And showers. I
couldn't conceive of the luxury of taking a shower anywhere
but home after playing. Why there were even two profes-
sionals Gorge Tolley and Loring Fiske.
Frank took me into Perry Jones' office, handed him the
newspaper clipping, and introduced me as "the future cham-
pion of the United States."
Adjusting his glasses, Mr. Jones regarded me with half-
closed eyes. "Maybe," he said after a long pause. And then
he quickly added, "That's a long, long road."
"He'll make it," Frank guaranteed.
48 Man with a Racket
"I've seen hundreds of promising boys/' Jones said. "Most
of them fall by the wayside unable to pass the tests."
"Test iny boy," Frank encouraged, asking, "You have a
test?"
Smiling, Jones removed his glasses, wiping them with a
handkerchief. After a full minute had elapsed he said, "There
is only one sure test that would work, but human feeling
would have to be entirely disregarded."
Frank asked what it was.
"Take a dozen boys up a steep, slanting roof," Jones said
with a straight face. "Give them a push. Out of the dozen
maybe two would figure a way to get to the ground without
being killed. From these two perhaps one would make the
grade. Perhaps. He'd already have demonstrated courage,
ingenuity, and fast reflexes."
I had been listening carefully, and now for the first time
I spoke. "Mr. Jones," I said, "take me to the roof."
He chuckled. "I'm not that inhuman. Let's go to a court
instead."
We went to a back court where Mr. Jones found someone
with whom I could rally. After ten minutes of hitting balls,
he called a halt.
"How's he look?" Frank inquired.
"It's hard to tell," Jones said. "He seems lackadaisical. No
incentive/'
"That's right," Frank agreed, stating: "but it's true only
when he's practicing. He has temperament. He has to have a
challenge. When a match counts, he's up. If it's only practice,
he's down. If he does well in the Dudley Cup matches,"
Frank pressed, mentioning the high school tournament,
"would there be a chance of sending him East?"
"There won't be any Dudley Cup matches for this boy,
nor any Eastern trip," Jones stated with finality.
Before Frank could ask why, Jones said, "I have already
The Slums Were Always at Our Heels 49
looked up Dick's scholastic record. He's ineligible because
he's not in school enough."
"Couldn't something be done to straighten that out?" Frank
asked.
"Sorry/' Jones said. "A rule's a rule. It's up to Dick to obey
the rules."
Riding back with Frank, we didn't talk much. Frank's an
understanding guy and he didn't bombard me with ques-
tions only one. He asked, "Made up your mind about
school?"
"I sure have."
"What's the decision?"
"I'm finished with school. All I want to do is play tennis.
Nothing else. I'll play from morning until night."
Frank sighed and said, "If that's the way you want it, I'll
help all I can."
"That's the way I want it," I said.
And that's the way it was.
Conquistador
A mindreader with a tennis interest might have been shocked
if he'd been able to get a glimpse of my thoughts at the end
of the 1947 season. Or, perhaps, he might have gotten a good
laugh.
With only one year of senior tennis under my belt, a single
thought occupied my mind. ''Next year, Pancho, you'll be
the national champ," I told myself again and again.
I could put my finger on nothing concrete to back up this
optimism. Sure, I'd scored a few good wins. In my first visit to
Forest Hills for the 1947 National championships, I had
surprised a few officials by knocking off British Davis Cupper
Derek Barton, and by forcing third-seeded Gardnar Mulloy
to five furious sets before I headed home. And in the Pacific
Southwest tournament that followed, I had upset big-name
players like Jaraslov Drobny, Bob Falkenburg, and Frankie
50
Conquistador 51
Parker before Ted Schroeder shattered my dream in the final.
For this, I received a No. 17 national ranking at the end of
1947.
Now, that wasn't bad for a fellow just starting up the road
in big-time tennis. But, the fact remained, I lacked the tour-
nament experience that most fellows in the Top Ten owned.
A two-year hitch in the U. S. Navy had forced me to tuck away
my tennis game in mothballs for most of 1945 and '46 and
this, more than anything, threatened to hold up my timetable.
A player, aiming at something like the national crown, needs
a couple of years on the big wheel in the East time to adjust
to grass surface and the pressure of all-out, day-to-day play.
As I made my plans for 1948, however, I could see no stum-
bling blocks in the road ahead, but only a big golden throne
with me sitting on it. Such is the blind determination of
youth. It was this same determination and unwavering con-
fidence that furnished the high-test fuel for the ride to my
dreamland.
As the 1948 season got under way, Perry Jones, who some-
times is referred to as "The Emperor Jones/' informed me
that he would send me East to play on the important grass-
court circuit. It is such a decision that pumps fresh life into
the heart of an amateur tennis player. In this case it meant
that the Southern California Tennis Association would pay
my travel and living expenses while I competed in the big
events.
This was very decent of Mr. Jones, considering my past
suspension. Only a broad-minded person can forgive. He said
to me, "Pancho, you're growing up. The circuit will do you a
lot of good."
He gave no hint whether he meant my game, my manners
or my temperament.
Mr. Jones was right. I was growing up. On March 23, 1948,
I had become a husband. When I packed my bags for the
52 Man with a Racket
Eastern trek, my wife, Henrietta, further underscored my
responsibilities by advising me to prepare for fatherhood. It
was joyful news, but shocking news, too. An amateur tennis
player has a difficult time supporting a wife especially a
player of my standing. What would I do now that we were to
become a family of three? The more I pondered this problem
the more I realized how well the answer meshed with my
dream of tennis grandeur. The national champion wouldn't
have trouble supporting a family of three, I mused. The flame
within me burned even hotter now.
If I were to ascend the throne at Forest Hills, in September,
I gave no indication of it in July, or even August. On the
Eastern circuit I rapidly gained the reputation of an in-and-
outer. At Southampton, Long Island, for instance, I wal-
loped Budge Patty, the internationalist, 6-3, 6-0, 6-3, but in
my next outing I lost to Gardnar Mulloy at Orange, New
Jersey. At Newport, Rhode Island, to make my good win over
Patty appear even more of a fluke, I fell at the hands of un-
seeded Sam Match.
I didn't panic, but simply worked on the flaws in my game
and trusted I would have the kinks ironed out by the time we
reached Forest Hills. In my spare moments, I studied the
play of the fellows who loomed at my opponents in the Na-
tionals. I tried to pick out weak spots I might exploit when
the chance came, and I filed the data away, mentally, for
future use.
The 1948 Nationals stirred up a tremendous amount of
interest since there wasn't a clear-cut favorite for the men's
singles title. Jack Kramer, after dominating the game
throughout 1946 and 1947, had vacated the throne to seek his
fortune as a touring professional, and the tennis experts were
having a picnic trying to forecast the outcome of the big event.
Ted Schroeder, considered by many as the logical successor
to Kramer, held the key to the situation. Since Ted was es-
Conquistador 53
sentially a businessman and only a part-time tennis player,
there was always some question right up to the last minute
about Schroeder's plans to play. Ted seemed to enjoy the
mysterious role, too.
When Schroeder finally decided he wouldn't compete in
the Nationals, the scramble was on. Drobny, Parker, and
Tom Brown were given bright chances to cop it all. Billy Tal-
bert and Gardnar Mulloy, a couple of old-timers, couldn't
be overlooked. Neither could Bob Falkenburg, who had won
in fine style at Wimbledon a few months earlier. Here and
there, a kind tennis writer would slip in my name as a "dark
horse."
American Lawn Tennis,, which was then regarded as the
"bible of the game," fanned my hopes with its forecast.
"Weak from backcourt on the forehand, dynamite at the
net, Pancho Gonzales could take it all at Forest Hills this
year, provided he hits a streak of hot-hitting that would hold
out for the duration of the tournament. It is our opinion that
the six-foot-three powerhouse from Los Angeles is one year
away from the top. He must not be overlooked, however, for
any player who is fast on his feet, continually attacks with
accuracy, never knows defeat, and has the faculty for getting
the points when he needs them, has the qualities of which
champions are made."
I read the writeups. Every guy does, no matter how earn-
estly some might tell you that they don't. But ever since the
time of my suspension for playing hooky, when some writers
branded me as anything from a juvenile delinquent up to
Public Enemy No. 1, I stopped believing everything I read
in the papers. In this case, I found some encouragement from
the American Lawn Tennis report. They had it figured the
same way I did I had to get "hot" to bring home the big one.
Arriving for the Nationals, I checked in at the Forest Hills
Inn just a block away from the big horseshoe stadium. My
54 Man with a Racket
accommodations weren't exactly luxurious. Eight of us all
players in the tournament slept in a room that was intended
to sleep but four. Mattresses were placed on the floor for
the extras, and I took turns with Hugh Stewart, a fellow Cali-
fornian, in the rotation between the bed and the floor.
I was strictly on my own at Forest Hills. I had no coach,
no advisers. I practised as I pleased and mapped out whatever
strategy I thought would be appropriate for a match. The
officials paid little attention to me, and only Frank Shields,
who later was to become non-playing captain of the U. S.
Davis Cup team, expressed some concern over my prepara-
tions for the big test.
Observing my lackluster during a workout, Frank came up
to me after the session and walked with me toward the club-
house. Along the way, he told me how important it was to get
started in the Nationals with a bang.
"Get the momentum in the early rounds/' he said. "Win
everything at 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, if you can, for in this brand of
competition the 'killer instinct* pays off. It's the only way to
keep your game 'up' over the entire ten-day period."
It made good sense, and I thanked him for the advice and
promised him I'd be a snarling tiger from the opening gun.
The officials had placed me No. 8 in the seeding at the
very bottom of the list. But I wasn't complaining. I was happy
that I had gotten that much recognition everything con-
sidered. Examining the draw, the first few rounds looked
easy for me. The battle would shape up in the fourth round.
From then on it would be like playing Notre Dame's foot-
ball schedule a formidable foe at every stop.
Drawing a first round bye, I got past Ladislav Hecht, the
Czech, with no trouble, and then whipped Gus Ganzenmuller
in the third round. This steered me smack into left-handed
An Larsen, a fellow who worried me no little. Art was a
Conquistador ^
scrambler, and a good one. And, what's more, he was quite
capable of handling all the mustard I could put on my big
serve. I sensed trouble.
We started our match late in the afternoon on field court
No. 16, and I quickly won the first set, 6-3. Midway in the
second stanza, however, the sinking sun, which now had
reached a bad angle, began to bother me on the volley. My
attack faltered and Larsen was quick to respond to the op-
portunity. He won the next two sets and I began to wonder
if I'd ever get my game going again under those conditions.
During the respite, tournament officials asked Art and
me if we'd like to move our match to the Stadium court,
which now was vacant. I was too engrossed with my desperate
situation to weigh any advantage or disadvantage of such a
move. I shrugged my shoulders in reply. Larsen, a guy who
always enjoyed the center stage, thought the proposal was a
great idea. And so we moved.
It wasn't until we reached the Stadium court that I real-
ized I might escape the tantalizing sun. Now the high, con-
crete stadium saucer offered me complete protection. I
charged to the net again and again with renewed confidence,
and my volleying turned the tide in my favor. I won the next
two sets, to pull out the match, and I was grateful that Art
had made the decision to change horses in midstream.
Frankie Parker was waiting for me in the quarter-final
round now, and even though this old hand was top-seeded in
the tournament and thirsting for his third national singles
title, the situation didn't frighten me. Some of my confidence
stemmed from the defeat I had hung on Frankie the year
before in the Pacific Southwest tournament, but to prevent
myself from getting too cocky I thought of the seventy-five
thousand-dollar scare Parker had thrown at Jack Kramer in
the 1947 final. Kramer, who was scheduled to accept a fat pro
56 Man with a Racket
contract upon the successful defense of his title, came dan-
gerously close to losing his crown to Frankie. Jack just did
pull it out in the fifth set.
I treated Parker with respect, but midway in the third set
I began to think I was home. At that point my game was,
working like a charm, while Frankie was getting into trouble
with his fickle serve and backhand. I won it in four sets.
The excitement at the National championships generally
reaches its peak as the play approaches the semi-final round..
Our lineup for the run down the homestretch was particularly
interesting because it pitted two representatives of what was.
being called America's "youth movement" against a pair of
experienced foreigners. I was to meet Jaroslav Drobny o
Czechoslovakia, while my old friend, Herbie Flam, faced Eric
Sutgess of South Africa in the other half of the draw. Need-
less to say, I was pulling for Herbie to come through. What
a thrill that would be, I thought, renewing the feud with
my boyhood rival right there in the final at Forest Hills! To-
be completely honest, I must admit that I was giving some
thought, too, to the lopsided won-and-lost record I held over
Herbie. That, of course, would have made the meeting evea
more pleasant.
To kill the long hours between assignments on the court,
I played cards. Sometimes it was bridge with a handful of
officials at the West Side Club. More often, it was a hot game
of poker with the players in the locker room. This operation
did not produce a profit of any size, but it did keep my mind
off tennis for a few hours and gave me a chance to work off my
restless energy.
I look back on the 1948 tournament very fondly. I think it
was the most enjoyable of all the amateur tournaments I
ever played in not because of anything I did on the court,
but mostly because of the friendly atmosphere of the place
Conquistador 57
the way so many of the players made me feel welcome.
Even the sardine-can conditions of our hotel room provided
more merriment than wrangling,
As I dressed for my rendezvous with Drobny, one thought
seemed to beat out a tempo through my head . . . "two
more to go. . . . two more to go. . . . two more to go."
I pulled the switch. That kind of thinking was hazardous.
Throughout the tournament I had been playing my matches
one at a time. That's the only safe operational plan in a sud-
den-death game like tennis. If you don't win today, you won't
be playing tomorrow. Now, my thoughts dwelled on
Drobny a left-hander like Larsen and a tough customer,
too.
More than eleven thousand people jammed into the Sta-
dium for the semi-final match. Those who arrived early
enough saw Drobny start out as though he planned to run me
out of Forest Hills. His southpaw serve gave me fits, kicking,
as it did, the "wrong" way. I answered back with all the
power at my command and the first set settled down to a
battle of serves. It followed this course for seventeen games.
In the eighteenth, Drobny cracked through and took the set.
He broke my service again at the start of the second set and
opened up a 2-0 lead. Now I began to worry. I played cau-
tiously and drew even, but Drobny was applying terrific pres-
sure. As the set wore on, my serve found the target again and
again, and now it was Drobny's turn to fret. And in the turn-
about, Drobny's big cannon gave me less trouble. After thirty-
seven games, I finally managed to get the lead at 10-9. A
passing shot and another ace gave me the set.
I ran ten consecutive points and soared to a 4-0 edge in the
third set, and Drobny's game seemed to wobble. At this point,
Drobny decided to concede the set and bank on the ten-
minute respite to bring him back refreshed. It didn't work.
58 Man with a Racket
After five games in the fourth set, his stamina was gone, his
keenness was no more. The match was mine, 8-10, 11-9, 6-0,
6-3.
My hopes of meeting Flam in the final were quickly ob-
literated in the next match, when Sturgess breezed to a
straight set victory. Tomorrow I would meet the South Afri-
can stylist for the U. S. championship. For the first time in the
tournament I permitted myself to anticipate the joy of writ-
ing my name into everlasting tennis history. Overconfidence
would never strike me down now. My thirst for complete
success was too great to be denied at this point.
A full house was on hand for the fateful hour. I thought it
would never come. A long final in the women's champion-
ship, plus a brief summer shower, had delayed the start of
our match by almost two hours. There was considerable con-
cern on the part of tournament officials over the possibility
of darkness halting our play.
I don't know if the fear of having to wait still another day
to fulfill my dream was an influence. At any rate I got off
to a winging start against Sturgess and quickly attained my
most effective form of the whole tournament. My serve was
faithful, my ground strokes strong as I took the first two sets,
6-2, 6-3. Now Sturgess made his determined stand.
In the twelfth game of the third set I stood at match point
twice so near and yet so far away. The first time I hit into
the net. The next time I drove over the baseline. The match
went on, and now darkness began to envelop the Stadium.
After I had cracked Sturgess' service in the twenty-fifth game
to move ahead, 13-12, tournament officials came to the court
and announced there was time for only one more game. If
the match wasn't decided, it would be put over to the next
day.
Standing on the baseline, I remembered the proverb of
my schooldays, "Never put off till tomorrow what you can do
Conquistador 59
today." I reached back for a little extra power for my serve.
My tired legs suddenly had new vigor. The flame within me
burned hotter than ever. Within minutes the job was done.
Sturgess took my backhand on the half volley and lifted it
into the net. Home, at last!
Sixteen months after my first tournament outside the boys'
ranks, I had come up smelling like a rose I was United
States singles champion!
American Lawn Tennis trumpeted my victory with this
report:
"The crowd cheered a handsome, dark-skinned Mexican-
American youngster who smiled boyishly each time he cap-
tured a hard-fought point, kissed the ball prayerfully before
a crucial serve, and was human enough to show nervousness
as he powered his way to the most coveted crown in the world.
"Before play began, the experts said twenty-year-old Richard
(Pancho) Gonzales was still a season away from the top. Some
of the administrative rulers of the American game hoped he
would never make it. But Pancho, a player who had to invite
himself to important tournaments in order to meet topflight
competition, turned out to be the player of the year. Every-
one from the bluebloods to the fans who carried their lunch
baskets seemed to be rooting for the kid from the West
Coast. He never let them down."
More important, I didn't let myself down.
4 \ Don't To/k Much
Personally, I have nothing against magazine writers, TV and
radio commentators, except what they write and what they
say. Some, overworking fertile imaginations, have created a
fictitious picture of me the portrait of a Pachuco a Mexi-
can-American delinquent type, specializing in knifings,
thievery, vandalism, disobedience to parents.
This is clear distortion.
A few years ago on a major radio network, a sports com-
mentator whose name is a household one, aired such opin-
ions. Unfortunately, my family was listening. Dad, usually
mild-mannered, exploded. Mom started crying. My six broth-
ers and sisters all began shouting at once, pointing at the
radio accusingly, just as if the little five-tuber was to blame.
Dad dashed into his room. I waited a few minutes, then
followed him. He was bent over a suitcase.
60
I Don't Talk Much 61
"What are you doing?" I asked him.
"Packing," he snapped, tossing a couple of shirts into the
bag.
"Why?"
"Going on a trip." I had never seen him so angry.
"Where to?"
"New York," he fumed. "I'm going to find that lying radio
man and beat the devil out of him."
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Listen, Dad. You don't go
after nationally-known figures with your fists."
He stopped packing and looked up. "No?"
"No."
"Then 111 take one of your tennis rackets to him."
"Look," I pointed out. "You and I and the family know
that what he said is untrue."
Dad didn't answer.
"Don't we?"
He slowly nodded.
"Okay," I said. "What else matters? I don't care what
others think. We know. Nothing else counts."
He thought it over and finally jerked his head in agree-
ment, pacified.
Another popular misconception nourished by magazine
writers, straining to come up with some sensational copy, was
my scar. Around my parents and my own house it was simply
referred to as "The Accident." To hear the writers tell it,
this scar, which is quite prominent, running from under my
left sideburn and ending at the nose, was inflicted during a
pool hall fight. Thousands of tennis spectators believe it to
be true, because they think a knife scar and Mexican-Ameri-
can youth go hand in hand.
Not only have I never carried a knife, but as a boy I didn't
even have a bean-shooter!
The disfigurement happened in 1935. 1 was riding a home-
62 Man with a Racket
made scooter bound for competition in a marble champion-
ship. Bill Williams was with me. He was a bigger boy with
longer legs and could push his scooter faster. I was lagging
behind.
"Come on, Dick!" he yelled.
Trying to close the gap, and paying no attention to the
traffic, I got too far in the middle of the street. A car shot by,
the door handle hooking inside my cheekbone, laying it open.
Results: two weeks of hospitalization and a permanent scar.
The car was driven by an off-duty policeman. He was blame-
less.
A lawyer came over to the house and talked at length with
my parents. Extracting some papers from a brief case, he
pushed them toward Mom and Dad.
"Just sign/' he said.
Dad asked for what reason.
"We'll sue and win the case," the lawyer explained.
"No," Mom said, "it was Richard's carelessness. What's
done is done."
The lawyer was not easily dissuaded. His eyes ran over our
inexpensive furniture, took in the many children. "You can
use the money," he pressed.
"Not that kind of money," Dad said, showing him to the
door.
Newspaper tennis writers, ranging from the great Allison
Danzig of the New York Times down to sports hacks who
don't know a tennis racket from a snowshoe, have been fair
and factual. When you hit a clean placement there's little
chance of being misquoted.
Still, I can understand the untruths written by magazine
staffers and voiced by radio and TV commentators. I'm a
frustrating guy to interview, mainly because I don't like to
talk much. Certainly not about myself. When I asked Hen-
rietta to be my wife, I cut the proposal down to three words:
I Don't Talk Much 53
"Let's get married/' Standing still while being interviewed
is harder than beating Rosewall, Hoad, Trabert, Kramer,
Segura, and Sedgman on the same day. I'm in one place and I
want to be in another like a bowling alley, or driving my
hot rod, or playing snooker. I'm not rude or hard to get along
with. I'm simply a guy in a hurry.
Some of these interviewers get more than slightly irri-
tated. An equation forms in their minds: Mexican-American
youth, plus scar, equals fight. Sure, I know the American
public loves color in their sporting figures and some writers
are quite willing to appease the public at any cost even at
the expense of my family. But I don't have to like it.
There was a collection of writers who wore out the phrase
that I was "from the wrong side of the tracks." I will go into
this later, but if my family was from the wrong side of the
tracks, there must be nothing but railroads in the United
States.
My early rearing and home environment differed little
from that of any boy in an average American home of modest
circumstances. There was only one exception. We were left
alone every night. It was a necessity. Mom and Dad worked
evenings, and also part of the day, to bring in enough money
to give us a decent home. We needed no baby sitters. We
never admitted we were babies.
I was the boss due to seniority of years, having eleven
months on my brother, Manuel. Unimpressed by my age, he
wasn't easy to handle. One night when it was time for all of
us to go to bed, Manuel refused. He simply shook his head
wildly, growling, "No."
I shoved him in the general direction of the bedroom. Stag-
gering a few steps, he straightened up, stiffening like a
ramrod.
"You going to bed?" I asked, glaring.
"When I feel like it."
g4 Man with a Racket
"Do you feel like it?"
"I do not."
"Well/' I said, not enjoying the stand I had to take, "I
think you better do as I say before you have trouble on your
hands."
"I think not," Manuel retorted. His fists were clenched, his
eyes blazing. My sisters looked frightened.
I said, "You realize what this means, Manuel?"
"Sure," he returned "It means I don't go to bed."
"It means more than that," I implied, my eyes straying
toward the door.
He knew what I meant. "Let's go," he said, heading for
the back yard.
We went outside. I hated to do it. We were very fond of
each other. But my position as head of the children was in
jeopardy. I couldn't allow my authority to be challenged.
It seemed like the fight lasted an hour. Neither of us got
hurt. Actually, it was mostly wrestling and pulled punches.
The other children were horrified onlookers. Manuel finally
ran out of breath. We were both glad to go to bed.
We had several more fights from time to time, but this was
the only fight I ever won. Manuel developed a system. He
would hit me and run. I couldn't catch him.
Some reporters have compared me with a cloak and dagger
operator simply because I don't like to talk much. I learned
years ago that the man who listens never makes a fool of him-
self. Switching a couple of proverbs to me, deeds are
mightier than words, and the racket mightier than the pen.
Some years ago I knew a businessman who had occasion to
send many telegrams. One day I noticed that within fifteen
minutes he dispatched two short wires to the same man.
I inquired, "Forget something important in the first wire,
George?"
I Don't Talk Much 65
"No," he said, smiling sheepishly, "I figure you can't be
illiterate in ten words."
Talking tires me more than a long set. I'll leave it to the
politicians. Only once in the course of my entire life can I
remember really enjoying talking, and this was on the tele-
phone. The rare occurrence followed the 1949 doubles finals
in the Southern California Tennis Championships. It was a
marathon match, the longest in American, and possibly
world, tennis history. The four tired participants were Gon-
zales and Hugh Stewart vs. Ted Schroeder and Bob Falken-
burg. The match lasted five hours and twenty minutes.
Schroeder and Falkenburg won, 36-34, 4-6, 3-6, 6-4, 19-17.
Hundreds of spectators sat without dinner, the final point
being scored at 9:00 P.M. The crowd was chilled. It had been
a balmy day, but after the sun dropped from sight the tem-
perature fell about twenty degrees, catching the fans with
insufficient clothing.
At the finish of the match I went into Perry Jones' office
and sat down at his desk to tackle a big, thick steak that a
kind woman who lived near the Los Angeles Tennis Club
had cooked for me. Every time I took a bite the telephone
rang and somebody wanted to know the final score. I obliged,
although the steak got cold.
Mr. Jones came in and saw me trying to eat and talk into
the phone at the same time. "You don't have to answer it,
Pancho," he said. "Go on and eat your dinner/'
"But I want to, Mr. Jones," I insisted.
"Why?"
"Well," I explained, "it's the first time I've ever felt like
an executive."
Even after I won the Nationals at Forest Hills in 1948, I
didn't feel like talking. While still soaking wet with perspir-
ation, I was hemmed in by reporters. The barrage of ques-
tions began. There was no escape.
66 Man with a Racket
"How does it feel to be champion of the United States?" I
was asked.
"Fine/' I said.
"Got any plans?" came from another.
"None."
"What's the first thing you're going to do now that you're
the champ?"
"Take a bath."
"Are you considering turning professional?" was the next
question.
"Hadn't thought of it."
"Whom do you credit with the development of your
game?" a squeaky voice shouted.
"Myself," I said.
Henrietta pushed through the crowd and threw her arms
around me. We kissed. "Darling, you were wonderful," she
said.
My shirt was sticking to me like glue. "I'm going to get you
all wet," I told her.
"Who cares," she said.
I edged toward the clubhouse, holding her hand. I saw a
slight clearing near the entrance and pulling her by the hand
I broke free from the mob and made it. I had something on
my mind. As a matter of fact, it began preying on my mind
the moment the match was over. I had to do something about
it.
I wanted to ride the roller coaster at Coney Island.
The Honeymoon
When I first laid eyes on Henrietta Pedrin, my old black
dog, Butch, was the only one to notice the chemistry change
taking place within me. When she walked into my house I
had been slapping Butch rather roughly on the rear. After
taking one long look at this small, dark, seventeen-year-old
girl, the hand pounding Butch became gentle and began
stroking with affection. The dog couldn't quite understand
what was happening, and maybe I couldn't either. All I knew
was that when I looked at her and tried to swallow, some-
thing like moons and stars seemed stuck in my throat.
Henrietta was one mess of a name, I thought, and if I short-
ened it to Henry, the connotation didn't do justice to ninety-
eight pounds of softness. Later on I might think of a more
fitting name; that is, if I ever saw her again. Somehow I
thought I would.
67
68 Man with a Racket
I'm supposed to inform the readers of my love, my court-
ship, my honeymoon. A woman remembers these graduating
stages better than a man. She recalls what she expected and
what she got or didn't get. I have a knack of squirming out
of things, and here is a good opportunity to turn over this
part of the story to the girl I married. So let my wife speak.
When I first met Richard in 1948, my hair was coal black,
and still is, but how much longer I can keep it from turning
gray depends on how much longer my husband races his hot-
rod. His excuse is that the children are crazy for the trophies
he brings home. All I care is that he brings himself home-
in one piece.
Richard's sisters, Margaret and Terry, had invited me to
the Gonzales house to a party. I went with a boy friend. I was
introduced to Richard, who was sprawled on the floor petting
a black dog. They said he had just returned from playing in a
tennis tournament in New Orleans. I knew nothing of ten-
nis.
Stacked in a corner of the room were a lot of silver tro-
phies. I examined them. They were not engraved, and I
couldn't understand why. I remarked to Richard, "Why
isn't any writing on those cups?"
He scrambled to his feet. He certainly was tall. I'm only
five feet, one inch. When he spoke his voice seemed to float
down from the ceiling.
"Engraving costs money," he said solemnly. "We don't have
much money around here."
I nodded. I understood. I had grown up under the same
conditions. "But," I asked, puzzled, "how do you remember
where you won each one?"
"That's easy," he said. "Tennis players are like elephants.
They never forget."
"I never met any tennis players," I told him.
The Honeymoon 59
"Well, have you ever met any elephants?" he joked.
I shook my head.
"Well, at least you know a tennis player now," he said,
dropping back to the floor and flea-bitten Butch. And that
summed up our entire conversation during the first meeting.
One particular thing stuck in my mind: the way he flopped
on the floor. It reminded me of a graceful parachute landing.
He called me the next night and without wasting a single
word asked, "Can I have a date?"
I said, "When?"
"Tonight," he answered.
I was slightly surprised. At the party he seemed disinter-
ested. "Well ..." I hesitated.
"Harry James is at the Aragon Ballroom in Ocean Park,"
he announced. "You like to dance?"
"I love to/'
"I'll be over at eight-thirty," he said.
I said, "Not so fast. I'll have to ask mother."
Mother knew of the Gonzales family and consented.
Promptly at eight-thirty Richard appeared in an old beat-up
Ford that ran like a new car. He'd completely overhauled it.
He drove fast and talked little. I didn't talk much either. It's
hard to talk with your heart in your mouth, and that's exactly
where mine was as Richard snaked through the traffic.
When we went into the Aragon he said, "I used to be a
lousy dancer, but I'm okay now."
"You'll have to be," I said, doing some rapid calculating.
"You're at least a foot taller than I am."
He laughed. "Down on the floor our feet are even. The
other end doesn't count."
"The other end," I said, "will hardly be visible."
A few steps later I knew that he was an excellent dancer
with perfect rhythm. I strained on my toes trying to grow a
few inches, to make it easier for him. During the intermission
70 Man with a Racket
I parked my shoes in a safe place and danced in my stockinged
feet on top of his feet.
We were having a soda and he said abruptly, "What about
the boy who brought you to my house?"
I glanced up at him. "What about him?"
"You in love with the guy?"
"Nope."
"You in love with anyone?"
"Not even myself," I replied.
"Good," he said. "Let's dance."
The next day he telephoned for another date. "You're so
light on my feet," he laughed, "let's do it again."
I said, "I don't mind being on your feet, but not at your
feet."
"What's that mean?"
"That means I'm no hero-worshiper," I said. "I've heard a
lot about your tennis. It doesn't mean much to me. It's the
boy without the racket that counts."
After a moment of silence, he said, "Does your mother like
me?"
"Sure. Why?"
"No reason," he said. "Pick you up at the same time to-
night."
This was the beginning. With every date our mutual in-
terest mounted. For two months we went steady, after-
noons and evenings. Often in the afternoons I'd sit around
the Exposition Park courts watching him practice. He
handled his body beautifully. He had natural grace. He had
a fierceness too the way he smashed at the balls.
The next tournament on his busy schedule was at the La
Jolla Beach and Tennis Club. La Jolla is a resort town near
San Diego. I understand it compares in beauty with the
French Riviera blue waters, white beaches, curving coast-
line, mountains rising sharply behind the city. Richard
The Honeymoon 71
wanted me to go with him. This would mean staying over-
night. He said he'd made arrangements for Beverly Baker,
now Beverly Baker Fleitz, an ambidextrous, highly-ranked
player to room with me. Richard's brother Manuel was also
going along. Mother was won over after I satisfactorily an-
swered a few questions.
Richard failed to win the tournament but he won me,
and I agreed to go to Yuma and marry him. Manuel would
accompany us. Marriages were fast in Yuma, Arizona, and
Richard enjoyed anything that was fast.
We decided to keep our plan quiet. Richard said his folks
would never give us their blessing, believing marriage at this
particular time injurious to his tennis career. My own mother
would never approve and I could almost hear her words, "A
girl of seventeen doesn't know her own mind." I may have
been a teenager, but I knew my mind. It was made up. Noth-
ing could sway my decision. I wanted Richard.
I lay on my bed the night before the big step and thought
it over. I am sure that most girls contemplate a slow domesti-
cation of their husbands that finally results in complete con-
trol. I held no such ideas. I knew I could never handle
Richard unless I used an electrically charged chair the kind
a lion tamer uses. Furthermore, I knew I could never com-
pletely own him, and the best I could expect was to share him
with tennis. If I could compete with only one tennis court I
might have the upper hand. But there were hundreds all over
the world and only one Henrietta Pedrin. I shrugged it off.
Don't fight it, I thought join it.
The next day we raced toward Yuma. I wanted to fool my-
self thinking, "He's burning up the highway for me ...
breaking speed records to get married." I knew differently.
Speed and Richard were twin brothers.
After the secret marriage, I returned to my house and
Richard to his. He hid the license in a desk at his house. I
72 Man with a Racket
hid my wonderful feelings and emotions at my house. Our
parents suspected nothing.
One night Richard called for me, and Mother greeted him
with her arms folded across her chest. I knew the pose.
Formidable!
"Henrietta stays home tonight/' she stated.
"Why?" Richard asked calmly.
"Because," Mother explained, "she's too young to be going
out every afternoon and night."
I didn't intervene. I was curious to know how Richard
would handle the situation. I could see he was angry.
"Have you any personal objections to me?" he asked
Mother.
"None," Mother answered. "It's . . . it's just that she goes
out too much."
Richard put his hands on his hips facing Mother. He was
boiling inside, and I hoped that he'd contain himself. I hate
scenes.
"Mrs. Pedrin," he said, "the law's on my side."
"Law," Mother repeated. "I don't know what you mean by
that, young man."
"I mean," Richard said very deliberately, holding his an-
ger in check, "that a married man has the right to take out
his own wife."
I gulped. Mother's face blanched. She groped for a chair.
"It's true," I said, and I started explaining, fast.
Before we had a chance to tell his parents, they found our
marriage license quite by accident while they were going
through the contents of the desk. Everyone knew now. It was
better this way. For the first time I had the feeling of being
married. We rented a small apartment and began to live a
fuller life.
Nearly every morning Richard was off to practice tennis.
I wasn't jealous or felt neglected. My own hopes were tied
The Honeymoon 75
up in his life's work, and his life's work was tennis. We
were dependent upon it for income, even though he was an
amateur. Expense money for tournament travel can be
stretched. We were just squeaking by.
Richard had shortened my name to Henry. "It doesn't
fit you/' he had said, "but it's the best I can do."
"Henry," he reminded me one day, "we never had a honey-
moon."
"It can wait," said the economical wife.
"No," he said impulsively. "We've got a couple of hundred.
Let's go out and spend it."
I didn't argue. No girl can turn down a honeymoon, even
a late one. We packed old clothes. I knew better than to pack
any fancy ones, being married to a guy who thinks he's go-
ing formal if he wears a necktie.
"We're going up the coast," he informed me. I didn't care
where we went. Just having him to myself was enough.
The second day of our trip, the scenery was startlingly
beautiful, the highway curving around solid hunks of moun-
tain. Far below were boulder-strewn beaches. We caught up
to a station wagon, loaded with camping equipment, bearing
green Vermont license plates. It was traveling at a moderate
speed.
Richard began to fret. He couldn't pass the car because
there were no cutouts, no straight stretches and no side
roads. For ten minutes he said nothing. Finally he grunted,
"I don't want to spend our honeymoon breathing gas fumes."
"Drop behind," I advised.
Taking his eyes off the curving road, he fastened them on
me. I should have known better than to suggest retreat to
him.
I looked at the sky. It was a reminder of Richard's face
a massing and curving of black, spiraling storm clouds. Rain
was in the air. I could almost smell it. We zipped around
74 Man with a Racket
another mountain, close to the perpendicular cliffs. Here the
road ahead was visible for nearly five miles five miles of
twists and turns, skirting more mountains, broken here and
there by a few canyon mouths.
Richard swore softly. The oath was mild enough, but he
suddenly remembered me and said, "Sorry."
Two more miles curved by and then suddenly Richard
raised his arm, pointing excitedly, "A road, Henry! In the
canyon!"
I saw it, a thin, wavering ribbon of dirt that vanished from
sight under a thick covering of leafy trees. The map was on
the seat and I reached for it. A few seconds of scanning and I
reported, "Not on here, Richard."
He paid no attention. His eyes burned brightly, and color
crept into his cheeks. Even his breathing was faster, and his
hands gripped the steering wheel hard.
"It isn't on the map," I repeated.
"It's a short cut, Baby," he said. "My sense of direction tells
me this road'll bring us back to the highway." I let him talk
on. "Probably lots straighter, too. When it hits the coast
again, the station wagonll be behind us. Can you imagine
the face of the driver, Henry?"
"Please, Richard," I protested gently.
He patted my knee. "Wait and see," he said.
I sighed. He swung the car sharply, treading the smooth
asphalt for dirt. The road was bumpy. Behind us trailed dust.
I heard a strange noise; like something following us. It was
rain, torrents of it coming over the trees as if searching for
our car. When it caught us, Richard slacked his pace, starting
the windshield wiper. After a few seconds of hesitation, it
began working.
"Scared?" he asked me.
"No," I lied, twisting a handkerchief between my fingers.
It always helps.
The Honeymoon *
Night was coming, and the tall trees hurried the disap-
pearance of day. Richard flicked on the headlights. The rain
had stopped falling, and assorted puddles glistened under
the dancing car lights.
''Hungry?" he questioned.
"A little."
Five minutes later he squinted through the streaked wind-
shield. "A light. Down the road."
I saw a faraway electric blur that gradually merged into a
sign of four letters "FOOD". The building was a simple
roadside shack, small and unpainted.
Richard braked to a stop. "Let's try it," he said.
We went in. An old man with a stubble of ragged,
red whiskers snapped off a static-filled radio and greeted us.
After we ordered, and the hiss of frying hamburgers and
the tempting aroma of onions filled the shack, the proprietor
turned from the grill, asking, "You folks heard the news?"
"We haven't heard anything but rain," I said.
The old man brought the hamburgers and milk to the
counter and took his time before answering. When he got
around to it, he said, "Landslide above the coast highway.
Knocked a car plumb over the cliff into the ocean. Heard it
on the radio."
"How awful," I said.
"Yes," the old man continued, "terrible thing. Big station
wagon. Two got killed."
I stopped eating. Richard kept on but he chewed very
slowly. "Did . . . did the car have Vermont license plates?"
I asked, and my voice trembled.
The old man eyed me closely and scratched his head. "Yep,
it was a Vermont car."
We didn't talk about it. When Richard paid the check, he
inquired as to the fastest way to the coast highway.
76 Man with a Racket
"Take the right fork at the top of the hill," the old man
said.
We climbed the hill, and at the crest our lights picked up
the intersection. Richard slowed the car. His voice vibrated
with excitement as he said, "I think the left road is a short
cut."
"Yes, Richard/' was all I said.
I believe this story furnishes you with a true picture of
Richard and the way he reacts. Believe me, it's never dull
married to a man like this. It's much like living with a ball
that never stops bouncing. He has, I admit, changed a little
since we were first married. He's not as carefree. A few years
ago when he crossed a street he scarcely glanced at approach-
ing cars, almost challenged them to hit him as he swaggered
along. Now he looks.
Not long ago he was talking in his sleep, something he sel-
dom does. He usually sleeps like he's dead. I woke him up
because he seemed unhappy and asked what he was dream-
ing.
Snapping on the bed light, he peered at me long and ear-
nestly. "Why are you staring at me?" I asked, minus my
makeup.
He grinned. "You don't look a bit like him," he said mys-
teriously.
I sat up. "I hope I don't look like any him."
"I was dreaming the truant officer was chasing me," he
said. "The funny part of it was he looked just like you."
I didn't think it was so funny. Subconsciously he was real-
izing the responsibilities of life. These things come hard for
Richard.
I try to be a good wife. The main thing is to give him com-
plete freedom and keep out of his hair, never saddle him with
a problem, leave his mind free to concentrate on being the
The Honeymoon 77
best tennis player in the world. Staying out of his hair is easi-
est of all. He doesn't light in one place long enough.
Of this I am sure: I married a tornado. But I wouldn't for
all the world trade him for a zephyr. Richard is Richard.
Wild, almost like an animal, always running somewhere after
something. The formula for holding such a man is to throw
away the leash.
Once I heard a radio funnyman describe a well-matched
couple. "They fight to a draw every night/ 1 he quipped.
By these standards, Richard and I are misfits. We don't
fight. You can't fight with perpetual motion. Somebody has
to stand still for a minute.
I guess it's better this way.
6 All's Well That Ends Well
I didn't expect the whole world to change suddenly when I
became National champion. Frankly, I didn't know what to
expect. My dreams usually took me to the point where I was
tossing my racket high in the air in triumph. That was as far
as they'd go and that had always seemed far enough. What
more could a guy ask of a dream?
I came to be thankful that my dreams had always stopped
at that point. If I had expected the world to become some-
thing like Alice's Wonderland once the title was mine, the
letdown that followed might have been even harder to have
endured.
To be sure, the days immediately following my victory in
the 1948 championships at Forest Hills were crammed with
excitement and many "first time" thrills. And for a time it
seemed certain that my world would always be bright and
78
All's Well That Ends Well 79
totally beautiful. My picture was on the front pages of news-
papers from coast to coast. Sports writers hailed my somewhat
sudden "arrival" as the dawn of a new era for tennis, predict-
ing that I would eventually lead tennis back from the grave-
yard. I was wanted for television shows, radio interviews,
magazine articles. I was the "kid from the other side of the
tracks," as they put it, who had barged into the sweet-smell-
ing game of tennis and had taken it for my own. And every-
body loved me for doing it!
It didn't take me long to learn the hard facts of life that
the fellow on top has no place to go but down. When a cham-
pion wins a good match he gets a shrug of the shoul-
ders. Champions are supposed to win. But when he loses,
well, that's something else. He's a bum. It's a simple pattern
and I suppose it applies to most American sports. However,
as a twenty-year-old come-lately from Exposition Park, I
found the fickle affection of the gallery and press quite con-
fusing.
My California friends really whooped it up for my home-
coming from Forest Hills. The sports writers, in the mean-
time Mel Gallagher, Bion Abbott and Luipi Saldana were
stirring up excitement over the possibility of a Gonzales-
Schroeder match during the playing of the Pacific Southwest
championships the tournament that traditionally follows
the big show at Forest Hills.
"A match with Ted Schroeder," one scribe pointed out,
bluntly, "would soon let us know the real worth of our new
National champion."
I could hardly disagree with him.
Schroeder was recognized in most tennis circles as the
uncrowned king of the American courts. He had not at-
tempted to put an "official" stamp on this reputation by play-
ing in the National championships. His business interests pre-
vented this, although he did have time to compete in the
80 Man with a Racket
Davis Cup Challenge Round, which had been staged at For-
est Hills a few days earlier. But it never seemed to matter
whether Ted played or not; many tennis observers es-
pecially those in high, official places felt that Ted could be
champ if and when he felt like it.
Winning the title at Forest Hills had given me a tremen-
dous shot of confidence, but I had to wonder how much this
would help me when I faced Schroeder across the net. 1 had
never been able to beat the guy. Jack Kramer sums up
Schroeder's strange hold on me in one, brief sentence: "Ted
simply was a better player/'
I don't agree.
Ted held some kind of psychological advantage over me. I
was never able to understand it. I still can't. He'd get me
worried long before a match started. Often as we dressed in
the locker room, he'd approach me and the conversation
would run something like this:
"Hello, Pancho."
"Hello, Ted."
"Good day for tennis."
"Yeah."
"You know, I'm going to beat you again, Pancho. . . ."
Then he'd stroll away, as nonchalant as ever. I'd stand
there and burn playing right into his hand. He was halfway
home before we'd even hit a ball!
Chuck Pate helped me analyze Ted's game. Chuck did a
great job. He spread out all the details on a table top, and
everything made sense. It was like handing a fellow the com-
bination to a safe but I still couldn't open it. There was no
doubt about it, Schroeder was my jinx.
Ted played almost daily at the Los Angeles Tennis Club.
For a period of about a week, he didn't show up at all. This
seemed strange.
"Where do you think Ted is these days?" Chuck inquired.
All's Well That Ends Well 81
"He's probably at home practicing/' I said.
Chuck looked at me, puzzled.
"Practicing at home? How'd he do that?"
"Not on a court on a doll/' I explained. "He's got a doll
that looks like me, and he's sticking pins in it. You know,
black magic!"
Chuck smiled weakly.
"Don't let the guy get you down," he warned. "You'll catch
up with him one day."
I wanted to catch up with him in the Pacific Southwest.
That would give me a season I could really celebrate the
National championship, and my first win over Schroeder.
Wowl The thought flashed through my head like a beacon
all through the early rounds of the tournament. It'll be dif-
ferent now that I'm the champ, I promised myself.
Evidently, Ted hadn't heard about me winning the title.
If he had, he remained unimpressed. When we got together
in the semi-final round, before a packed house at the Los
Angeles Tennis Club, he showed no respect at all for the new
crown that had been placed on my head. And it was like old
times.
It was a slam-bang, gallery-pleasing match all the way. At
one stage, in the fourth set, I came within a point of tying up
the match, but they don't pay off on "almost." When the final
returns were in, Ted had the match, 6-3, 4-6, 7-5, 10-8. My
title seemed a little tarnished now.
But that was only the beginning!
The following week, in the National hardcourt champion-
ships at the California Tennis Club in San Francisco, Ted
again demonstrated his supremacy. This was a particularly
bitter pill. A victory in the hardcourt event would have given
me a grand slam of U. S. outdoor championships, since I al-
ready had won the clay and grass court titles in '48. But it was
Ted who added to his glory. This time he breezed to a 6-4,
82 Man with a Racket
4-6, 6-3, 6-1 victory, running his winning streak over me to
seven straight.
Two successive losses in the first month of my reign! What
a disgrace, I thought. The next time out, however, my neck
got even redder. Playing in the semi-final round of the Pan-
American championships at Mexico City, I dropped a quick
11-9, 6-0, 6-4 decision to Eric Sturgess the same guy I had
beaten in the Forest Hills final.
Now the tongues really began to wag. Some began to
chant that my title win was a fluke. Others said I was still a
year away from becoming a winning player. I wasn't in a
position to argue.
There was some speculation that the U. S. Lawn Tennis
Association would break tradition and by-pass me for the
Number One rung in the 1948 national rankings. The top
spot almost automatically goes to the national champion,
but considering my spotty record and my inability to beat
Schroeder, it was suggested that, perhaps, Ted belonged at
the head of the parade. When the lists were published, how-
ever, the Association placed me at Number One; Ted, at
Number Two.
This confidence in my Number One spot, I believe, helped
ine achieve what had loomed as the impossible. Playing in
the La Jolla Beach Club Invitation tourney, I finally got
around to beating Schroeder, but even then I had to do it the
hard way.
On the eve of my match with Ted, my doubles partner,
Hugh Stewart, came close to spoiling my hour of triumph.
Hugh's a big guy, with a strong overhead. In the middle of a
doubles match, he drifted out of position on a high lob. Just
as I was about to swing at the ball, Hugh's racket came down
on the bridge of my nose. An explosion took place inside my
head. Blood spurted. The match ended and I was rushed to a
doctor.
All's Well That Ends Well 83
"It's broken," the doc informed me, as he worked it back
into place.
"Can I play tomorrow?" I asked, thinking of my date with
Schroeder.
He shrugged. "It's up to you. You won't be comfortable.
You'll have to breathe through your mouth."
The tournament chairman expected me to default be-
cause of my injury. That night I called him. "The match is
on," I told him.
The next afternoon, with my swollen nose taped and my
head still a little numb from anaesthetics, I played the best
tennis of my life. I beat Ted, 6-2, 6-8, 9-7, and at the end of
the match I felt like a new man.
"I'll gladly break my nose every day of the week if I can
be sure I'll play as well as I did today," I told reporters.
The victory made the score 7-1 in my personal duel with
Ted. It was still a bit lop-sided, true, but at least I had
broken the ice. The next time it would be easy, I told my-
self.
But it wasn't. In our very next clash, Schroeder gave me
the worst beating ever 6-1, 6-0, 6-2, and, what's more, it took
him only forty minutes to wrap it up.
I had started 1949 with two big goals in mind to win at
Wimbledon on my first trip abroad, and then to defend my
title at Forest Hills. This was the combination I needed to
become a sound prospect for a pro tour, and, of course, a big-
money tour was the answer to all my other problems.
I had launched my program nicely enough by winning the
National Indoor championships in New York, beating Billy
Talbert, one of the finest players on boards. The metropoli-
tan newspaper and wire service writers agreed that I had the
knack for winning "the big one." I wanted to believe them,
but in the months that followed, these writers, along with
many others across the land, changed their tune.
84 Man with a Racket
At the River Oaks tournament in Texas, in April, I suf-
fered a terrible loss at the hands of Sam Match. Sam blistered
me in twenty-eight minutes. In the French championships
at Paris, I was drubbed by Budge Patty. In my debut at
Wimbledon, Australian Geoff Brown put me out in the
third round. The tide turned, temporarily, when I returned
to the States and successfully defended my National Clay
Court championship against Frankie Parker. But when I
checked in for the all-important play on the Eastern, there
were few winners in my racket.
Billy Talbert knocked me out at Spring Lake, New Jersey,
and again at Southampton, Long Island, where we staged
a grueling five-set final. On the plus side, I downed Vic Seixas
for the Pennsylvania grass court title, and won from Gardnar
Mulloy in four tough sets at Newport, Rhode Island.
It was mid-August now, and the Davis Cup Challenge
Round and the National championships were only a couple
of weeks away. I needed time. I needed it desperately. My
game was coming along sharpening with each tournament.
I had that feeling in the finale with Talbert at Southampton.
And when I followed with wins over Seixas and Mulloy, I
knew I was getting closer to the target. But was it the right
timetable? Would I be prepared for Forest Hills?
My two singles matches in the Challenge Round, in which I
defeated Frank Sedgman and Billy Sidwell, contributed two
points to our 4-1 triumph over Australia. But they did more
than that for me. The keen competition of Cup play was just
what the doctor ordered for my game. I knew I was ready to
put my crown on the line.
On the eve of the 1949 Nationals, however, there weren't
too many tennis observers who gave me a chance. Tennis
expert John M. Ross, writing in Sport Magazine, summed up
the situation without pulling a punch:
All's Well That Ends Well 85
"It has been a full year since young Richard (Pancho)
Gonzales, the problem child of tennis, stood the net world on
its ear with his awesome surge to the top rung of the amateur
ladder. But most tennis addicts still have not recovered from
the shock not even Pancho himself.
"The unprecedented havoc wreaked by the dazzling Cali-
fornian in last year's Nationals was branded at the time as a
fluke by some, and a catastrophe by others. And, in the inter-
vening months, his fickle form has not only glorified his critics,
but has earned for him the rather ignominious accolade of
'cheese champion/
"When Pancho struts across the turf in this year's edition
of the Nationals at Forest Hills to protect what's left of his
somewhat battered crown, he will be standing at the crossroads
of his brief and hectic career. If he can duplicate his "miracle
of '48,' there will be a pot of professional gold waiting at the
end of the rainbow. But, if he fails, he may never hear the
knock on the door again.
"Not many tennis players have encountered such a crisis at
the tender age of twenty-one."
Ross was right; it was a crisis, indeed a seventy-five-thou-
sand-dollar crisis. And it was a crisis I had created through my
own mistakes, I can't honestly say that the national title went
to my head it wasn't quite that bad. But I know I didn't
train as hard as I did when I was gunning for the champion-
ship. My next mistake was restricting myself to only local
tournaments for about six months. This combination caused
me to blow up to 208 pounds about twenty-five pounds over
my normal playing weight.
But even the knowledge that my problems were created
by my own mistakes did not comfort me. It didn't make it
any easier for me to read what the tennis writers were
saying about me. The same fellows, who only a few short
months before had labeled me as "the boy wonder/' suddenly
86 Man with a Racket
changed the tag to "cheese champion." The brand followed
me everywhere and added to the pressure of trying to get into
shape while playing in important torunaments.
Although the newspaper blasts hurt me deeply, they also
made me more determined than ever to land on my feet.
But this wasn't the only factor behind my late-season push.
There was the matter of Ted Schroeder. Our showdown was
at hand.
Ted was in the process of establishing himself "officially"
as the best tennis player in the world. He had won the
Queens tournament in London, and had followed this with
a spectacular triumph at Wimbledon. He ducked the Eastern
grass court circuit, but in the Challenge Round he won two
matches, running his streak to seven consecutive Davis Cup
triumphs. Now he figured to finish in grand style by copping
the Nationals.
Bobby Riggs, who at that time was in control of the big-
money pro tour, had designated Schroeder as his next head-
line attraction, and was planning to pit Ted against Jack
Kramer, the newly crowned king of the pros. There was only
one hitch in the plan Schroeder had to beat me. And I
had some ideas of my own concerning the identification of
Kramer's next opponent on tour. It mattered not that the
record book showed Schroeder owned me. He'd find that
snatching a potential seventy-five-thousand-dollar pro con-
tract from my grasp wouldn't be like taking candy from a
baby.
The tournament officials added a little fuel to the fire that
now was burning within me by designating Schroeder as the
number one seed. I got number two. That was sort of an of-
ficial confirmation of what everyone was saying. I didn't com-
plain. Nor was I bitter over the way the tennis brass had ral-
lied to Schroeder's side for the showdown. Almost to a man,
the officials were pulling for Ted. He was their kind of guy
All's Well That Ends Well 87
personable, poised and a good talker. To underscore how
they felt about him, U.S.L.T.A, officials gave him the William
Johnston Trophy during the tournament, an award that
stresses "character, sportsmanship, manners, cooperation, and
contributions to the growth and development of tennis."
To make sure I had at least one supporter in the gallery, I
brought Henry to Forest Hills with me. Our little boy, Rich-
ard, Jr., while a Gonzales fan, remained with his grand-
parents in California. I had to wonder, as the tournament
progressed, if I had made the right decision in letting Henry
come. Henry was pregnant, and the ever-increasing tension
of our most important hour was not conducive to her well-
being. My wife, you see, becomes very emotional during my
matches.
When we arrived at Forest Hills I shied away from all
invitations to parties and the like. Some of them were from
important people. Henry was a little disappointed. She didn't
come right out and tell me, but I sensed it.
"Look, Henry," I explained. "I'm a plain and simple guy.
I don't belong in this social whirl. Exposition Park is my level
that's where my friends are. I've come here for one pur-
pose to keep my title and get a professional contract. Noth-
ing's going to interfere."
"Nothing will," Henry said.
And nothing did.
Frank Shields, who had given me much encouragement
during my visit to Forest Hills in 1948, again was in my
corner. That made me feel better. Frank, who had been the
nation's top-ranked player in 1933, is a sound tactician. He's
also a big handsome guy who knows how to wear clothes and
is poised and at ease in any kind of company. His polish and
mastery of the social graces interested me as much as his ten-
nis tips, and I watched him carefully and tried to acquire
some of his self-assurance. I learned a lot from Frank, but to
88 Man with a Racket
this day I still don't know how to shake a lady's hand prop-
erly. I know enough to wait until she extends it this puts all
the risk on her side. More often than not, I'll grip it like my
racket and the smile on fair lady's face suddenly becomes a
grimace.
After practice one day, Frank drove Henry and me to
the private home which was our headquarters during our
stay at Forest Hills. Along the way, Frank engaged in the
small talk that made him such a pleasant guy to have around.
"Did you ever think how lonely a game tennis is?" he sud-
denly asked.
"Lonely?" I countered. "With all those people around?"
He nodded. "Oh, they're around, of course, but they're not
on the court with you. You stand on a plot of finely manicured
grass, seventy-eight by twenty-seven feet. It's yours to de-
fend. Any ball that comes into it must be hit back. It's like
having your country bombarded by the enemy. Only no
allies. You do it alone."
"Seventy-eight by twenty-seven," I mused. "Well, what do
you know I"
"You mean," Shields said in surprise, "you didn't know
the dimensions of a tennis court?"
"Never gave it a thought," I replied. "As long as my two
feet can cover all those feet, I figure I'm alright."
"Ill bet Ted Schroeder knows the dimensions," Frank
said casually, trying to needle me at the same time.
"Probably. Ted's a smart boy."
There was silence for a moment.
"Ill tell you one thing, though, Frank," I broke in. "Ted
will have to know more than just the size of the court if he's
going to get this title away from me this week."
"Atta boy!" Frank roared.
As the tournament got under way, the big crowds watched
our matches carefully. The early rounds were uneventful. I
All's Well That Ends Well 39
got past Jack Geller, Straight Clark, and Jimmy Brink with-
out losing a set. Schroeder kept pace by also winning every
set in his first three matches. In the quarter-final round, how-
ever, I ran into my old left-handed nemesis, Art Larsen,
and I had a battle on my hands. Carelessness on my part,
plus some sensational hitting by Art in the fourth set, pushed
this match to the limit. But by the fifth set my game was
working well and there was no danger thereafter.
The semi-final round was much easier. My opponent,
Frankie Parker, started off with a rush. He played almost per-
fect tennis to win the first set, and was within two points of
grabbing the next set, before my big serve pulled me out of
trouble. I wound up with eleven service aces in that set, win-
ning it at 9-7. I knew I had Frankie now. The next two sets
were mine and I was in the final round.
Schroeder had two stiff five-setters before he qualified for
the finals. Frank Sedgman had Ted in trouble in the quar-
ter-finals, before Schroeder rallied strongly to settle the issue
in the fifth set. In the semi-finals, Billy Talbert, who had
polished off Jaroslav Drobny in straight sets the previous
day, jumped off to a 2-1 lead in sets at the intermission. But,
once again, Ted came charging back, captured the fourth and
fifth sets and landed in the final.
The setting for the final round resembled the corn-ballish
plot of a grade-B Hollywood movie. Considering the peril-
ous path any player has through a national championship
tournament, it did seem somewhat miraculous that out of
101 players in the competition the two players perfectly cast
for the drama of the final round should arrive for the
rendezvous unscathed. Such things only happen in the
movies. Nevertheless, there we were for our showdown, and
America's tennis fans licked their chops in anticipation of
the fireworks to come.
90 Man with a Racket
On the eve of the final, Shields invited Henry and me to
dinner.
"Let's relax over a nice, thick steak," he suggested.
I declined with thanks, telling Frank we were going to a
movie.
"Well, be sure to pick out something soothing," he
advised.
I nodded.
Henry and I went to a double-horror show. But I slept like
a baby that night.
The next morning, neither Henry nor I mentioned tennis.
When we went to the West Side Tennis Club, there was
no big scene at parting time no emotion. Henry simply
patted my hand lightly, turned and went off. There was no
need for words we knew what was in each other's heart.
In I went to the locker room, and, remembering my past
pre-match experiences with Schroeder, I made a point of
steering clear of him. I put on my tennis togs slowly. I felt
good. Imagine that! Feeling good when you're about to play
the most important match of your life against a guy who
had beaten you seven times out of eight!
I examined my rackets carefully and an official came along.
"They're ready for you over there, Pancho," he said.
It was post-time.
During the warm up on the center court, Schroeder seemed
as nonchalant as ever, but when the match got under way he
became dead serious and aggressive. The early games indi-
cated the tenseness of our play. Most points were won on
errors, rather than placements. For thirty-two games it was
serve and volley, serve and volley, and the capacity crowd of
thirteen thousand howled in delight as it watched history
in the making. The break came in the thirty-third game.
Trailing, Iove40 on my own serve, I stormed back to send the
All's Well That Ends Well 91
score to deuce. Schroeder took the advantage on a net cord
shot. Now I went in for a volley and I hit the ball down the
line, out o Ted's reach. Chalk dust flew in all directions as
the ball hit the line. To my complete amazement, the lines-
man signaled, "Out."
That gave Ted the service break he needed, and when he
held his own serve in the next game, he had the set, 18-16.
Tennis historians point to this set as one of the all-time
best. Certainly it was one of the longest. But after struggling
for an hour and thirteen minutes, I had nothing to show for
my labor but a one set deficit. In a much shorter time,
Schroeder had the second set, too.
At the start of the second set, Ted asked the umpire for
permission to don spiked shoes. The grass was damp and
slippery. The request was granted. It was a smart move
especially since I didn't own a pair of spikes and couldn't
borrow any.
A lot of things started running through my mind now.
That bad line call that cost me the first set still stuck in my
craw. The spikes. It was shaping up as a bad day a typical
Schroeder-Gonzales match, I thought, where everything goes
wrong for Pancho. Poor Pancho!
While I was feeling sorry for myself, Ted was piling up the
points and he took the second set at 6-2.
Now the odds really were stacked against me. No one
ever spotted Ted Schroeder the first two sets and lived to
pull the match out of the fire. No sir, you just didn't get away
with such things against this great clutch player. I had no
argument to offer. And when the second set was over, my
morale was cracked. My only thought now was to give the
packed gallery a good match for their money to play as hard
as I could, even though my cause was almost hopeless.
With this aim, I ran through the first four games of the
92 Man with a Racket
third set rather easily. Ted then appeared to make a decision
to let this set go and concentrate on finishing me off in the
fourth set, after the intermission. I won the set, 6-L
I showered and changed clothes during the intermission.
Frank Shields came in.
"That first set was a tough one to lose," he consoled.
I nodded. "But it might be tougher on Ted in the fifth set,"
I told him.
"That's the spirit," Frank said, like a cheer-leader. "There's
plenty of time to get him."
"How's Henry taking it?" I asked.
"Oh, she's been crying a little, but she's alright."
Frank now mapped out some strategy that was to play an
important part in the rest of the match. He noted that Ted,
when he was a point ahead, was using his second serve first
and winning points on my weak return. I was standing too
deep for this serve, expecting, of course, the big first serve.
Frank told me to keep an eye on the marquee, where he was
sitting. He would give me the signal when to move in for the
softer serve. By being better prepared for this, I could move
in behind my return of service and be ready to volley at the
net.
Frank, sitting in the front row of the marquee seats,
dangled his arms over the railing to signal to me. It paid big
dividends.
In the fourth set, my serve was my best friend. This, com-
bined with the fact that I was now handling Schroeder's serv-
ice better, caused my spirits to soar. I moved out to 3-1, then
to 5-2. At this point, a leather-lunged guy in the gallery,
obviously referring to Schroeder's work as a refrigeration
salesman, roared:
"Come on, Pancho, put Ted back in the deep freezer."
The gallery laughed, and suddenly I felt I had thirteen
thousand people pulling for me. Pulling for Pancho the
All's Well That Ends Well 93
"cheese champion/' I took the set at 6-2, and we were all
even. The fateful fifth set was at hand.
What would the betting odds be on such a fifth set? I don't
know. Only four times in six decades of National cham-
pionship play had a player dropped the first two sets and re-
turned to win the match. But, of course, none of these was
accomplished with Ted Schroeder as the opponent. Ted, a
determined, gutty guy, was murder in that fifth set. He was
such a consistent winner in five-set matches, that tennis ad-
dicts had altered the sports axiom to read: Never bet against
Notre Dame, the New York Yankees, or Ted Schroeder in
the fifth set."
But, frankly, I didn't think of odds or of Ted's reputation
as the showdown started. I was strong. I was hitting good.
And I was confident. A pretty good combination for any fel-
low to have in the crucial moments of play.
The games followed service through the first eight. In the
ninth game, I cracked through Ted and all I had to do now
was hold my own serve and the title was mine. Ted drove
my first serve into the net, but I followed with a double fault
and a netted backhand and I trailed, 15-30. Schroeder put
the next delivery in the net and it was 30-all. Now I was two
points away, but the crowd groaned as I went after a ball that
would have gone "out" and clobbered it wildly. It was 30-40.
Ted drove beyond the baseline for deuce and I quickly took
the advantage by banging home a good placement. I stood at
"match point/'
The crowd sat in tomb-like silence. I looked across the net
and saw my arch foe squirming and gritting his teeth. I kissed
my racket and served. Ted returned. I fired it back and Ted
took it on his forehand. The ball zoomed down the sideline,
out of my reach. My heart must have stopped beating for the
split second it took for the ball to land and the linesman to
call his decision.
94 Man with a Racket
"Out," was the welcome call.
I was home. Winner and still champion.
I'll remember a lot of things about that moment. The gen-
erous tribute from the gallery; the look of astonishment on
Ted's face; the genuine smiles and affection from so many of
those who had been so certain I wouldn't win. But the pic-
ture of that wonderful moment that will stay with me always,
is the photograph used by American Lawn Tennis on its
cover. It showed Henry hugging me and smiling the most
wonderful smile I've ever seen. And the caption read:
'The Last Laugh."
How true! How true!
/ The Years Slip By
Hardly had I returned from winning at Forest Hills when
the telephone rang in my Los Angeles apartment and Henry
announced, "Bobby Riggs."
In two giant strides I crossed the room and grabbed the
phone. I had a pretty good idea of the nature of the call.
Riggs rarely telephones anybody to pass the time of day in
idle gossip.
"Hello, Bobby/ 5 I greeted, trying to control the excite-
ment I felt.
"What's on for tonight, Pancho?" he asked.
"Not a thing," I answered, concealing the fact I had a bowl-
ing date.
He said, "Pick you up at eight, sharp. Something I want
to talk over with you/'
"Okay," I said. 'Til be ready/'
95
96 Man with a Racket
He appeared on the stroke of eight, brief case in hand.
From it he extracted some typewritten papers. Getting right
to the point, he said, "I've got a contract for you to play Jack
Kramer. A tour of the country. We'll go find a notary, sign,
and wind it up."
I held up my hand like a traffic cop. "Not so fast, Bobby/'
A faint trace of surprise crossed his face. "You want to tour
with Jack, don't you? What's the problem?"
"Let's take it to Neil McCarthy," I proposed. "He's my
adviser. If he says, 'Sign it,' I will."
McCarthy was a smart lawyer and he took a fatherly inter-
est in me. He lived alone in a big house off Sunset Boulevard
with a flock of servants to take care of him. Since he had lived
in Arizona for a time, Neil numbered among his acquaint-
ances many Mexicans and knew their special problems.
When, as an amateur, I was preparing to go to Wimbledon,
he handed me four hundred dollars.
"Who do you want murdered?" I asked him.
He laughed.
"Take this money and buy yourself some clothes," he or-
dered. "You don't want the English to outdress you."
I thanked him, and when I left, he called after me, "Be
sure to wear a necktie for a change."
After introducing Neil to Bobby we sat down while he
read the contract. When he finished, his face was expression-
less. With a slightly apologetic shrug of the shoulder he tore
the contract into little pieces, dropping them to the floor.
"Come back tomorrow night and I'll show you a new con-
tract," he said to Bobby.
The next night we were back and I signed. Bobby signed.
The tour called for approximately 123 matches between Jack
and myself; Kramer, World's Professional Champion vs.
Gonzales the challenger. Jack was the King of the Courts
rated by many experts as one of the greatest players ever to
The Years Slip By 97
reach this enviable position. Fresh from the amateur ranks,
I was determined to snatch the crown from his head, and I
was just cocky enough to think that I could do it.
I had a lot to learn.
We were in business together Bobby, Jack, and I
partners in a great sports venture involving thousands of
miles of travel over every conceivable type of roadbed con-
structed by highway engineers of mixed abilities. Roads are
important on a tour. All traveling is done by car.
So closely did the agreement bind us together that it re-
minded me of a marriage contract with its "for better or for
worse" clause. At least it did in substance.
I got the "worse/'
I don't mean that the contract contained fine print or
hidden or twisted interpretations. What I mean is I got the
trouncing of my young life. Jack was merciless. He never re-
laxed. His "off" nights were few and far between. If I man-
aged to dump him in Boston and foolishly start thinking I'd
solved his all-court game, he'd thump me so terribly the
next night in Providence I'd wonder if the strings in my
racket weren't just ornamental.
Consequently, Jack wasn't doing the gate any good. How
many persons, at the height of Rocky Marciano's career,,
would pay to see him fight a flyweight? Our tour wasn't much
different. I was clearly overmatched, and it began to dawn on
me that my game, at the age of twenty-one and less than a full
year out of the amateurs, was a far cry from the peak of pro-
fessionalism.
Prior to taking the court one night in Chicago, I overheard
Jack talking to a well-wisher who was assuming the role of
adviser.
"Better take it easy, Jack," the man said.
Glancing up from examining the strings of a racket, Jack
inquired, "I don't understand."
^ Man with a Racket
"Well," the man went on, "I mean get smart.' 5
"Smart?"
"Yeah. Toss Pancho a few matches. Keep the match score
closer. You'll draw bigger crowds/ 7
Slowly Jack straightened up. He was clutching the racket
and I noticed his hand trembled, but his voice was steady as
he replied, "The only thing I'll toss on this tour is you, if you
don't get out of here."
The man took off like a rocket.
"Jack," I said, walking toward him, "I heard what you
said."
He looked at me. His lower lip was shaking with rage.
"Got any opinion on the subject?"
"You did the right thing," I said.
He calmed slightly. "I'm glad you agree," he said. "Now
let me tell you something. I don't care if we lose money every
night. I'll never let down one single point against you or
anybody else on any tour. The public pays their money and
they're going to see me at my best. And you too."
"You'll get no argument from me on that," I agreed.
Scooping up the rest of his rackets, Jack said, "Let's go."
I followed. He was still boiling mad when we were intro-
duced to the crowd. We warmed up and began to play. I was
a feather caught in a tornado as Jack exploded all his pent-up
anger on the innocent white balls. At the end of the two sets,
I had won only four games.
Jack walloped me ninety-six matches to twenty-seven on
the tour, and I returned to Los Angeles dragging my tail
behind me. For days I went around the house sullen, uncom-
municative. Defeat burns me up and I was really afire. My
attitude was hard on Henry.
"Richard," she said, "do I in any manner, shape, or form
resemble Jack Kramer?"
The Years Slip By 99
I scowled, which was as close to a laugh as I could manage
in the midst of my doldrums. My eyes roved her figure. "Not
with those legs," I assured her.
"Then concentrate on my legs/' she ordered, "and realize
I'm not Jack Kramer. I'm your wife. I'm the girl you married.
Remember? Don't take your Kramer losses out on me."
"I remember."
"Start treating me like your wife again and quit brooding/*
she commanded, and went on: "So you were beaten. He's
the only man in the world who can do it."
"He'll never do it again," I vowed.
"Okay," she said, "but don't lose sight of the fact you
gained plenty from the tour."
"Sure I did. I learned that when he comes to the net and I
dump a soft one at his feet he . . ."
"No. Something else."
"What?"
"You gained seventy-five thousand dollars, more money
than we dreamed existed. Let's do something with the money.
Something wise."
We talked it over and late that night decided we would buy
a modest house and also one for my mom and dad. From now
on money wasn't going to be one of our worries, if we had
any worries. Maybe it didn't grow on trees as the saying goes,
but it grew on tennis courts, and if I made seventy-five thou-
sand dollars my first year as a pro, what would I make my
second and my third?
This was the thinking of an inexperienced mind. The
thinking of a drunken sailor on payday.
Almost immediately the shadows dimmed the glitter of
the gold. In 1951, my second year as a pro, I worked long
hours but played little tennis. It was profitable for those cal-
loused gentlemen who figure percentages however, and run
100 Man with a Racket
legalized luxury poker parlors close to Los Angeles and have
habitual customers like Richard Alonzo Gonzales. Slowly,
yet always surely, they relieve you of your chips. Some nights
you win, some nights you lose, but in the long run after hours
of sitting, the money fritters away. And I sadly discovered
it went a lot faster than I'd been able to earn it on the courts.
The card players I pitted wits against were the type that
could sit calmly for an hour, staying out of pots, waiting for
cinches. I couldn't. I can't play this way. I push my hands too
strongly. I bluff. And I get caught.
Why was I squandering away the nights gambling? The
motive was obvious. No tennis matches were lined up for me.
I had become an also-ran. I needed the tonic of action. Gam-
bling filled the vacuum, although it lacked the real thrill of
tennis.
I've lost as much as one thousand dollars in one night at
cards, and more than two thousand dollars in a session at the
dice tables in Las Vegas. I like to forget the bad nights, but
as most fellows do who have a thirst for competition, I re-
member the good ones. It's the same way in tennis. The de-
tails of a bad day often are vague, but you always remember
everything about your big wins even the temperature, the
color of your opponent's eyes, and what you ate for breakfast.
My big match at the card table came in a game of Stud Low
Ball, table stakes. I won $890 for the hand, holding a seven-
five low.
All the while I was hounding Bobby Riggs. Finally he
made clear the facts of life. They were both enlightening and
discouraging.
"Pancho," he said, "you're dead as a drawing card/*
"Dead!" I repeated.
"Professional tennis is a funny sport/' Bobby explained.
"All the public really cares about is the champ and the chal-
lenger. Mainly the challenger. The stamp of amateurism
The Years Slip By 10I
hasn't fully dried on him yet, so he's a knight in shining
armor, the people's choice, a fresh new personality.
"Like I was?"
"Like you were," he agreed, continuing: "You're past tense
now. Your name's worth nothing. You came, you saw and
Jack Kramer conquered.
"I see," I said sourly.
Bobby's next words failed to lift the gloom. "Perhaps some
day," he said, "we can build you up again."
"And in the meantime?"
"Keep playing, keep in condition, keep your weight down,
save your money, and stand by."
His words were hard to swallow and bitter to the taste. My
future suddenly darkened. True, there would be a few
exhibitions, a few lessons and a few sporadic tournaments.
Not enough competition. When you've got a body that con-
tinually cries for action, you've got to heed the cries.
Following my card-playing disaster I was approached by
Arzy Kunz who, at the time, operated the Olympic Tennis
Shop at Exposition Park. Frank Poulain had retired from
tennis and Arzy rented from him.
Arzy came right to the point. He doesn't enjoy talking any
more than I do. A guy we both knew once cracked, "If Arzy
and you had a two-man debate, you'd just sit facing each
other across a table in utter silence. At the end of the al-
lotted time one or the other would say, 'Let's go out and have
a beer.' End of debate."
So Arzy said to me, "Want to buy my tennis shop? I'm
thinking of moving out on LaCienega." The location was
near some fine public courts in Beverly Hills.
"What've you got to sell and how much?" I asked him.
"A little equipment and a lot of good will," he returned,
mentioning a price.
I went over to the shop with him. Twenty minutes later
102 Man with a Racket
he handed me the key. I now owned the shop which I had
loved as a kid the place which once had been my refuge
from truant officers.
I started stringing rackets and selling balls, but I'd knock
off work if somebody like Oscar Johnson came by looking
for a game. Later Oscar became the National Tennis Asso-
ciation Champion (Negro Championship). I tried to coach
him a little. It wasn't easy. I'd never had any tutoring myself.
Often Fd play social tennis on other courts sometimes at
Griffith Park, where, after a workout, I'd talk a little tennis
in Fred Moll's shop. Fred had a good business and sold more
rackets in a day than I sold all week.
At night I'd play basketball in a semi-pro league, or bowl.
Ten blocks from my home is the Twentieth Century Recrea-
tion Bowl run by Charley Peroni, a high-average roller and
teacher. Charley, together with the other boys who hang out
there, knows nothing about tennis and cares less. This was
evidenced by what Charley said to Al Stump, a magazine
writer who was doing a story on me called, "All Dressed Up
and No Place to Play/'
"This Gonzales!" Peroni told Stump, "I don't know any-
thing about his other game, but he could be another Andy
Varipapa at bowling if he worked at it. I've seen him bowl at
least 75 games of 240 pins or more. Some of the sharpest
shooters in town hang out here and this Gonzales cleans 'em
out in pot games . . . He's got that great wrist action."
Three nights each week I'd roll with my wife in a Recrea-
tion League. It gave me something to do, helped me work off
steam. I enjoy the sounds in a bowling alley. A man can create
his own thunder. They tell me that in Greek Mythology
there was some guy named Zeus, who hurled thunderbolts.
When I throw a strike, if old Zeus can hear me he must think
he's back in business.
My day would start pretty early in the morning. Don't take
The Years Slip By log
my word for it ask the neighbors. None of them needed
alarm clocks. Late sleeping was impossible, for they'd be
awakened by the sounds of my hitting tennis balls off the
back wall of my garage. This is good practice. I can beat any
player in the world today but not that old Devil wall. No
matter how you hit the ball hard or soft the wall always
returns it.
After a workout with the wall, I'd go down to the shop.
What I dreaded most was opening the mail and encounter-
ing business forms that needed attention. I hate paperwork.
I didn't even like adding up the receipts, but this wasn't a big
problem. There wasn't too much to add up usually. A small
business can be a headache to a man without a business
head, and believe me, my business was small.
To be sure, I had many tempting offers to teach a few rich
people in Hollywood and Beverly Hills for fees much fatter
than the prevailing Southern California hourly rates. It
would involve taking a paunchy man in his mid-fifties, who
should be wearing a corset, and showing him how to swing a
racket so that he wouldn't look like a fat lady chopping wood.
Southern California has plenty of self-styled pros who would
jump at the chance to teach such pupils. These fellows have
no club affiliations, doing most of their teaching on private
courts.
I passed up most of these opportunities, although in a
weak moment I did agree to teach a female movie star. She
had everything looks, figure, big home, private tennis court.
Fifty bucks per lesson was the price, and if it involves just
straight tennis, that's awfully good money. A lesson never
runs much over an hour.
A servant showed me to the court and informed that the
mistress would be along in a minute. I had a large straw
basket filled with practice balls which I set down at the rear
of the court and waited. Then I saw her approaching. What
104 Man with a Racket
a walk! It belonged on a runway not a tennis court, but I
wasn't complaining.
Introductions over, I showed her the proper grip, made
clear the rudiments of the swing, sent her deep into the court
and began feeding her easy balls. She fanned the air hope-
lessly, handling the racket as if it were a giant fly swatter.
Occasionally she made feeble contact on the wood. She was
setting the game back about twenty years, but her classic
figure made this something less than revolting.
Walking around the net I advised, "Just relax and let me
swing for you/' I stood behind her maneuvering her arm
through the correct motions. Slowly she leaned back until
her head rested against my chest. The racket grew limp in
her hand. Her eyes were misty. It was a throwback to some
corny movie scene of another era.
"Oh, Pancho," she whispered, and her eyelashes actually
fluttered.
"You interested in taking a lesson?" I asked curtly.
"A lesson? What kind of a lesson?" she panted.
I tried to ignore the obvious come-on.
"Well, I'm supposed to teach you tennis" I replied, trying
to stick to business.
"Oh yes, tennis!" she laughed. "And I'm supposed to re-
lax! Then let's try relaxing back at the house."
Fingering the collar of my shirt she fluttered her eyelashes
some more. I squirmed mentally. "Look, Beautiful," I said
bluntly, "I'm married, and . . ."
"So am I," was the prompt reply. "That makes us even."
"Not quite."
"What can your wife do that I can't do?" she wanted to
know.
"Well, she can bowl for one thing," I laughed.
"Anything else?"
"She can cook beans the way I like 'em."
The Years Slip By 105
She tossed in the sponge now, and with one brief, but noisy ,
salvo, told me to take my tennis lesson elsewhere.
Now I don't want anyone to think I'm boasting of my
virtues. The story simply points up how seriously I take my
tennis.
As I was pouring over the books in my shop one breezy
day and hoping the wind might blow through the doorway
and carry away the tantalizing paperwork, the telephone
rang. It was Mom and she wanted me to come over.
"Anything wrong?" I questioned. Mom rarely called me
during the day.
"It's about Sonny," was all she would say.
I wondered what had happened to my brother, Ralph.
Mom briefed me. Ralph called Sonny by our family was at
the hard-to-handle age. He owned a beat-up 1934 Ford coupe
and would hop into it right after dinner and take off for a
pool parlor. This hangout, Mom felt, was full of characters
that might shape Ralph's own character the wrong way.
When I got to the house I tried to suppress a grin
and failed.
"You think this is a joke?" Mom demanded.
"No," I assured her. "I was just thinking it wasn't too many
years ago that I was considered the bad boy of the family."
Mom shrugged off the past. "You are the oldest/' she stated.
"He'll listen to you."
I put my arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll
take care of it."
I located the pool hall, and Ralph was there as usual. His
jaw dropped when he saw me.
"Shoot a game, Dick?" he invited.
I presented a proposition. "Shoot you for your car. Double
a fair price or nothing."
"You're too good."
106 Man with a Racket
"Okay then, follow me over to my shop/' I said. "I want to
talk to you/*
On the way out I collared the owner of the place and said,
"This boy's under age. If I catch him in here again I'll see
that you're reported."
When we reached the shop, I asked Ralph for the keys to
his car. Puzzled, he handed them over. "I'll be keeping
these/' I said, mentioning he was too young to own an auto-
mobile.
He protested. "I've got a big investment tied up in this
car. You can't just move in and take over."
"That isn't exactly what I'm doing. I'm buying out your
interest/'
He didn't answer.
"And don't jack up the price," I warned.
We settled on fifty dollars. I put the car in a bus parking
lot near my shop, where it sat for two weeks gathering rust.
In the middle of a slow business day I decided to look it
over. I threw up the hood and started thinking and dream-
ing.
That dream was to cost me seventy-five hundred dollars!
Beneath that battered, old hood I installed a 1951, eight-
cylinder Cadillac engine "goosed-up" to 375 horsepower.
Wide open, she could hit 160 miles per hour on a straight-
away. No reasonable facsimile now existed between Ralph's
former car and what I had now. It was renovated into a low
slung, white-painted, stripped-down, sleek hunk of metal.
I'd gone "hotrod happy."
Contrary to the opinion of many who have fixed ideas, the
average hotrod driver is not a juvenile delinquent or a case
,o arrested mentality. He works hard on his car and work-
ing keeps a boy out of trouble. He doesn't necessarily roar
around corners on two wheels, or try to outspeed police cars.
He is, for the most part, a sane, sensible driver perhaps a
The Years Slip By 107
little noisier than the average stock car operator. He races
at one of several places. The king spot around here the
Indianapolis o the hotrodders is an asphalt strip at
Saugus, California. All races are under official supervision.
Saugus, forty miles north of Los Angeles, the capital of
jalopy racing, has a lightning fast "drag-strip." Here, I wear
coveralls, a crash helmet and drive like hell. It's a far cry
from the sedate atmosphere of Forest Hills.
Hotrod racing can be dangerous. Safety is purely up to the
individual. I'll admit its pitfalls to anyone but Henry. You
start from a standstill. The getaway is important. You zoom
down the converted airfield runway toward the finish line,
a quarter of a mile away. I can reach a speed of around 70
mph in 500 feet.
Sure there's risk. If everything isn't in perfect mechanical
shape you may blow higher than a kite. If you're unlucky you
may get a broken arm, busted leg, or even worse. Sure, death
might be breathing down your neck but that doesn't mean it
has to catch up with you.
What's the reward? It can't be measured materially. The
prize trophy is worth about three dollars. I suppose it's the
feeling of excitement, the emotional release, that satisfies.
Henry put up strong arguments in the beginning. She was
fighting a losing cause. The word-battle ran like this:
"Think of me, Pancho."
"I do."
"Think of your family."
"I do."
"Can't you give it up?"
"Sure but I don't want to."
"Want me to be a young widow?"
"No but you look good in black."
"You're hopeless."
"And you're beautiful."
108 Man with a Racket
And that's the way it went.
Another sport I tried was golf. Frank Parker and Bobby
Riggs introduced me to the fairways, and considering the
way I dug them up the first time it wasn't a pleasant meeting.
After three weeks, however, I carded a 75. Several friends
urged me to switch from tennis to the links. The great tennis
ace, Ellsworth Vines, had made a profitable change.
"No," I argued, "my heart will always be in tennis."
Anyway, golf was a trifle too slow for me. I loved smack-
ing the ball; liked to watch it soar through the air. What
bothered me was the lull between shots. There's nothing to
do but walk. That's a little too mild for me.
Because of the expiration of my contract with Bobby Riggs
and no renewal in sight, I signed with sports promoter
Jack Harris. Harris, who had promoted several tennis tours in
the past, was trying to crack the Riggs-Kramer stranglehold on
the pro shows.
This was okay with me. Personally, I didn't care who was
the boss just as long as I could return to the courts. So from
1952 through 1953, I belonged to Jack Harris. I stagnated.
Another activity I developed to take up the slack was
breeding dogs. Boxers. I accomplished this by the air of pa-
tience, nature, and a wired-in dog run in the back yard. I'm
glad no neighborhood popularity contests were held. With
the barking of dogs and the slapping sounds of tennis balls
bouncing off the garage wall, undoubtedly I would have fin-
ished last.
Henry and I sold some of the pups for prices ranging from
$75 to 1 125. But we didn't make much money; not even after
Duchess, a fine female had delivered her third litter. Al-
though boxers aren't supposed to be hunting or retrieving
dogs, one of the pups disproved the theory by bringing in
several missing tennis balls every evening. Today, the dogs
have taken over the house. Friends who keep getting a
The Years Slip By 109
constant busy signal when telephoning us have often re-
ported the instrument out of order. It isn't true. The pups
keep knocking the receiver off the hook.
During these years of tennis oblivion I had no club affilia-
tions, although any time I wanted to play at the Los Angeles
Tennis Club the Forest Hills of the West Coast George
Tolley, one of its pros, arranged a game for me. Of course 1
enjoy playing anybody, but I needed competition tougher
than the club players could offer if I wanted to elevate my
game to the Jack Kramer level. Patting the ball socially
wasn't going to advance my game very far.
Periodically the local tennis set invited me to cocktail
parties. At this juncture, let me sound off loud and clear on
what my opinion is of these so-called revelries. I may have
been the toast of the tennis clique after the second straight
year I won the national championships, but at a cocktail party
I was like an olive that found its way into a glass of bourbon
instead of a martini. In short, I was a misfit.
Frankly, cocktail parties bore me silly. A lot of people, all
dressed up, drink too much and try to outshout each other,
claiming to be what they aren't. I can't be something I'm
not because I am what I want to be at all times. If that
doesn't make sense, skip it. Besides, I don't care about alco-
hol. I can take it in moderation or leave it alone. Generally,
I leave it alone. I recognize it as a condition destroyer.
I like to circulate. It's hard for me to stand or sit in one
place very long. You can't move around very much at a
cocktail gathering hemmed in by a solid phalanx of bodies;
there's always the fear of spilling your drink on some
woman's expensive dress.
And speaking of women at these groups, they'll back you
into a corner and either tell you their life story or want to
know yours. Some of them have asked to feel my arm muscles.
One felt my calves. "I'm just taking a muscular survey," this
110 Man with a Racket
one said. Muscles seem to interest women. Maybe it's be-
cause if a girl snares a guy with a bunch of them, she figures
shell have no trouble getting him to move the furniture
around every time she goes into a redecoration mood.
Now I wouldn't mind a cocktail party so much if when I
came in I'd be handed a printed floor plan with all exits
clearly marked. Then I'd be able to slip away unnoticed at
the appropriate time. Even that wouldn't be easy when you
find yourself pinned against a wall by a bunch of chattering
females.
Getting back to tennis, the dead-stop in my career ended
temporarily, late in 1953, when Jack Kramer called me. Be-
sides being one of the foremost tennis players in the con-
troversial history of the game, Jack has something else in his
favor. He's an astute businessman. This is a rare combina-
tion, and I've always regretted not having such dual talents.
Jack had taken over the promotional reins of pro tennis
from Bobby Riggs and his new organization was known as
World Tennis, Inc. Jack listed himself as general manager.
Olin Parks, a former sporting goods representative was tour
director, and Myron McNamara, an excellent public courts
player was the publicity director.
Jack invited me to his office. I sat uncomfortably, in a hard
chair. No soft seats were available. I suspect that Jack ar-
ranged it so, purposely, with the object of denying a prospect
any form of comfort. Jack, therefore, gained the advantage.
The prospect couldn't relax, doze or let his thoughts stray.
He had to pay close attention to anything Jack might be sell-
ing. And Jack usually was selling.
Jack had crushed Frank Sedgman, the Aussie ace, on a
national tour in 1953, and now was in virtual retirement,
appearing infrequently in doubles play or a fill-in match. I
had gradually developed mastery over him. He was past his
prime. Age and an arthritic back condition were taking a
The Years Slip By m
heavy toll. In our rivalries since my lambastings on the tour,
I held an 11-5 edge. My game was steadily ascending. I had
blown the U. S. National Professional Championship to
Segura in 1952, but took the title the next year by beating
Don Budge. Ground strokes had always been my weakness.
Now, if necessary, I could stay in the back court and outstroke
the best of them.
I studied Jack as he launched into his proposals. He wanted
me for a round-robin tour against Sedgman, the crowd-pleas-
ing Segura, and the old redhead, Budge. The standings of
the wins and losses would be tabulated, and the lion's share
would go to the victor. I was ready to roar like a lion.
Bouncing around on the balls of his feet the same bounce
he does when he begins his service jack was waving a con-
tract in the air and talking about the advantages contained
therein. When Jack talks he projects and his listeners are both
charmed and hypnotized. The only challenge he's ever had in
this personality projection business comes from Nancy
Chaffee Kiner, now semi-retired from serious tournament
competition. Nancy's personality reaches even those in the
fringe area and on days when her shorts are too tight she
doesn't even have to talk.
Anyway, Jack was reaching me. Every time he mentioned
money, the entire room seemed to take on a golden hue. You
see, from 1951 to 1954 I had lost most of my contact with
income, and this money-talk was like meeting up with a long-
lost friend.
In the middle of a long sentence, which included more
words than generally come out of me during an entire hour,
I caught Jack at a comma and said loudly, "J ust a second,
Jake!"
Contract trailing from his hand, he walked over close and
said, "What is it, Pancho?"
112 Man with a Racket
"There's only one thing that keeps me from signing your
contract."
His eyes narrowed, pupils contracting. I could tell he was
thinking of money. "And what might that be, Pancho?" he
asked pleasantly.
"I haven't got a pen," I told him.
He stared at me incredulously for a long moment, regained
his composure and whipped out a fountain pen. It wasn't one
of those ball point jobs, but something in the fifteen dollar
class. You can tell a successful promoter by his fountain pen.
"Here," he said, handing me the pen and smoothing the
contract on the desk surface. "Write your full name and no
Pancho, please."
I signed Richard Alorizo Gonzales.
Maybe I was on the road back.
The only business matter on hand was disposal of the Ex-
position Park Tennis Shop. Frank Poulain still owned the
property along with an adjoining restaurant. Elsie Gabel, a
former San Francisco tournament player who did a good
stringing job, moved in.
I won the round robin, but it wasn't exactly a howling
financial success. However, it proved I could beat anyone in
the world. The year I clashed with Kramer to initiate our
tour in Madison Square Garden, eighteen thousand tennis
fanatics showed up. I earned $5,400 for a single night's play.
The round robin drew only 4,300 paying fans. In smaller
places hardly more than four to five hundred turned out.
At the conclusion of this tour, I went to tennis-booming
Australia. Playing with the pair of local heroes Sedgman
and McGregor plus Segura, we packed them in. Attendance
records were smashed in Perth, Adelaide, White City, New-
castle, Melbourne. I was at the peak of my game, inspired by
a guarantee plus an individual prize of one thousand pounds
($2,800) for each tournament won. I swept the tour, beating
The Years Slip By 113
Sedgman, 16 matches to 9, McGregor, 15-0, and Segura, 4-2.
I killed them in Australia.
From Australia we moved northward to Tokyo and then
backtracked to Manila. The crowds were fantastic. The press
gave us page one billings and four-column photos. More than
fifteen thousand fans stood in line for hours on our final stop
in Seoul, Korea. We created much goodwill.
Yes, dollar-wise, 1954 was a profitable year. It was good to
be back in action again, on top, swatting the ball all over the
world, playing before enthusiastic crowds.
I came home feeling like a million dollars. The feeling
didn't last long. Not one reporter was on hand at Los Angeles
International Airport. If newspaper readers donned strong
glasses and meticulously read local sports pages they might
have found a brief notice at the bottom of a column:
"Richard (Pancho) Gonzales returned to Los Angeles today
after completing a professional tennis tour in which he
traveled many thousands of miles. His future plans are un-
certain."
Back to reality!
The Dead-End Street
Professional tennis is a unique sport. It has changed little
since C. C. (Cash and Carry) Pyle came up with the play-
for-pay notion some three decades ago. Pyle's headliners for
that first pro tour were Suzanne Lenglen, the incomparable
French star, and Vincent Richards, the so-called "Boy Won-
der 51 of his day. Since that time, the greatest names in tennis
have made the natural transition from amateur to profes-
sional, but the format for the pro game has remained the
same. It has not developed its full potential as has been the
case with golf. And it still depends largely on the excitement
stirred up in the amateur ranks for its own success.
If the amateurs produce an outstanding champion, or a
colorful performer of top-notch ability, it almost always
means the pros have a potential headliner for another
national tour. But when the amateurs have a quiet year, the
114
The Dead-End Street 115
pros suffer, too. Pro tennis audiences demand new faces,
fresh challengers the very best tennis produced by the
world's best players.
In 1955, pro tennis turned down a dead-end street. I fol-
lowed the same discouraging road. There was no pro tour.
No national pro tournament. No future to speak of.
I had run out of competition. To be sure, there were plenty
of competent players around the circuit, but no one who
would attract cash customers on a pro junket. Other sports
champions had suffered the same fate Joe Louis, Bobby
Jones, Willie Hoppe to name a few. I had virtually sealed
my doom by blasting Dinny Pails and Frank Parker, 45
matches to 7, in Australia.
"Why not go and live in Australia?" urged a friend.
"They're tennis crazy over there."
I shook my head.
"How you gonna eat the rest of your life?"
I shrugged my shoulder.
In the meantime, I kept practicing. My game was never
better. Two of the leading Italian players Guiseppe Merlo
and Fausto Gardini were in this country for coaching.
Eleanor Tennant, who tutored Maureen Connolly, was fur-
nishing them with instruction. I saw them at the Los Angeles
Tennis Club and invited them to have a game. They won a
total of one game in four sets. And they'd been cutting quite
a swath in European amateur circles.
Seeking out Kramer, I argued with him long and futilely.
I insisted he find an opponent for me.
Jack shook his head. "I'd have to get a robot."
"What about Seixas or Trabert or Hoad or Rosewall?" I
countered.
"Right now they can't beat Segura, let alone you. Maybe
later."
"Can't something be done?"
116 Man with a Racket
He was pessimistic. "I haven't any solution/' he said.
"Hoad and Rosewall seem about two years away. They're
only twenty, you know. It all adds up to one final conclusion,
Pancho."
"And that is?"
"You're too good/'
Some predicament! Twenty-six years old, in the prime of
my tennis career, and no one to play. For obvious reasons 1
followed the amateurs closely in 1955, noting that Tony
Trabert swept Wimbledon and the U. S. championships at
Forest Hills, only to run afoul of the Australian "Whiz Kids/'
Hoad and Rosewall, in Davis Cup play.
Kramer moved in immediately, signing Trabert to a pro
contract. And then he set his sights on Hoad and Rosewall,
Jack knew what he was doing. Trabert, the United States
and Wimbledon winner, could tour the country against the
powerful Aussies in a replay of the Davis Cup. It was box
office. On paper it couldn't miss, if he managed to sign Rose-
wall and Hoad. It was a big "if" too.
Where did Pancho Gonzales, who could beat anyone in
the world, fit into this picture? He didn't. He was left out in
the cold.
Meanwhile, the National Professional Hard Court Tennis
Championship was on tap at the fashionable Beverly Wil-
shire Hotel. This was staged by my good friend Frank Feltrop,
the hotel pro. From the moment I entered amateur competi-
tion Frank had always encouraged me and kept pounding it
into me that I could be the greatest.
Trabert was conspicuous by his absence from the Beverly
Hills tournament. A reporter asked me why, and I pulled no
punches in my answer.
"He couldn't win it, and it would take the edge off the com-
ing Kramer tour."
Vincent X. Flaherty of the Los Angeles Examiner took up
The Dead-End Street 117
the cudgel for me, writing: "Gonzales unquestionably is the
greatest tennis player in the world today and, undoubtedly,
is one of the greatest performers the game ever has had."
I'd never argue that point.
Flaherty then made what I thought was a classic compari-
son. He said: "Professional tennis is the only sport in which
the Babe Ruth is left in the dugout while .220 hitters go to
bat."
He also wrote something that I hoped Henry wouldn't
read. "Meanwhile," Flaherty said, "Gonzales might take a
shot at motion pictures. He has been approached on the idea.
Certainly the movies haven't a more virile specimen of mas-
culinity. He causes the feminine heartstrings to make like
soft chimes. If you don't think so, take in the Beverly Wilshire
tournament during the next few days and listen to the ladies
of the audience make lady-like sounds of total enchantment
while tall, dark, and handsome performs/'
Henry didn't mention the article, and although we sub-
scribe to Flaherty's newspaper and she often glances at the
sports pages, I was pretty certain she hadn't seen it. Later
that same evening she asked ine quite seriously, "Pancho,
have you ever sued anybody?"
"Certainly not," I said. "Why?"
She acted miffed, announcing, "I may."
"Now what's someone done to you?"
"Oh, not to me. Somebody said something about you."
"Slanderous?"
"No," she said. "Libelous."
"Really? In the newspaper? What was it?"
She said with a very straight face, "A man named Flaherty
wrote that you are a virile specimen."
"And those are grounds for a suit?"
"Certainly," Henry said, her dark eyes soft, "unless you
prove to me he was right."
118 Man with a Racket
"Right now?"
"This very second/* she said, "and I quote, 'tall, dark, and
handsome.* "
"I'll prove it," I said, pulling her toward me.
She never sued.
I won the tournament by downing Segura in the finals,
21-19, 6-3, 6-4. While the tourney was progressing Kramer
was dickering with the two boys from Australia. It appeared
a foregone conclusion to the press that they would sign.
Kramer had strongly hinted that the deal was in the bag. But
the bag had a hole in it. Both Hoad and Rosewall, undoubt-
edly acting on the urging of the Australian Lawn Tennis
Association, turned down the flattering offer.
It was a blow to Kramer's plans, but now my chances
brightened.
As a matter of fact, they were glowing when, together
with my lawyer, Lou Warren, I met with Jack. To preserve
some of the Australian flavor, Kramer had signed Rex Hart-
wig, the number three Aussie. Yet someone had to oppose
Tony, and Hartwig wasn't good enough for that. It looked
like I had stepped in through the back door. We conferred
far into the night. Lou's gracious wife, Dorothy, kept pour-
ing hot coffee and serving her specialty of the house, home-
made almond cakes.
Lou's fifteen-year-old son, Earl, kept dogging my footsteps.
He's tennis wild, and I had given him one of my old rackets.
Twice Lou told the boy to go to bed, but when a youngster
is sports-minded such an order is apt to fall on deaf ears.
"Oh, well/' Lou finally said, giving up, "he might want to
become a lawyer some day Lord forbid and he may get
some pre-legal training out of this meeting.
Soon after the session opened it was evident Jack needed
me. And I needed Jack. It was equitable thinking which,
combined with wishful thinking, could be worked out thusly:
The Dead-End Street 119
Kramer plus Gonzales vs. Trabert reduced to a common
denominator means money.
"Tony and you should draw/' Jack remarked. "He's the
world's champ. It'll be a real pro vs. amateur test. I'll play
Segura against Hartwig in the preliminary, and team you
and Segura against them in the doubles."
I nodded. Lou nodded. Jack nodded. We had a deal. The
next day I was signed, sealed and delivered.
While Lou and Jack were engaged in discussion, I was
doing a lot of thinking. It seemed as if I had suddenly
matured that there was a transformation in my thinking
processes, an awareness of duties to wife and family. If Tony
beat me, I was through. Perhaps for good. On the other hand,
if I beat Tony I would still be only twenty-seven years old,
with a good three to five years, and possibly longer, left for
me to stay on top. I had to. I was now the father of three boys.
I recalled overhearing an Eastern tennis bigwig describe
me over a bridge table. My ears are pretty sensitive at long
range especially if someone's talking about me.
"Pancho Gonzales," said the brass hat, "is 25 per cent
primeval animal, 25 per cent lazy and 50 per cent good sport."
I would alter this description. The animal part could
stay, but the percentage of laziness was out. Sometimes in
the past it had been hard for me to rise to a peak for each
match. Things were going to be different. I'd fight in each
match like it was the finals of an important tournament.
The way Kramer blasted me, I'd try to blast Tony. It meant
my future bread and butter.
At the conclusion of the meeting I casually mentioned to
Jack, "I got sort of a feeler from a movie company. They
might be interested in 'The Pancho Gonzales Story* if I beat
Tony Trabert."
Jack cocked his head in my direction. "If there's a part
open for a villain, recommend me, will you?"
I looked at him. His face was dead serious.
9 A Tour Isn't Just a Tour
The word "tour" has beautiful implications. One thinks of
travel advertisements where the American, accompanied by
a covy of suitcases plastered with enchanting labels,
cruises leisurely about the more interesting portions of the
world. Usually his neatly tailored pockets are stuffed with
travelers checks, and if he has a single worry in the world, it's
merely whether to skip the Balearic Islands in favor of more
sunning time at Cannes.
"Tour" when applied to tennis is not even remotely re-
lated to such luxury. "Grind" is a better definition. Whereas
the international tourist often returns a little on the obese
side after lapping up foreign culinary creations, the tennis-
tourer comes back lean, jaded, and with a stomach that needs
refurbished lining.
The tennis tour tests a man's endurance, patience, and
120
A Tour Isn't Just a Tour 121
courage. The day-to-day overland travel; the nightly tension
of the "big match"; the need for being pleasant under the
worst conditions combine to provide a set of conditions sel-
dom encountered by any athlete in another sport. The great-
est strain, however, seemed to be on my digestive tract. On
these tours a man eats the lousiest food that ever failed to find
a garbage can.
Before domestic chefs try to boil me in hot lard, let me
clarify that I love American food. But I like to sit back and
enjoy it. On the Trabert tour I ate in 102 different cities
also representing the number of matches I played against
Tony. On this grind you might polish off a big dinner in
Birmingham and not digest it until you have reached
Memphis.
I had plenty of trepidation about the 1955 tour with Tony.
Tony Trabert of Cincinnati, clean-cut and crew-cut tennis
hopeful, began blossoming in 1953. Billy Talbert, one-time
captain of the American Davis Cup Team, took him under
his wing, teaching him tricks not found in instructional
pamphlets. Tony won the U. S. Singles title, also scored at
Wimbledon, cornered the French Singles title twice, and
earned berths on the U. S. Davis Cup Team. He played a su-
perb game and his typical ail-American boy appearance made
him a gallery favorite.
I discussed the impending Trabert tour with Henry. I'd
always heard that no man is a hero to his valet. I have no
valet, but I have a wife, and I guess she comes under that
heading because she has to pick up the clothes I scatter
around our home. I found I was wrong. I was a hero to her,
and to let her down would be an awful blow to her pride.
"If I win the tour," I told her, "you get all the credit."
She swore softly. She never did this.
I raised an eyebrow and kept it raised when I heard her
say, "Listen, Richard. I read a lot when you're away from
122 Man with a Racket
home. In most success stories I've noticed that the woman be-
hind the man gets credit for pushing and prodding and
eventually making the man what he is. She inspires him. She
helps him. In my case it isn't true. I never helped push you
toward the top."
I insisted that she did.
Catching her breath, she went on: "No. You've got a motor
inside that does all that/'
"You've always been a part of all this ..."
"Sure, but a small part. I simply wind the motor up some-
times/' she answered.
"Well, wind it tight," I said. "Wind it tight enough to last
for 102 matches."
Her dark head nodded, "I will. But," she warned, "don't
let it snap or it will knock your head off as well as mine and
the three boys."
I knew what she meant.
I looked at the Trabert tour as a reprieve. It was a chance
to come charging back to the lucrative big-time after once
having been sentenced to tennis oblivion. A chance to get on
top and stay on top. Oh, sure, I had won the National Profes-
sional Championship four times and had defeated all the
great players of the world, but that wasn't enough. If I lost to
Trabert, I was a bum again unemployed, unwanted. If I
beat him, he was a bum. Someone had to come out of it a
bum. I didn't want it to be me.
I played for peanuts. My share for the toil and sweat was
fifteen thousand dollars, plus a percentage of the foreign gate.
The foreign gate was a short South American tour. Tony was
to receive a minimum of eighty thousand dollars. The play-
ers had to pay their own traveling expenses.
A. little lop-sided? Yes, but these were the best arrange-
ments my lawyer, Lou Warren, could wrangle out of Jack
Kramer, and if this little man with the big mind couldn't
A Tour Isn't Just a Tour 123
do better, I was sure nobody else could. In other words, I was
second money, and my thoughts on that matter were bitter.
"Why, Lou?" I said desperately. "Tell me why?"
Lou doesn't beat around bushes. His voice is soft and sooth-
ing. You have to lean forward in your chair to hear. Yet his
words can explode in your brain. And they stick.
"Ill tell you why/' he said. "You're on probation. Some
people think you're unreliable. Immature. You've got a 'the-
hell-with-everything' attitude/'
Angry blood began burning around my temples. "I don't
care what people think. I know that . . /'
Lou interrupted. "That's where you're wrong. What peo-
ple think is of prime importance. They pay to see you. When
they open a newspaper, they want to read that you're cham-
pion of the world. If the people know it, it helps in this busi-
ness."
I thought it over and replied, "All I read about now is Jack
Kramer. You'd think he was still on top. Why, the guy is
thirty-four years old!"
"Sure," Lou agreed. "But his age doesn't matter with the
public. He could be ninety-four, and they'd still think he
could beat you."
"Why?"
"Why?" Because Jack has had wonderful press relations.
He's left a lasting impression. The public won't begin to for-
get him for a long time. It might hurry their memory along,
though, if, if . . ."
"If I beat Trabert?" I cut in, impatiently.
"That could do it," Lou replied.
I called on Jack Kramer at his World Tennis, Inc. office. I
feel like a fish out of water in offices. They suffocate me.
They're always cluttered with typewriters, files, and various
machines to do jobs faster. Having tinkered with hotrods,
I'm sure I could take any of these machines apart and put
124 Man with a Racket
them together again, but a simple procedure such as dictating
a letter to a girl sitting behind a desk would scare me half to
death.
Facing the man who made Bobby Riggs, Frank Sedgman
and me disappear from the headlines, I inquired, "Jake,
what's going to happen?"
Kramer chewed on a pencil, bounced to his feet and said,
"I'm not sure. You're a question mark. I don't know how the
public's going to react to you ... if they take to you."
"You worried?" I asked.
"Why not?" he returned the question, stating, "I've got
money at stake/'
"What have I got at stake?"
"Only a reputation that you haven't really established."
"Should I be worried?"
"Sure," he said, with a forced smile. "Aren't you?"
I nodded a weak affirmative.
"Go out and beat his ears off," were Jack's final words.
I was sure he'd said the same thing to Tony Trabert. It
was the old situation of the promoter encouraging his two
fighters to battle each other for the sake of the show.
For the first time in my life, responsibilities were weighing
heavily upon me. Carefree was a word that seemed associ-
ated with a distant past. I launched into a physical fitness
program, setting up my own training rules. This was the
least of my worries. The hot California sun beating down on
the concrete courts helped me melt off excess weight. I dieted,
too, although I didn't cut out the beans. That's something I
could never do. My game seemed on the upgrade. I was hit-
ting sharp, and I felt mean. I worked on the two most impor-
tant items in pro tennis the volley and the serve. Conquer
them and you've got the game licked.
I began to feel hard around the stomach a vital consider-
A Tour Isn't Just a Tour 125
ation. I've never seen an athlete with a roll of fat around the
middle who was master over anything but a fork and spoon.
When the tour reached New York a reporter queried, "How's
your condition?" and when I said "Fine," he hauled off and
punched me in the stomach. The blow was unexpected and
stung, but I took it in stride.
"That's where it counts," he said. "You'll be alright."
Mental attitude also is important in training. To achieve
this I went in for brain-washing, hammering one thought
home I can beat Tony Trabert. Under my system, I even
built up a hatred for a man I'd met only a few times and who
had always seemed pleasant.
When Tony reached Los Angeles, I watched him work
out. I couldn't help but admire his game. He had everything
fine stroking, sound judgment, determination. Perhaps,
though, I pondered almost wishfully, he lacks a little speed. I
thought my reflexes were faster. This was important for in
this department a tenth of a second means a point won or
lost.
"Want to play a couple of practice sets?" Tony invited one
afternoon.
I shook my head.
He seemed surprised at my refusal and countered with
"Any particular reason?"
"None," I returned, "except that I prefer to save it for
later. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."
"I'm sure of that," he concluded with a wide grin.
Readying myself for the "make or break" tour was my re-
sponsibility. Coordinating the tour was Kramer's job. Jack
had plenty to do before getting the show on the road. Besides
the various bookings, there was the advance publicity man,
the special truck transporting our portable canvas court,
equipment men, etc. The contestants were to travel in pairs;
126 Man with a Racket
Segura and I in one car, which I would drive, Trabert and
Hartwig in another. Keep the competitors apart, was
Kramer's credo.
A week before the starting date I cornered Segura for a
talk. Little Pancho has a knack of getting out of answering
direct questions by shoulder shrugs. He tried this with me,
but I insisted he give it to me straight.
"What are they saying?" I kept repeating, meaning those
close to the tennis picture.
"They're saying what you already know that if you don't
take this guy you're dead/' he answered.
"What else?"
"You better stay in shape for this one."
"Anything more?"
He hesitated, finally speaking. "Many think you'll break
fast on top, but once Tony learns the ropes he'll pass you."
I grinned. "Sounds like a horse race."
As the time narrowed before I was to fly to New York for
the Madison Square Garden opening, I hardly had a minute
to spare. Wolfgang Alexander Gerdes von Testa (for obvious
reasons they call him Bud), my personal publicist, had lined
up a series of press, radio, and TV interviews to be sand-
wiched between practices. After an appearance on the
Groucho Marx Show a friend approached and commented,
"You've changed, Pancho."
"For better or worse?" I asked.
"Better." He nodded emphatically. "Much better. You
seem to like people now."
"I got to," I said. "I understand the world's full of 'em."
The day of departure for New York I took Henry into the
bedroom, locking out the kids and the boxer pups.
"Something important to tell me?" she asked.
"An important goodbye."
"All goodbyes are that way, Richard."
A Tour Isn't Just a Tour J27
My arms went around her. I have to be careful when I em-
brace her. Something hard can always crush something soft.
She felt good and she smelled good. My heart rose like a fast
elevator and seemed to finally stick in my throat.
I said, "I'll think of you."
She shook her dark head. "No. Think only one thing to
win."
"I'll win," I said.
"Stay cocky," she advised. "You can beat anyone in the
world."
"Sure," I said, kissing her and then disentangling myself.
"Keep hoping."
"I'll do better than that. I'll keep praying."
So it was off to New York.
I had no special strategy planned for Tony. I'd decided to
make flash decisions influenced by whatever situations might
arise, try to locate his armor chinks as the matches went from
city to city. I thought: if I build up a lead, maybe this would
intimidate him and give him an inferiority complex, making
him happy to occasionally salvage a few sets.
In the New York debut, the shoe was nearly on the other
foot. Tony, blistering the sidelines and passing me frequently
at the net, grabbed the first two sets. Many people believe a
tennis player has no time to think that the next shot comes
so quickly the mental strain is light. It isn't true. You simply
think faster. My brain whirled like a roulette wheel when I
was two sets down. Dreams were being shattered beyond re-
pair; the future was there on the line. But when the wheel
stopped and concentration began, the dream fragments were
repaired and I ran out the final three sets. But it was a nar-
row squeak. I learned that to beat Tony I had to stay on top
of him, forcing him into errors.
Every night I had to play it for keeps. Hell hath no fury
like a tennis pro scorned financially, and I believe it was
128 Man with a Racket
thoughts of the uneven gate division that spurred my game.
It was give and take, and I gave and took the sweet rewards of
knowing I could beat him just like I could anyone else in the
world.
Segura was dealing out bad defeats to Rex Hartwig. They
were playing under a point system, rather than by sets. The
personable Australian would discuss his matches against lit-
tle Pancho with rare displays of frankness, admitting the su-
periority of his opponent.
Asked once what he liked about the tour, he said, "Segura
and the money."
I doubt if I could pay such a compliment to any man who
was murdering me night after night.
Trabert, realizing that to lose on this major tour meant the
end of big money offers, took his defeats hard. In one Eastern
city, fed up with consecutive losses, he blurted to a newspaper
scribe: "Gonzales tries every old pro trick in the game. He
has no hesitation about trying to influence linesmen. He'll
put his hands on his hips and turn around and look at them.
He quick-serves me frequently. It's hard enough to return
his serve when I'm ready, so when he tries this, I stop the
ball. It may make me unpopular with the gallery, but I'm
certainly not going to give him an additional advantage/'
I am not going to elaborate on individual matches. But
don't think I can't. I can separate each one in my mind and
almost tell you the scores in any certain city. I can recall the
highlights of each. The end of the American tour came at the
La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club. Tony won the final match,
1-6,6-2,11-9.
I won the tour, 75 to 27-
Given a choice, I'd like to have shellacked him 102 to 0.
Each one of the twenty-seven losses cut into me deeply. After
suffering defeat, I'd either go to a bar and slowly sip a vodka
Future tennis champ at the age of five months.
One-year-old Pancho eyes camera sus-
piciously.
Pancho's parents Manuel and Carmen on their tenth wedding anni-
versary.
Pancho Gonzales, age ten (top roiv, extreme left), receives first Com-
munion at Holy Name Church, Los Angeles.
Pancho Gonzales and Johnny Shea (left) before the start of
a boy's tournament.
Pancho relaxes with Arzy Kunz in Exposition Park Tennis Shop. Here
is where Pancho kept one step ahead of the truant officers.
Chuck Pate, Pancho's closest friend, holds son who tries on one of
Pancho's trophies for size. It was Pate roho encouraged Pancho at the
outset of his career.
Pancho fondles Blackie, the dog he was playing with the day he first
met Henrietta. On the mantle are a few of his earlier trophies.
Pancho and Henrietta try to wake little Richard^ their first child.
Japan gives Pancho the red-carpet treatment during a world pro tour.
Pancho collects tennis' most exclusive hardware the National Cup. He
defeated South Africa's Eric Sturgess (left) in finals,
Pancho and younger brother Ralph enjoy Pancho's victory over Frank
Sedgman at the Itoungsan, Korea, Tennis Courts.
court Pancho keeps busy juicing up his hot rod.
The golden key to Juarez, Mexico, has just been presented to Pancho
by Sr. Francisco Cuellar, executive secretary to Mayor Margarita Herrera
of Juarez. Presentation was made during professional tennis matches
played at El Paso (Tex.) Coliseum.
Humphrey Bogart and wife Lauren Bacall congratulate the two Panchos
Segura and Gonzales at the Professional Tennis Tournament, Bev-
erly Wilshire Hotel.
Ida Lupino presents trophies to winners of Pacific Coast Professional
Doubles Championship at Beverly Wilshire Hotel.
Relaxing on plane between tours. Front (left to right): Pane ho Gonzales,
Jack Kramer, Pancho Segura. Rear (left to right): Jean Sedgrnan and
The young Gonzaleses Richard, Danny and Michael have inherited
many of their parents' features.
Gonzales family (left to right): Richard, Bertha, Joe Harless, brother-
in-law, Margaret, Terry, Manuel. Front: Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales. (Ralph,
another brother, not shown.)
The famed Gonzales serve, from start (top} to finish (bottom).
Pancho Gonzales about to take a backhand shot.
A backhand follow-through Pancho-style.
Pancho readies himself to deliver world's fastest serve. Service has been
clocked at 112 miles per hour.
A Tour Isn't Just a Tour 129
or sit alone at a movie. I have a hell of a time taking defeat
lightly. Some guys can brash it off like a fly. I can't.
Segura crushed Hartwig in the other singles attraction, and
Trabert and Hartwig ruined Segura and me in the doubles.
We played before more than 200,000 fans and traveled in
50,000 excess of 50,000 miles. The gross touched $175,000.
At the conclusion of the matches Tony revealed his fine
sportsmanship by stating to Ned Cronin of the Los Angeles
Times:
"Gonzales is the greatest natural athlete tennis has ever
known. The way he can move that 6-foot~3-inch frame of his
around the court is almost unbelievable. He's just like a big
cat. He instinctively does the right thing at the right time.
Doesn't even have to stop to think.
"Pancho's reflexes and reactions are God-given talents. He
can be moving in one direction and in the split second it takes
him to see that the ball is hit to his weak side, he's able to
throw his physical mechanism in reverse and get to the ball
in time to reach it with his racket.
"The way he murders that tennis ball, I think his real name
is Pancho Villa, not Gonzales/'
Now that the feuding, fussing, and fighting is over and the
tour a matter of record, I'd like to say this about Tony Tra-
bert:
He's a born fighter who never gives up. You knock him
down and he keeps getting to his feet. You may beat him, but
you can't outgut him. I have nothing but the warmest regard
for him.
When the tour ended, the letdown was terrific. Waking up
in the same place every morning was a novelty. So was facing
the day with no schedule. One thing that failed to add to my
good humor was a short conversation I had with Ted
Schroeder.
130 Man with a Racket
Ted had said, "How old are you now, Pancho?"
"I'm twenty-eight/' I said.
"I'll give you one more year/' Ted prophesied gloomily.
"One, hell!" I retorted. "I'm good for at least five."
Ted just puffed on his pipe and walked away.
I'll be good when I'm thirty-three. I'm going to make it. I
simply won't accept the fact that my reflexes will slow, lead
come into my legs, breathing be difficult before I reach that
age. I keep thinking of Satchel Paige and how he pitches on
and on, and of Jersey Joe Walcott who planned a ring come-
back at fifty-one. I doubt if either of these venerables can hold
physical fitness better than I.
Just when I was starting to relax by slow degrees, Jack
Kramer came up with a brand-new idea the Tournament
of Champions. It was to be a round-robin affair held at
the Los Angeles Tennis Club involving myself, Segura, Tra-
bert, Sedgman, Hartwig and wonder of wonders, Jack
Kramer, the old master himself. Doubles play was also sched-
uled. I was teamed with Kramer. Other duos entered were
Sedgman-Segura and Trabert-Hartwig.
"If you win the singles, you'll get a cash prize of $1,750,"
Kramer informed. "The winning doubles team splits $1,000.
The other competitors will be paid proportionally, depend-
ing, of course, on how they finish."
So there was to be no rest for the weary, but I wasn't com-
plaining.
Once again I would be called upon to put forth every ounce
of effort. Losing this one would be a loss of prestige not to
mention the money. I couldn't afford either.
What especially pleased me was the chance to meet Jack
Kramer in singles. By beating him here in his own back yard
I could smother the voices of his loyal followers who still be-
lieved him the world's best. I wasn't worried. Jack was carry-
A Tour Isn't Just a Tour 151
ing too much weight and his arthritis prevented bending
with his former grace and ease. Frank Sedgman was the real
threat. He's always tough and unrelenting.
The tournament, played under the banner of a Catholic
charity that shared in the proceeds, went according to form.
When the final day of play arrived, both Sedgman and I had
posted five wins. I experienced no end of trouble disposing
of Segura and Trabert. Sedgman, to my surprise, swarmed all
over Tony, dumping him 6-2, 6-1.
Both Segura and I really got in our licks on Kramer. Little
Pancho handled him 6-3, 6-0, and I breezed past him 6-3, 6-3,
never losing service. The first time I served he barely nicked
the ball, and from that moment on I sensed he was but a shell
of his once wonderful self. He still performed creditably in
the doubles, making the most of his strong overhead, but sin-
gles is a vastly different game and Jack couldn't scamper
around the court any more. The fighting heart was there on
every point, but the legs failed to keep pace with his smoul-
dering desire. The rewards of victory over Jack filled a long-
time hungering, yet not with the satisfaction I had once sup-
posed. Maybe I saw a crystal ball photo of myself in Jack, run-
ning to make retrieves that didn't quite come off.
Around the locker room where friendly bets are made, I
found I was a 10-to-9 choice over Frank Sedgman. Many
called him the "improved" Sedgman. Some smart bettors
shied away from the action, calling it "a tossup."
Nearly three thousand fans were in the stands paying top
prices for seats when we clashed. My serve was never
sharper; I lost only three points on it the entire first set, which
went to me, 9-7. Frank took the second set, 6-3. The final one
was a 6-1 romp for me.
During the eight consecutive days of round-robin, sixteen
thousand paid to see the pros play. The popularity of his at-
132 Man with a Racket
tempt drew forth the statement from Jack: "This is going to
be an annual affair. Ill be back with a bigger, and if possible,
better Master's Classic next year."
Segura finished third, Trabert fourth, Hartwig fifth and
Jack brought up the rear, not winning a match. Jack and I
won the doubles with a three-win and one-lost record. Sedg-
man and Segura were next while Trabert-Hartwig occupied
the cellar.
1 ' Were you worried?" I asked Henry after the Sedgman
match.
"Never," she said. "You're on top to stay."
I felt she was right.
Kramer talked considerably about his dismal showing. "I
wasn't as bad as I looked/' he claimed. "I was a year and a
half out of tennis, and it's tough to come back. I'm still good
for one more tour, although I would no longer consider cast-
ing myself in the top role. I intend to participate in the 1957
world tour against the thirty-six-year-old oldie, Pancho Se-
gura."
Asked why he went into tennis promoting, Jack answered,
"It wasn't a desire to make vast riches or be boss of pro tennis,
but a deep-rooted wish to stay active in the sports picture.
Right now the key to any tour is World Champ Gonzales, and
I have him under a seven-year option. No tour can go without
him."
He then added a sentence that started cash register bells
clanging in my ears :
"Gonzales can't miss making one hundred thousand dollars
next year."
I've never been to a concert. They tell me I'm missing the
finest music in the world, I doubt it. I had heard it in the
words of Jack Kramer.
7O I Begin to Wink
Prejudice was a gigantic word for a youngster to grapple
with. When I was about eleven years old I tried, and finally
turned to Grandmother for help.
"What does it mean?" I asked her.
"People having unfair opinions against you/'
Letting this sink In, I asked, "Against me? Why me?"
"Because you're a Mexican ... a Mexican-American/"
"Is that bad?"
"You are a good boy, Richard/ 1 she said, "and you have
been spared certain unpleasantness. Someday, though, it
might come."
Grandmother bade me sit down beside her. She was a small
woman, and the chair in which she was sitting seemed to al-
most swallow her body. Her voice was soft, and her speech
precise, and the words slowed along like a gentle river.
133
134 Man with a Racket
"You will know it, when it comes," she said. "Perhaps when
you ask for a job ... or the look in a policeman's eyes . . .
the glances in the stores . . . the restaurants. It is worse in
the heat of anger, when someone denounces you calls you a
Mexican and makes it sound ugly."
I frowned.
She reached out, putting her hand on top of mine. "Always
control yourself inwardly," she advised. "Never lose your
temper. Just gaze at your tormentor and conjure a picture."
"A picture?"
"Yes. Just imagine this man with his clothes off, standing
in his long underwear."
I laughed.
"Laugh, that is good," she said. "That is what I want you
to do. See the picture and laugh. He will look ridiculous, and
if he appears ridiculous, his words will not hurt."
I never forgot this.
The favoring of one group of persons over another was
something I wasn't conscious of for many years. Oh, I knew
that the Mexicans' lot was a hard one, yet I never thought of
them as children of a hybrid culture. I believed their troubles
stemmed from being poor. I was wrong. We don't know what
we haven't felt ourselves.
My youthful world was narrowly confined. Schools I at-
tended had mixed enrollments. Invisible barriers were un-
known because we didn't try to climb any racial fences, stay-
ing within our circle.
Not until a few years ago in Texas did I experience "the
feeling." I went into a small restaurant with Pancho Segura
while we were on tour. It was near the edge of town a high-
way cafe. Although the place wasn't crowded, we sat for fif-
teen minutes, our hunger growing. Finally I called the pro-
prietor. He slowly made his way to our table.
"Can we have some service?" I inquired politely.
/ Begin to Think 1$5
He was a large, beet-complexioned man. All he said was
"No. Not in my place."
"Isn't this a restaurant?" Segura asked.
"It sure is, Mister and a good one/' the owner declared.
"Well?" Segura said, waiting for further explanation.
"Can't you read?" he demanded.
"Read? Read what?" I asked, puzzled.
The proprietor jerked his thumb in the direction of the
door. "Go outside and see what it says."
Segura volunteered. He returned a moment later, and al-
though having the rather dark skin of a South American, the
red showed through. "Let's go, Dick," he said, still standing.
"What does it say?"
"Nothing," he said hurriedly. "Let's go."
"Come on," I said. "Tell me."
He hesitated before answering, "No Mexicans served
here."
"That's just what it means," chimed in the proprietor.
I indicated Segura. "This man is no Mexican."
"And this man," began Segura, pointing at me, "is the
champion of the . . /'
"Never mind," I cut him off. "Let's go." I got up, tense,
fingers balled tightly into fists. I peered for a full ten seconds
into the proprietor's face and a picture, startlingly clear,
formed in my mind. My tenseness vanished as I saw him in
long underwear. He seemed ridiculous. We walked out. I
heard him muttering to himself:
"Those Mexs' are all alike."
A month later in Los Angeles I mentioned the incident to
my lawyer, Lou Warren.
"So it finally happened," he said slowly.
"What do you mean?"
"Look, Pancho," Lou paused to light a cigaret. "You've
been lucky. You're a celebrity. You've escaped prejudice.
with a Racket
Any member of a minority group gets it in the neck at some
time or another. Now you know what it's like."
"It's not good/* I said
"It certainly isn't/'
"How come I've escaped it, Lou?"
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Happen to remem-
ber what Walter Winchell wrote about you?"
I couldn't,
"I'll tell you, then," Lou said. "Winchell wrote, 'Gonzales
is a man who prefers to have a hamburger and coke with his
old friends rather than a cocktail with a celebrity/ "
I smiled. "I can't say that isn't true/'
Lou became serious. "That's one good reason you've es-
caped. You spend most of your time with friends. The rest of
the time where are you?" He answered his own question. "On
the courts swatting a tennis ball around." Lou ground out his
cigaret and glanced at me angrily.
"What are you mad about? What have I done?"
"Nothing," Lou said. "Absolute nothing. Maybe that's the
trouble."
"Lou ... I don't follow you."
"Look, you're fast becoming an important man, an idol of
a lot of people, including thousands of kids. You endorse
things: what balls to use, what racket to play with, what shirt
to wear. But there's one thing you don't endorse, Pancho."
I remained silent.
"Your people."
"My people?"
"Yes. Your people the Mexican-Americans. Their roots
grow in shallow soil here. They need help. Especially the
kids. They need understanding."
The trend of Lou's thinking started to jell. I remembered
the zoot-suiters, those gangs of Pachucos who gave the rest of
I Begin to Think 137
us a bad name. Why? I wondered. Driven by what motives?
They were always linked with frustration, conflict, violent
deeds, warped thinking. I glanced at Lou who was staring at
me, and I was sure he knew that the first buds of thinking
were beginning to sprout.
"What do you suggest I do?" I asked.
"Talk with some of the Mexican-American leaders in your
community. Men like Ignacio Lopez, publisher of the Span-
ish language newspaper, El Espectador, and Ed Roybal,
member of the Los Angeles City Council."
"And then?"
"Then it's up to you. You'll know your people better and
can help them get what they need most sympathy and un-
derstanding. The younger generation will listen to you. You
can start them off on the right foot in life."
I thanked him for opening my eyes. "I'll try," I said, and
I meant it.
During the next week I called on a lot of people. Mostly,
I listened. I learned plenty, I began to understand the tough,
swaggering boy dressed in the long finger-tip coat with the
long hair swept back into a ducktail haircut, rocking impas-
sively on his triple-soled shoes, no expression on his brown
face. This was a uniform he was wearing, the sartorial and
physical mark of gangdom.
I wanted to know why he had to join a gang, why he had
to seek Panchuquitas the female counterpart of his gang
for companionship. Why all the cops were his enemies? What
he was trying to accomplish?
I found out.
When a German, Italian, Englishman, Swede, Frenchman,
or any other of the majority of foreigners come to this coun-
try, he becomes an American. It happens as fast as he learns
the customs and cultures of this nation. Not so with Mexi-
138 Man with a Racket
cans. They can be fourth generation, but if their skin is dark
and if they bear a Spanish name, they are never accepted
they're always known as Mexicans.
They cry for recognition, a life without restrictions, equal
rights, to find employment with chances for advancement.
When they can't find a place in the American way of life, they
are forced to resort to their own groups, their own behavior
patterns which are neither American nor Mexican. And they
become a clique widely separated from the majority of their
countrymen.
This is a small but vicious group, numbering less than five
per cent of the Mexican-American population. Yet, it is a
group that attracts the attention of the press and the police
and inadvertently smears the other ninety-five per cent until
the blinded eyes of other Americans see all Mexicans in the
light of trouble-makers.
They are created and weaned by unsympathetic teachers,
suspicious police, wary merchants who think along lines of
stolen goods. They are snubbed by superior-acting American
kids. They are born in tenement sections the sons and
daughters of crop followers and track workers. Two strikes
are against them the day they enter the world.
The Pachuco group hates the boys and girls of normal
Mexican families who are bent on obtaining an education
and the multi-benefits afforded by America. They call them
"squares." Actually, the Pachucos aren't any worse than gangs
of American juvenile delinquents who often spring from fam-
ilies that have given their children every advantage. But the
Pachucos are the scapegoats, the cause of prejudice against
hard-working Mexicans.
Yes, I learned plenty about my own people, and I resolved
to do something to help, and I was thankful that Lou had
opened my eyes.
I Begin to Think 1B9
Many of the Mexican- Americans are a bewildered, lost lot
because they lack leadership. I wish my grandmother could
address them. I can almost hear her say:
"Think of your tormentor standing in his long under-
wear . . ."
77 Li/e with a Wife
If you'd ask my wife the direct question: "What kind of a
man is your husband?'* she wouldn't smear my character. For
two reasons: she's had only one husband, and she seldom uses
profanity. Her answer, after a long moment of thought, might
be, "Richard is kind, and he loves the children."
She's right on both counts. But there's more to the story.
I'm stubborn, temperamental, and worst of all, a dictator.
Most dictators meet a horrible fate. I'm the exception. I re-
main unscathed, head unbowed, issuing streams of dictums.
I get away with it. That's why I'm going to carefully spill
black ink over this page of the book, making the excuse to
Henry, "Very careless of me, wasn't it?"
Should she inquire what was on the marred page, I'd say,
"My passionate declarations of love and fidelity toward you."
She'd raise her eyes to me quizzically like a little chipmunk,
140
Life with a Wife 141
not knowing whether or not to believe me. She's never sure
because I'm a bedeviller. Next to tennis, I enjoy bedevilling
her better than anything. Bedevilling is an art and a study,
and I hold a master's degree.
I'll cite some examples.
Soon after Henry and I first started going together she in-
vited me over to her house for dinner. "Mother's going out,"
she said, "and I'll whip something up in a hurry nothing
fancy, just pot luck."
Well, to make a long meal into a short story, Fve never
eaten such food (and probably never will again). I don't un-
derstand poetry, but if I did, I'd get poetic over that cooking.
Each morsel of food was a delight. She must have spent hours
in preparation, combed through cook book recipes, and en-
listed the help of every woman in the neighborhood.
When the last bite went down and tried to find an unfilled
place in my stomach, I pushed my chair back, clasped my
hands gently over the bulge in my midsection and purred
contentedly.
Henry's eyes sparkled delightedly. "Did you enjoy your
dinner?" she casually inquired, waiting for the big compli-
ment.
I said tonelessly, "It was a simple meal, but well-prepared."
See what I mean by bedevilling?
Sometimes Henry discloses, "We're invited to a party Sat-
urday and I have nothing to wear."
"Good," I'll say. "You'll be sensational."
"May I buy a new dress?" she'll ask.
Ill shake my head sternly. "Of course not. We can't afford
it right now."
A couple of hours before the stores close on Saturday, 111
say, "Show me the new dress you bought, Henry."
"New dress?" she'll sputter. "Why, you told me I couldn't
have one. I distinctly heard you."
142 Man with a Racket
I'll act surprised. "Why, I don't remember saying anything
like that," I'll claim, adding, "but of course you can buy one."
She'll rush to the store, just making it before they lock the
doors, and invariably upon her return, say, "I'm so tired from
last-minute shopping I won't enjoy the party."
But she does. Particularly if the new dress gets compli-
mented.
Another incident, was the time a large mosquito buzzed
through the bedroom. After arming myself with a wet towel,
I said, "I'm an experienced mosquito-killer, a veteran of
many Australian campaigns where they are more ferocious
than anywhere else on earth, so listen to me. You stand in the
middle of the room, acting as a decoy. You're sweet and taste
good, you'll attract the mosquito. Then I'll get him."
She did as I bid, standing rigidly in the center of the room.
I took careful aim and snapped her smartly on the rear with
the wet towel.
"Ouch!" she screamed. "Are you sure the mosquito landed
there?"
"Of course," I said. "Thanks for the cooperation. We make
a good team. Like mixed doubles."
"I'm resigning from the team and you can get yourself a
new partner," she announced, rubbing herself tenderly.
Being absolute monarch in my own home, I enforce a num-
ber of decrees. Chief among them is that Henry should never
lounge around the dinner table after we've finished eating.
Every dish must be washed first. I demand she be properly
dressed for dinner at home no robe, negligee, or sloppy at-
tire. Another tyrannical edict is that no cheese in any shape
or form shall be served in the house. I hate cheese. Maybe
because I was once called a "cheese champion." Several
times IVe caught her sneaking it into cooked stuff not be-
cause she loves it so but it's merely a manifestation of her
independent spirit. Also taboo in the food line is fresh bread.
Life with a Wife 143
All bread must be toasted. I'm not fussy about what kind Is
served, but it must be toasted.
We have no television squabbles. I like fights and Westerns;
she watches movies and variety shows. Luckily, there are few
schedule conflictions. If our set is off, Henry covers the screen
with a special drapery. She says it looks like a great, dead
face.
One of my bad habits is taking cigarets out of the mouths
of athletic friends, even though I smoke when not training. I
regularly sneak up behind Roxy Kunz, wife of my friend,
Arzy Kunz, and remove her cigaret. Roxy hits a pretty hard
forehand drive and it seems just a question of time before I
get a closeup of the stroke.
Henry never smokes unless we have an argument. Then
shell light one after making sure I'm watching, while she
struggles to keep from choking to death on smoke that goes
down the wrong way. On the subject of arguments, we had a
violent one several years ago. Henry very calmly told me that
she read an article where a husband and wife each wrote
down a list of each other's annoying habits, compared lists
and lived happily ever afterwards.
"Get me a pencil and paper," I said.
She did, found a pencil and paper for herself, and retreated
to the dining room table to start writing. I was in the living
room.
"Bring in your list when you finish/' I said.
"See you in about two days," she called.
Ten minutes later she stood before me, paper in hand.
4 'Your list ready?"
"Sure," I said. "Let's exchange."
She handed me hers. I handed her mine. Both were blank.
We laughed for an hour. I never thought having a quarrel
was very important. It's the ending that counts.
Another way I annoy Henry not purposefully this time
!44 Man with a Racket
is to take Richey, my oldest son, over to Bob Duncan's ga-
rage and start tinkering on the hotrod. Richey helps. The
boy is a natural mechanic. He even disassembles toy dime-
store cars and, after sawing the bodies off, makes hotrods out
of them. When we start working the time passes quickly and
finally Henry locates us by telephone, often long after the
dinner hour has passed. Incidentally, Richey's a good tennis
prospect. Unlike most kids who just want to stand at the
baseline and bang the ball, Richey prefers to serve. Some-
how, he already senses that the serve is the important stroke
to master.
Still a further reason why I'm a hard guy to live with is the
humor gripping me when I wake up. You could shake me out
of sleep, slip a million-dollar check into my hands, and Fd
be mad. I want to wake up of my own accord, not by human
voice, someone else's disturbing movement or an alarm clock.
I hate to poke around in stores. Everybody running helter
skelter grabbing at things bothers me. I know next to nothing
about shopping. The first time a salesman mentioned a lay-
away plan to me I thought he meant taking a trip with an un-
married woman. Henry buys all my clothes except my shoes,
I figure that if a man walks on his own two feet he at least
ought to pick out his own shoes to cover those same feet. Hav-
ing your clothes bought for you has, I have learned, one dis-
tinct advantage. If anyone comments, "You look like a bum/'
all I have to do is jerk my thumb toward Henry. Sometimes
her shoulders are broader than mine. They have to be.
Approximately once a year Henry and I hold a business
conference; nothing of grave importance, mostly centering
around what bills we've paid or have forgotten to pay. It's a
good thing we're not joint proprietors of a store because we'd
just ignore filing applications for various licenses. Henry loses
and misplaces a lot of things such as car registration slips, and
Life with a Wife 145
by the time she finds them we usually pay monetary penal-
ties. I expect her to lose a lot of things and I write it off under
the heading of WOMAN. A woman, I figure, loses about 5
per cent of everything, but as long as she doesn't lose respect
for the man she married it's okay by me.
I'll always remember the day I came in the back door and
heard the droning of women's voices in the sitting room,
Henry was entertaining. Wondering what women talked
about when they got together, I listened. Henry had the floor.
I heard her say, "Richard was never born. He was in-
vented by the man who gave us the wheel."
"Is he sweet?" someone asked her.
"He can be so aggravating at times," she said.
"You're lucky," said another voice. "Sam won't pay that
much attention to me."
The chit chat continued unabated, and then someone ad-
dressed my Henry. "What's your formula for a successful
wife, Henrietta?"
"Be independent," was her contribution. "Don't wait on
them."
Now when I want to use it I've got a built-in moose call
voice that can rattle the window panes. I amplified loudly,
"Henry! I can't find the apple cider."
I peeked into the room and saw her jump like she'd been
sitting in an electric chair when the switch was suddenly
thrown.
"Ill find it for you, dear," she said, rushing into the
kitchen.
I destroyed that theory in a hurry.
For me marital adjustment was hard, because, although I
love life for two, I don't adjust easily. In fact, I just don't ad-
just. I'm like a stubborn rusted bolt on a weather-beaten hot-
rod that no wrench can turn. I won't even compromise. Poor
146 Man with a Racket
Henry's been forced to do all the adjusting. She's done a fine
job. She's a gentle, understanding girl, made to order for my
sudden whims and moods.
Few married men ever get spontaneous laughter like I re-
ceive from Henry while telling a joke. I have a guaranteed
audience of one. I'm sure I fare better than the top comics in
the nation. Their laughter rewards come after the punch line.
Often it's a long wait during an involved story. I get mine
during the telling of the joke, and when the punch line comes
it doesn't matter for Henry's all laughed out by that time any-
way. Henry says it's not the joke but the dramatics I go
through telling it that panics her.
When chasing around the world on tennis tours, I seldom
write a letter to Henry. Letters are tough for me. I perspire
more composing a page than I do chasing a high lob on a real
warm day. I prefer to use the telephone or the telegram.
My infrequent homecomings follow a pattern. They go
this way:
"Why didn't you call or write you were coming?" Henry
will say.
"Surprises like this keep you faithful," I'll joke.
"Hungry?" she'll ask.
"Always," I'll answer.
"For me?" she'll half-whisper and then in her loudest voice
ask, "Or for a big, thick steak?"
"Mostly for you," I'll say, "but now that you mention a
steak . . ."
She heads for the kitchen.
Every general runs the risk of an eventual Waterloo. My
defeat was suffered in London at the capable hands of Char-
lotte Prenn, wife of Daniel Prenn, ex-German Davis-Cupper.
At the insistence of our friends, the Prenns, Henry and I
stayed with them during the playing of a professional tourna-
Life with a Wife ^
ment in London. This was the longest trip Henry had
ever taken.
Charlotte Prenn is my self-appointed, in-absentia, mother
and trainer. Living with her is like living in a training camp.
She does everything but taste my food. She's a stickler for
early retirement and a firm believer that husbands and wives
should occupy separate bedrooms during training periods
and never the twain shall meet. It was an inflexible rule.
Henry and I were undergoing an enforced nightly separa*
tion. We were unable to muster any legitimate argument
against these conditioning tactics because I kept advancing
through tournament opposition. One night, Henry and I be-
came conspirators.
"Bring some cards into my room and we'll play a little
after the Prenns go to bed/* I told her.
We bade our hosts goodnight. Henry went to her room. I
went to mine. She allowed the Prenns a half hour to fall
asleep before cautiously opening my door. We smiled. We
felt good. We had pulled it off.
Suddenly the door swung open and there stood an infu-
riated Charlotte. Addressing Henrietta, she demanded,
"What's the meaning of this?"
"Wh-why," Henry stammered, "I just dropped in for a
game of cards."
"Cards, eh?" Charlotte said doubtingly, "Well, where are
they?"
"Where is what?" Henry asked.
"The cards," Charlotte said impatiently. "Where are
they?"
Henry looked at her empty hands. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I
guess I forgot them." She slunk to her room.
Charlotte's stringent training methods paid off when I
won the tournament.
148 Man with a Racket
By all odds the worst habit my wife has and the one that
can drive me raving mad is her littering the bed with a col-
lection of stuffed animals. Imagine a man having to wade
through an entire zoo every night before he can crawl be-
tween the sheets.
I repeat: this night-time menagerie of hers, headquarter-
ing on my bed, drives me crazy. Yet one thing puzzles me.
Why do I keep buying them for her?
In March, 1952, a big, sticky, black blot was dropped on
my private life. It stayed around until March, 1955, and I
would enjoy eradicating it. It comes under the leading of
"separation." Every day since that word was traded for a more
compatible one called "reconciliation" I've been thankful
and hope that I've now restored myself in Henry's eyes.
I could blame it on restless years when I was virtually
exiled from chances at top tennis money; getting married
too young; the curvaceous body and pretty face that trapped
my thoughts; or a dozen other things. But what's the use of
looking for or manufacturing excuses? Why did I have to
prove to myself and everybody else that I was a man, when
everybody, including me, knew it anyway? I don't really know
the answer.
During those three unstable years I lived alone, going
from apartment to apartment. Where I hung my tennis
clothes and stored my rackets was home. I was drifting on a
sea of impermanency, with no currents to carry me to the
security of a port.
My attorney applied for a divorce. Henry refused. I didn't
push it too hard. When I came to my senses the clouds of
doubt vanished, scattered by rays of penetrating truth. I knew
I loved Henry. Only Henry. I always would.
Her lawyer, Lew Warren, ended up as my lawyer, and I
ended up with Henry. It was a very happy ending; far better
than I deserved after three foolish years.
12 Pot Shots and
Drop Shots
One standout advantage in being champion of the world in
any sport is that people pay strict heed to whatever you may
say. Attentive ears, hoping to pick up some fresh morsel di-
rect from the playing fields, freeze in your direction like a
pointer sighting quail. Reporters' pencils scribble into note-
books. Your utterances, profound or shallow, become grist
for the newspaper presses.
Whether true or false, sports addicts believe that those who
perform best know best. While the opinion of a champion
may not be recorded for posterity, his views are at least
stamped indelibly on the minds of the faithful. His name
makes news. A gripe is a weak complaint if mouthed by a
dub.
So in this chapter I'd like to touch on a variety of subjects,
149
150 Man with a Racket
bearing down hard wth a spiked shoe, an iron fist, and leath-
ery lungs.
Heading my Sound and Fury Department is temperament.
Temperament is character; personality; mood changes. In
tennis, temperament is like a girl's slip: it shows or doesn't
show. Should it be visible, the player, according to audiences,
is colorful. If it doesn't, he's drab, methodical. If it shows too
much, the player is labeled unsportsmanlike.
King of the temperaments is Art Larsen, now sidelined
from tournament play by a motor accident. Art does the un-
expected, motivated by impulses. He's tense inside. His nerv-
ous system is a series of tautly drawn wires. Sometimes one
snaps. Art has been known to hit a ball at a ball boy and
climb into the stands bent on assault with a deadly weapon
a tennis racket.
Bob Falkenburg once sat down on Wimbledon's famed cen-
ter court and before the astonished eyes of the fashionable
crowd rocked back and forth in a fit of agony actually a dis-
play of protest. The movement was called the ''Wimbledon
Roll."
Helen Wills walked off the court against Helen Jacobs dur-
ing the finals of the Nationals, a mystery, never to this day
satisfactorily solved.
Tom Falkenburg has thrown his racket against numerous
backstops.
Earl Cochell's antics, touched off by temper explosions, got
him suspended from U.S.L.T.A. competition.
Frankie Kovacs and Carl Earn, two gifted clowns, amuse
the crowds with a steady stream of wisecracks which relaxes
them and often unnerves their professional foes.
But don't ever believe that the current crop of tennis play-
ers was the only group cornering the temperament market.
Many years ago, Count Ludwig Salm of Austria, after being
on the raw end of a number of bad calls, picked up the um-
Pop Shots and Drop Shots 151
pire's stand, carried it to a lake, and tossed the structure into
the water. It just happened that the umpire who couldn't
climb down in time got an unexpected bath.
Long before my time, Suzanne Lenglen, the fiery French-
woman, danced around the court im graceful gyrations, run-
ning the gamut of emotions. The late Bill Tilden related an
amusing story about this talented lady stroker. French news-
papers, nationalistic in spirit, began hinting that Lenglen
might be able to beat any man in the world. Tilden hap-
pened to be in Paris, and he could read French. He invited
her to play. Minus fanfare, they went to a court.
Bill waxed her, 6-0. Furious, Lenglen picked up her rack-
ets, striding from the scene of the slaughter. Newsmen had
gotten wind of the match, and rushing up to Lenglen in-
quired, "What happened?**
The French champion, her face flushed with humiliation,
shrugged and said, "One of us won 6-0, but I can't remember
who."
In 1956 staid Wimbledonians were shocked speechless
when Vic Seixas made his final bid for the title. Seixas had
broken Ken RosewalFs service twice in the fifth and final set
to hold a 5-2 lead, having a semi-final victory within his grasp
only to see the twenty-one-year-old Davis Cupper run the set
out, 7-5.
Seixas, according to the British press, took his defeat badly
and got the thirteen thousand center-court fans against him
almost to a man. After the final point he hugged his head
with his hands and arms, threw down his racket, refused to
come up to the net, and it was Rosewall who crossed the net
and patted the American sympathetically on the shoulder.
Seixas was charged with passing the umpire's chair without
the customary "thank you" and other pleasantries. There
were six line calls during the match disputed by Seixas.
Vic certainly wouldn't have won any popularity contest
152 Man with a Racket
during the long match interrupted during a two-hour rain-
fall. The only contest Vic wanted to win involved tennis. His
emotions simply broke the leashes of self-control. It was a
heart-breaker. A man torn inside can't always smile through
the tears and be the faultless little gentleman of British prep
school traditions.
Temperament had cropped up where least expected even
off the court. Althea Gibson, one of the normally calmest
women players, while on an around-the-world tour sponsored
by the U. S. State Department, lost control of her emotional
faculties on several occasions.
In England she snapped at a photographer, "Move back six
feet! Don't make a close-up of me! I don't photograph well
that way."
Another time she told a tennis writer, "Get one of the old
stories out of the files on me and use it again."
In Paris a crew of Australian radiomen packed their wire
recorder and departed after trying vainly to interview her.
I say this: A tennis player is entitled to temperament.
Nobody criticizes an actor or actress for temperamental out-
bursts. Is tennis so unrelated to the stage? On a court in an
important match a player performs before thousands. He's
crowd conscious; perhaps not of individual faces, but of the
throng which includes the swelling tide of voices, the thun-
der of applause, the groans of sorrow. He becomes part ath-
lete with a generous slice of ham thrown in.
He hasn't been trained before footlights. There's never
been a Robert Montgomery coaching him. Emotions slipping
out of him, even if in poor taste, are honest, unrehearsed.
Quite often a tennis player exhorts himself audibly to
fight harder. Pancho Segura shakes a clenched fist, muttering
the familiar war cry of "Come on, Pancho." I just scowl. They
tell me it's a pretty black grimace. Other players get an emo-
tional release by pounding their rackets into the net cords,
Pop Shots and Drop Shots 153
banging them into the palms of hands, taking vicious swipes
through the air at imaginary balls.
Turning back to the seemingly hostile and impatient re-
actions of Althea Gibson, there are acceptable explanations.
Her nine-month tour carried her from Mandalay to Trin-
comales, the Middle East, Scandinavia and throughout Eu-
rope. Such a tour can sorely test the stamina of a woman. Al-
thea became road-weary. The strain rubbed her nerves raw.
Is it any wonder then on a few occasions that she acted, let us
say, as a human being?
Althea, spotlighted the moment she walks on a court, is
constantly in the public eye. If she stubs her toe, it has news
value. Due to racial barriers, she is a test case. She's the Jackie
Robinson of tennis. Any person playing under similar con-
ditions, unless he can completely mask every emotion, is apt
to be caught with his humor down and always at such times
there is the ever-present sports scribe.
Some players, particularly the Australians, bottle their
emotions, rarely letting them fizz over the surface. I don't
know how they do it. Perhaps medical science should exam-
ine their nerve structures. I do know this: They also win the
Davis Cup.
Dick Savitt was none too popular in Australia for wran-
gling with officials over whether to be allowed to wear spikes
on slippery turf. Dick was fighting for his country, for the
Davis Cup, for himself and he wanted every advantage.
Questionable tennis tactics have been blasted by a num-
ber of writers attempting to draw attention in their direc-
tion. One of the most acid denunciations came from C. M.
(Jimmy) Jones, former British Davis Cup player who now
edits the influential British Lawn Tennis Magazine. His tar-
get was the international tennis set.
Jones said points of tennis behavior which repelled him
most were:
154 Man with a Racket
The practice of questioning umpire decisions "either ver-
bally or with such anguished glances."
Bullying of ball boys and linesmen by international stars
"until the unfortunate official is too scared to give a close de-
cision against the star/'
Delaying tactics when fatigued, which is "gamesmanship"
carried to the point of almost cheating.
Slamming of balls into crowds, foul language, muttering,
scowling.
I will try to answer Mr. Jones.
Of late years a popular pastime has been intimidation of
officials who try to call 'em as they see 'em but too often miss
'em. I've done it myself. A scorching glare directed at a lines-
man, or to swing around and stare and shake the head in-
credulously, are all points, I think, which can aid the cause
of victory. Speaking for the players, we figure that next time
there may be slight intimidation on a close call and the
break may be ours.
Now I don't say this is highly proper; and maybe it isn't
really too effective. But we're in there fighting for everything
and it helps put on a show for the crowd. Years ago decisions
were unquestioned. They were incontestable as if handed
down by long-robed judges. Players took them with a smile.
But I believe that audiences of today, if put to a vote, would
prefer having us show our displeasure. At least it reveals
we're not automatons.
Speaking of delaying tactics, no great wrongs are com-
mitted here when you consider that eleven men on a football
team are stalling the closing minutes by running simple line
plays and taking long counts in the huddle.
This brings to mind an interesting story. Constantin Tan-
asescu, who for nine years in his native Romania captured
every tennis title in sight, turned professional and came to
the United States in 1947. He now teaches in private schools
Pop Shots and Drop Shots J-K
and at the Rustic Canyon courts, Santa Monica. Tani said
that in 1939 he reached the finals of the Italian International
Championships in Rome. His opponent was Joseph Pimcec
of Yugoslavia. Puncec, large and powerful, was ranked No.
4 in the world.
Tani took the first two sets, 6-2, 6-3. The muscular Yugo-
slavian, by hammering overheads and storming the net,
chased Tani, whose height was a mere five feet six inches, all
over the court to win the next two sets, 7-5 and 9-7. The tiny
Romanian's legs were growing weaker and he was gaspino-
r T i O "^ &
for breath.
The crowd was wildly enthusiastic, all their sympathies
centering on Tani. He was their darling, a midget contest-
ing a giant another David and Goliath story. Added to this,
racial prejudice was in his favor, because Romanians speak a
Latin tongue.
While sipping water and toweling himself, preparatory to
starting the fifth and final set, Tani noticed half a dozen spec-
tators who were sitting in the front row get up and leave. He
thought that they, having sensed the handwriting on the
wall, couldn't stand to see their favorite lose.
Tani walked wearily to the baseline to begin service when
he heard an excited babble of voices and smelled smoke. A
blaze broke out underneath the grandstand, clouds of smoke
blowing over the court. The umpire motioned for him to
hold up service. He quickly made for a chair. It felt wonder-
ful to be sitting.
Puncec, observing him resting and getting his wind back,
appealed to the umpire, contending that the smoke didn't
matter to resume the match. The umpire's decision was to
wait. It took ten minutes to extinguish the flames whose ori-
gin was rubbish under the stands.
Turning to face the audience, Tani noticed that the front
row of spectators who had walked out were now back in their
156 Man with a Racket
seats. Sly looks covered their faces and one of them winked
at him. Suddenly it became quite clear. They had started the
fire in order to provide him with a much-needed rest. He
smiled gratefully at them.
The respite helped. Playing like he had in the first set,
Tani took a 6-5 lead. Then he ran out of gas. One long rally
did it. His feet seemed glued to the court. He needed a rest.
He wanted to smell smoke again. He looked appealingly at
the stands, and the spectator who had winked shook his
head despairingly.
He learned later that guards had been posted beneath the
stadium.
Puncec won the set 8-6, and the match was his, Tani,
throughout the years, still thinks of the loyalty of that crowd.
American audiences are the fairest-minded. Pint-sized play-
ers perennial underdogs against the giants have long been
their favorites. They'll clap their hands until calloused for
Tiny Feliccimo Ampon of the Philippines. Bitsy Grant of
Atlanta was another darling of the gallery.
Some foreign audiences are replete with fierce national-
istic pride and take defeat of their countrymen the hard way.
Bill Tilden, up to the final stages of his life, ranted over cru-
cial line calls against Wilmer Allison, U. S. Davis Cup team
member when he was playing against the French team in
Paris.
"The attitude of the French," Bill related, "at least in
those days, was to call them as they wanted to see them. Their
policy was to get away with anything they could and if they
couldn't, at least they tried/*
Often I've sat in the stands listening to crowd reactions.
Fve observed that when a player executes a spectacular shot,
his opponent who can't get near the ball comments in an au-
dible voice, "Pretty/* or "Good shot/' he is established in the
minds of the fans as a "good sport/' Let me put you straight:
Pop Shots and Drop Shots 157
that guy is just voicing something stemming from sheer cour-
tesy. Inside he's bleeding. Actually, he doesn't even think it
was a good shot. He really blames himself for setting it up
for his foe. Don't let those court commenters fool you. On the
surface they may be gracious losers. In the locker room if
given the opportunity they'd garrote their opponent with
a long piece of racket gut.
The tableau that is enacted as players change courts is a
grim one. They're like boxers going to neutral corners be-
tween rounds. Players go to opposite sides of the umpire's
stand, wipe the handle of their racket, take a drink of wa-
ter, towel, fidget, and rise to resume play. But never for a
fleeting second do they look at their opponents sitting a few
feet away. Above all, they never speak. No one breaks this
unwritten law. Maybe some player should. It might jar your
adversary out of the next game if you suddenly remarked,
"Tony how's your wife?"
Seldom does close friendship influence players. Most of
them would crush their poor old mothers, 6-0, if she stood in
the path of a championship. An exception was Ted Schroe-
der, when, as an amateur, the luck of the draw pitted him
against his bosom pal, Jack Kramer. I never thought Ted
went all-out to win. Ted was a fighter, a tiger ivhen the chips
were down, an inspirational player who never gave up.
Against his close friend, Kramer, the spark was missing and
Ted seemed to roll over and play dead.
Many persons ask "How come when a player turns profes-
sional he improves so rapidly?" and they point to Pancho
Segura as an example. It's no secret that little Pancho during
his amateur days was consistently beaten by players he could
spot games to today. Why did he and others who have for-
saken the amateur ranks skyrocket to sudden skill?
I'll tell you. The moment you turn professional you face
only top-notch competition. There is no coasting through the
158 Man with a Racket
opening rounds as in amateur tourneys. Each pro match is
comparable to the finals of any amateur tournament. You
can't afford to ease up. You must be sharp every day. You
play more and in a more serious vein, with no time for clown-
ing. Tennis to a pro becomes a business; your bread and but-
ter and your future are wholly dependent upon it.
Another question constantly tossed at me is: "Could the
old-time greats beat the modern players?"
The answer is a big and definite "NO."
Before the storm descends on my head, let me explain my
reasoning. In the first place, I never saw any oldsters at their
peak. Naturally names like Lacoste, Borotra, Brugnon, Co-
chet, Alonso, MacLaughlin, Billy and Wallace Johnson,
Hunter, Bromwich, Crawford, Vines, and hundreds of others
were headlines before my debut. From what I've been told
and read of their terrific play I'm happy not to be a contem-
porary of most of them. I did tangle with Don Budge a num-
ber of times, but you can't in a strict sense of the word call
him an old-timer. If you do, he'll take you to any court and
make you eat the words. I've watched Bitsy Grant, Gilbert
Hall, and Greg Mangin play when well over forty. I batted
the ball around with Bill Tilden up to the time of his death.
The capabilities of these players were tremendous, their
strokes almost lyrical. Then, you may pose the question, why
couldn't they beat the players of today? And you may cite,
"Didn't Bitsy Grant take a set from Art Larsen during an
age vs. youth battle," and doesn't that prove something?
The answer is simple. The game has changed. The back
court players have moved up to the firing line the net
where points are won faster. The day of the long rally is
doomed. The hard server and crisp volleyer wins today.
I maintain that had the tempo of tennis been speeded up
in the early days nearly all those players who strung their
rackets with the cobwebs of antiquity particularly the ones
Pop Shots and Drop Shots 159
with strong overheads could have successfully made the
adjustment. They were superb athletes, and men with such
agility can always change their style. It was merely a differ-
ent type of game then. A player stood in the back court and
employed tactics. He was a field marshal plotting strategy
on a small battle field. He searched for weaknesses, he ana-
lyzed, he mixed strokes. Only on a forcing shot would he go
to the net. Even public court sages of that era would exhort,
"Hit it to his backhand and go to the net/' Now no excuse is
needed for the forward surge.
Championship tennis today calls for the big serve, fast re-
flexes, some acrobatics. You smash the serve, rush the net.
You keep your opponent off balance. It's a wide gulf of sepa-
ration from the former game, but I say again that the stars of
the past who had the physical equipment were perfectly
capable of making the big change. I'm a guy who hates to
take anything away from a memory, but I'm also a guy who
dislikes building it into an incomparable legend.
Belittling newspapermen is the same as starting a shooting
war with popguns against atomic weapons. The newspaper
boys can give you the sharp end of the stick in print, even
changing your character if they so choose. They can get very
nasty if irked and take out on you grievances against manage-
ment chief of which is their being underpaid. They can
make or break you, and it often depends on your personal
press relations. I haven't been any champ at this but I'm im-
proving. Regardless of what they think, this I've got to say
that the majority of men assigned to tennis coverage in this
nation don't know the basic difference between a racket and
a shillelagh. There are, of course, exceptions.
Every tennis writer is a babe at a typewriter compared with
Allison Danzig of the New York Times, that erudite, thor-
ough and scrupulous coverer of tennis news. Mr. Danzig is a
linguistic master of tennis verbiage. He puts the thrill of a
160 Man with a Racket
football game into a tennis tournament writeup. His micro-
scopic analysis of play includes a recapitulation where
double faults, service aces, placements, etc., are accurately
recorded. Reading him the day after a match is the same as
going to a teacher and taking lessons on the revision of mis-
takes made.
The average tennis writer collects a batch of adjectives
and tosses them carelessly into a couple of paragraphs. His
cliches are so creaky it's a wonder the typewriter keys them-
selves don't revolt against the touch of his fingers.
I haven't the answer for tennis reporters' lack of under-
standing of the game. Newspapers do a fine job on football,
baseball, basketball, and other sports of major public in-
terest. Tennis, being on the minor side, isn't allowed the
space of other sports, yet this isn't excusable for the poor
writing job. Of late, tennis writers have discovered the word
"clobbered," and few are the players suffering straight de-
feats who haven't been victimized by this over-used word.
The attitude of ranking players has changed during the
last few decades. Not too many years ago when a ranking
player led a mediocre player, 6-0, 5-0, needing only one game
to end the uneven match, he generally made a couple of pur-
poseful errors trying not to be too obvious in order to give
his opponent the present of a game. Thus was a complete
whitewash averted. This was known as a courtesy game.
None of this happens any more.
If a current player can crush another without giving up a
single point, he'll do it gladly, swarming viciously to the
attack, showing no mercy. It amounts to attitude, something
vitally important to a person hoping to become a champion.
Attitude must be implanted in the head and left to harden
like cement. When it crystallizes all thoughts are molded
with one objective in mind to win and never let up. Giving
a player a courtesy game might start a gradual disintegration
Pop Shots and Drop Shots 161
of this hard structure and eventually prove symptomatic of a
careless collapse of attitude. Trying for every point is the
order of the day, at no time giving any quarter. Kill, kill, kill
is the campaign cry among the top-raters.
Even when an outstanding player loses, he can't afford self-
admission that he was beaten by a superior player. His of-
fered excuses will be, "He was lucky," or "I was off my
game/' or "I didn't pace myself correctly," but never, never
under any circumstances, "He's a better player."
You've got to beat it into your own head, washing con-
tradictory thoughts out, except the solitary one, "I'll win."
Otherwise, the proper attitude is lost. A man could re-
peatedly defeat you and give you an inferiority complex like
Ted Schroeder nearly gave me. While you are congratulating
the victor you must think, "Wait until next time . . . I'll
get you." Maintaining this attitude is obligatory. All thought
must be directed toward achieving victory with never a vary-
ing reflection that anybody in the whole wide world can beat
you. If anybody should manage to beat you, why, all the
breaks went to him BUT WAIT UNTIL NEXT
TIME . . .
While tennis courts in the United States aren't exactly van-
ishing like the buffalo did from the American scene, on the
other hand they certainly aren't multiplying. Today, public
park courts are the only citadels safe from the earth-gouging
implements of tract-mad realtors. Everywhere, near or within
the confines of cities, property values have soared. It stands
to reason that small tennis clubs staggering along under heavy
financial burdens can be tempted to throw in the sponge
when approached by lucrative offers for their property. New
clubs searching for sites would have to locate outside even the
suburbian area.
Public parks are the last remaining fortresses whose bas-
tions the armies of realtors will never scale. Yet in certain
152 Man with a Racket
cities Los Angeles for one there is a dearth of these courts,
with swarms of week-end players awaiting their turns. Here,
new freeways snake through the city, and the builders' bull-
dozers have dug up some of the oldest courts.
What of the future of tennis and where will the courts of
tomorrow be built? I predict rooftops. New York has already
found this feasible. Any roof of adequate size with a flat sur-
face can be remodeled into a hard-surface court. High back-
stops are a necessity, otherwise cascading tennis balls will add
to the traffic confusion below. Courts nestled in the sky would
be out of the realtor's reach and would keep pace with the in-
creasing tennis population.
Tennis, although far from dying on the vine in the United
States, isn't gaining proportionate to population increases.
With large families the vogue, additional tennis players
should be born. To inculcate more with the germ, I have a
few suggestions. First, we need more group classes and or-
ganized tennis clinics. Then we haven't enough media of in-
struction. Some of this can arise from motion pictures and
television programs, coaching by physical education instruc-
tors at all school levels. We also need provisions for free ten-
nis equipment and free playing facilities for many who can-
not afford such necessities.
Taking the boy off the pavement of city streets and trans-
planting him to the cement of the tennis courts goes a long
way toward combating the seeds of juvenile delinquency.
Good health, good sportsmanship, and good fun evolve from
tennis. Buying a racket early for your child may spare your-
self a lot of grief later.
A bad line call causes a player much mental suffering.
Naturally, I mean when the call is against you. Defeat or
victory can hinge on a line call. Out of all the bad calls I've
ever received in my life, only one proved beneficial in the
long run. This call came when I was playing Frank Sedgman,
Pop Shots and Drop Shots 165
and a few seconds after the baseline man called "out," a
woman's voice groaned, "No." Looking toward the direction
of the voice I saw a pretty blonde head shaking negatively.
The head, I recognized, belonged to Doris Day. Only a few
nights before I had gone to a Western film and she was doing
some singing on the other half of the double bilL
Several days later I received a letter which said:
Thanks for personally giving my husband and I a wonderful
weekend.
Doris Day
Soon afterwards Henry and I met Doris and her husband,
Marty Melcher, the film producer. We became firm friends.
Long before quiz shows were page one news in newspapers,
I met a Hollywood actor's agent whose business was second-
ary to amassing tennis statistics. His name was Ben Pearson
and he could qualify as a good Sunday player.
Over a glass of beer we talked the sport and he suddenly
asked, "Do you think Beals C. Wright was ahead of his
time?"
I didn't even know his time. In fact, I've never heard of
Mr. Wright whom he explained was one of the early greats
on the American tennis scene.
Commenting on the beer, Pearson said, "This is a very
plebian drink compared with what Randolph Lycette drank
while playing."
I learned that Randolph Lycette, a Britisher, downed
champagne during his matches.
Then he said, "I wonder where Itchy is today?"
For my further edification I became acquainted with the
fact that Ichiya Kurnagae was an old-time Japanese Davis
Cup member.
"Hell," I told him, "I'm lucky to go back to Don Budge."
As long as the name of Don Budge has come up, I might
164 Man with a Racket
as well speak of the night there was a leak in the dressing
room of the Los Angeles Shrine Auditorium. It was the night
that Don, described by sports reporters as "aging and faded,"
subdued me 6-2, 6-2, during a round robin affair. The leak
was not in the ceiling or in a pipe. The leak was in the form
of a report on my post-match conduct that escaped from the
dressing room. Next day, much to my regret, a thousand peo-
ple knew about it, including a segment of the movie colony,
brought to the match by my friend Frank Feltrop, popular
local pro.
When I went to shower I was in a miserable state of mind.
Squarely in the middle of my black broodings lay my suit-
case. Approaching the bag I drew back my foot kicking a hole
right through the side of it. It helped. Then I saw a sign that
said, NO VISITORS ALLOWED. I hauled off and punched
it. This didn't help. The sign was made of steel.
Well do I remember the next day with my hand hurting
and a friend calling up for a game. "Sorry," I told him, "I'm
incapacitated."
"You're what?" he uttered, amazed because I've never
been known to use many-syllabled words.
"Incapacitated," I repeated.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"It's a common word," I stalled, trying to recall where I
had picked it up and what was the definition.
My friend was insistent. "If it's so common," he said, "tell
me the meaning."
"It means a sore hand," I said, punctuating the conversa-
tion by hanging up.
Cliff Sproul, one of the guiding hands of Australian Davis
Cup players, opined that if the first twenty ranked U.S. tennis
stars were pitted against a similar number of his countrymen,
the Americans would come out ahead.
I agree with Cliff; and if matches were staged between the
Pop Shots and Drop Shots 165
first one hundred American players in the order of their rank-
ings, against a similar number of any other nation in the
world, we would beat them easily.
This hardly sparks the argument that as a tennis land we're
fast becoming decadent.
American tennis is blessed with an equality of skills. Win-
ning the Davis Cup requires two outstanding players. Two
is all it takes. We don't have two. So Australia keeps the hunk
of silver, but we're still the strongest tennis nation in the
whole wide world.
Another fact I'd like to point up is that if the mantle of
professionalism was removed from Jack Kramer, Tony Tra-
bert and myself, wouldn't we, every year, be able to handle
the dreaded boys from Down Under? I'd win both singles
and doubles with Kramer. And there's the Cup. Substitute
Tony for Jack and it would be the same. Use Tony for the
two single matches and he might win one, or possibly both
of them.
The obvious reason that Australia owns the Cup is because
over here the outstanding players turn professional the mo-
ment a lucrative offer is dangled in front of them. You can't
blame them. Money is a nice thing to have around.
It was while touring against Ken Rosewall that we played
in Kansas City where I met a local obstetrician, Dr. Marcel
Mooney. Dr. Mooney, who recalled "hitting a few balls" dur-
ing his youthful days, remembered when a slice was known
around the public courts as a cut shot.
I thought it was a good opportunity to discover what makes
a man a tennis zealot, so I inquired: "Why did you come to
the matches tonight?"
He explained:
"Watching tennis recaptures my youth . . . makes my
pulses pound like an enthusiastic school boy again. When I
watch you run and hit the ball, in spirit I am doing it with
166 Man with a Racket
you. When you flub an easy shot I know your disappointment.
When you scorch the sidelines I know your exultation. After
a match I'm almost as tired as you from mentally playing
every shot. Old tennis players never die. They just fade away
into a grandstand seat. I think . . .*'
The telephone rang. It was for Dr. Mooney. One of his
patients was going to have a baby earlier than expected.
"I hope the new arrival has your forehand/' said the doc-
tor, slipping into his hat and coat.
The Loiodoion on
Amateur Tennis
Let's journey down memory lane . . .
Remember the case o Wes Santee, former Kansas Uni-
versity track star and America's premier miler, who was
banned for receiving overpayment of allowable expenses?
Remember the University of California at Los Angeles
football recruiters accused of winking at various conference
rules, resulting in a $93,000 fine and being placed on pro-
bation for three years?
Remember disciplinary measures taken against the Uni-
versity of Kentucky basketball team?
Remember relieving Jim Thorpe of his Olympic Games
medals after discovery he had played some semi-professional
baseball?
These alleged violations of the concepts of amateurism
would pale into insignificance today if Dan Ferris, Avery
167
168 Man with a Racket
Brundage or Pincus Sober, the Kefauvers of the Amateur
Athletic Union, investigated the amateur tennis situation.
They could obtain an injunction to prevent participation
in all major tournaments by any of the first twenty ranking
amateurs.
In tennis the difference between an amateur and a pro-
fessional player is related to a phantom table. The amateur
receives money under it, the professional over it. Today, a
sought-after amateur can make from $8,000 to $10,000 yearly;
yet in the eyes of the public he is pure as a virgin snow drift.
The United States Lawn Tennis Association, governing
body of the sport, is blameless. The U.S.L.T.A. is com-
posed of successful men of unassailable integrity. Rumors of
the taints of amateurism have reached their ears. Some be-
lieve it. Others don't. Merely hearsay. Furthermore, it isn't
their job to employ secret police or a spy system to track
down such rumors. They merely impart the spirit and letter
of the amateur code.
The code is antiquated. It provides ten dollars daily ex-
pense money.
Throw it out, I say; or make sweeping revisions.
Being that I'm in the playing end of the tennis business
and not a member of its brain trust, I won't be presumptuous
enough to name any cure-alls. However, unqualified as I
may be, I'm bold enough to offer a few suggestions.
First, let me present, minus distortion, a clear-cut photo
of amateur tennis today.
Put yourself in the role of the amateur. You're out of school
and in the 20- to 30-year-old bracket. Perhaps you have a wife
and a child or two. You may even have a grandmother who
wants to take lessons from Mercer Beasley.
Maintaining a high ranking is synonymous with playing
the Eastern tournament circuit. Europe too. Tennis becomes
a grind.
The Low down on Amateur Tennis Igg
Missing is the exuberance once derived from hitting a per-
fect crosscourt placement. The game becomes a chore. Be-
lieve me, a tennis player can suffer the same daily boredom
as a CPA poring over columns of figures. Day after day he
runs countless miles swinging at a wool-covered ball with
strings made from a lamb's intestines. Physically, the game
exacts its toll. He's dehydrated as a squeezed sponge. His feet
take a terrific pounding on cement, clay, and the slightly
kinder surface grass. His sacroiliac is endangered. His
disposition can sour after defeats. His heart and body are
taxed to the limits of physical endurance.
While he may not realize it he's in business. And he's
putting as much into it as the business man carrying the brief
case under his arm. Sometimes much more. Players axe not
the sons of the rich who burst upon a fashionable gathering
wearing expensively tailored clothes and call: "Anyone for
tennis?" More often, clad in a cheap T shirt and part woolen
socks, they're the sons of the poor whose parents keep repeat-
ing: "What are you getting out of all this with your education
when you could have been a banker?"
Undiluted amateurism implies that you cannot take one
penny above the allotted expense money. On the ten-dollar-
a-day allowance you're supposed to travel. Why, it almost
means desertion and non-support to the wife left at home. So
what recourse can you take? Tournament sponsors are bid-
ding for your, services. You become receptive to the highest
bid offered.
You have ready excuses to make for yourself. Chiefly, you
need the money. Sponsors can afford to pay; and after all, it's
your name luring the customers.
The first time you take this money a few qualms of honesty
prick you like dull needles. The second time you hurdle
mental barriers much faster. It's becoming easier. The third
time you merely extend your hand and wait for it to be filled.
170 Man with a Racket
The next step involves negotiations. You're getting real
smart; and you finally realize that due to your high ranking
you've got bargaining power. So you take the initiative. In-
stead of sticking a gun into some promoter's back and hold-
ing him up for more, you shove a tennis racket into his ribs
and make your demands. Usually, the victim ups the ante.
True, that all this finagling might provide a modicum of
business training, but think of the moral effect. You're not
getting your money legally, coupled with the fact it's fraught
with hypocrisy. A player seldom discusses his banditry with
another player. One reason is a guilt complex. Don't bring
it out into the open and it won't prick your conscience as
strongly. Another is that some sponsors make you feel you got
a better deal than the other players and it shouldn't be
bandied about. This reminds me of a family hotel I knew
about where each guest had a confidential rate which he or
she thought particularly favored them. Had the matter been
freely discussed, they would have unearthed the fact that
everyone was being robbed.
Personally, I don't care to see an investigation of amateur
tennis ending in a complete whitewashing of the sport. Un-
pleasant repercussions could kill off the game. From the
amateur ranks spring the pros and, I hope, suitable opponents
to challenge me. It's awful to run out of opponents. I know.
I don't believe an open tournament would solve anything
either. Everybody who won prize money would end up a
pro. The same pros would repeatedly take the cash prizes.
Amateur tennis can be a year-round activity if players want
to follow the sun and are skilled enough to be in demand.
You can chase the footsteps of Hugh Stewart or Tony Vincent
and others play America, Mexico, Europe, and even South
America and Australia, But for the most part our amateurs
compete only in the United States, with a stab at Wimbledon,
the French Championships, and occasionally the Australian
Championships.
The Lowdown on Amateur Tennis 171
It wouldn't be feasible to be in a business even for them-
selves and take that much time off. Frank Stranahan, as
an amateur, could do it in golf, but no tennis player has the
financial assets of this fine golfer. Dick Savitt and Ted
Schroeder abandoned tennis careers for the world of business,
and neither is employed by the type of organization where
it's necessary to focus on their tennis reputations to boom
sales.
Monetarily speaking, an athlete attending college is pro-
vided for through scholarships and jobs for just about his four
school years. Couldn't the same be done for a tennis player?
There must be some way he can receive monies while he isn't
playing if he's expected to drop everything when the season
opens.
In the last few decades the tennis scene has changed com-
pletely. Once the game belonged to the white flannel, polo-
coated set. Not only did a player have to learn the book of
social etiquette backwards, and grip a racket properly, he
had to be able to lift a cup of tea without spilling a drop. Ten-
nis and the Long Island horsey set were loving cousins. There
was no so-called "wrong side of the tracks players." This
group owned the tracks.
Came the evolution. Tennis became the people's game.
Public park courts mushroomed. Expensive clothes for play-
ers were unnecessary. All a man needed was a drugstore T
shirt, a pair of cheap shorts, dime-store socks and shoes that
could be adhesive-patched if your toes broke through, or vul-
canized on the soles when your feet showed.
Audiences became plebeian, more demonstrative. Where
formerly ripples of applause rewarded shotmakers, there
were now roars of appreciation from shirtsleeved masses, and
even choruses of boos directed at bad calls.
Tennis became of age and widespread in popularity. Then
the attendant evil followed bidding for the services of the
players. I don't know who was first guilty. That is of small
172 Man with a Racket
concern. Once the cash payments gained momentum, they
fanned out in all directions.
True enough, tennis players get a lot of free things in life
food, rackets, balls, strings, shirts, shoes, sweaters, lodg-
ing, and lots of advice, none of which helps them later in life.
In the life of each tennis player there's the point of no return.
Here, you either drop the sport and concentrate on making a
livelihood or stick with it, trying to live off its sometimes
frugal returns.
At the frayed edge of an amateur career, when a player
touches the age of thirty, it's later than he thinks. To re-
gress to the business world and try to carve a niche for him-
self is a mammoth undertaking. He's already lost ten produc-
tive years. He's too old to start at the bottom, too inexperi-
enced to hold down a top position. All he's got to show for his
efforts is a scrapbook, blistered feet, and tarnished trophies.
Please bear in mind I'm not turning copper and blowing
the whistle on amateur tennis. It's still the purist of the
popular spectator sports. Only a handful of amateurs in ten-
nis really make any money. Total these against the earnings
of football, basketball, and track athletes. The difference is
monumental.
What's to be done about it?
Let's face up to the situation. No circumvention. Shouldn't
we make a choice between honesty and hypocrisy? But not a
compromise. Otherwise, the evil side can undermine the
strong side until the roots decay and collapse the entire
structure.
The line of demarcation between pros and amateurs is
wavy and vacillating. A rigid line with no overstepping is
necessary.
To make a sincere start, let's compile an amateur tennis
code that makes sense.
The Day I Exploded
Much credit must be given to Jack Kramer, who, operating
without a medical license, and using a checkbook instead o
a scalpel, disjoined the Australian "tennis twins" Ken Rose-
wall and Lew Hoad.
For two frustrating years, Kramer had been trying to snare
Rosewall and his Australian partner, Hoad, but the young-
sters preferred to help keep the Davis Cup in Australia
rather than cash big pro paychecks. But now he had Rosewall,
half of the famed combination, and a worthy headliner for
his new pro tour.
Hoad turned down cold Jack's fat offer which would have
netted him $67,500, tax-free, at the end of two years. His rea-
sons appeared to be nationalism and the desire to score the
grand slam of tennis winning all four major tournaments.
To me, the refusal was fantastic. Maybe it's the hard core
173
174 Man with a Racket
of the old pro inside of me that cannot yield to such thinking.
Since Lawyer Lou Warren is shaping my mind toward an
investment consciousness, I immediately whipped out a
pencil and started figuring 5 per cent of f 67,500. Three
sheets of paper and plenty of erasures later, I found it
amounted to f 3,375 per year interest on the earnings that
might have been. That would buy Lew's wife, Jennifer, a
barrel of nylons.
But Kramer did bag Rosewall, who had beaten Hoad in
their last three encounters, including the U. S. National
Singles. Tennis forecasters felt that at long last he had
come of age in assuming superiority over his blond team-
mate. When the dark-haired, slightly built youth affixed his
signature to Kramer's contract, he assured himself of a nice
income. In addition to the $65,000 guarantee for a period
covering thirteen months, he was promised 25 per cent of all
receipts over the $300,000 mark, plus a 5 per cent bonus and
an option on a new $25,000 contract if he beat me. If he beat
me he would be crowned king of the pros. If ...
Here for the first time in my professional life I was about
to face an opponent minus my usual "I-can-beat-anyone-in-
the-world" attitude. Two contributing factors influenced my
thinking. Factor One I was dead tired. Since the beginning
of the tour against Trabert in 1956, I had been on a tennis
treadmill that took me to South America, Europe, South
Africa, New Zealand, Australia, and finally home to Los
Angeles, then after barely three weeks' rest I was to wing
back to Australia again to play eleven matches against Rose-
wall, compete in a professional round-robin championship,
and then return to the United States to wind up a 100-match
1957 tour against Ken.
Factor Two my hand. A cyst the size of a half-dollar had
formed beneath the surface of the palm of my racket hand.
The Day I Exploded 175
Believe me, it was painful. Several newspapers hinted my
career might end.
The moment I reached Los Angeles, I made an appoint-
ment with Dr. Omar Fareed, whom Jack Kramer had recom-
mended. His diagnosis indicated the cyst was attached to
important tendons and removal might mean loss o power
in my grip. He started a series of injections to dissolve the
lumpy mass. I began worrying, which was something new for
me. Rest was out of the question. Tour dates were being
booked. The show must go on, even though I might end up
playing the role of chief tragedian.
Over one hundred people telephoned, keeping Henry busy
as a switchboard operator. Sister Margaret Evelyn of the
Saint Bridget's School, where our children attend, told us
she was having a Mass said and novenas made for my re-
covery. Gradually the cyst decreased to the size of a nickel
which prompted some wag to remark, "It's shrinking in value
like the American dollar."
I left for Australia, realizing that my hand was still sore
and I'd have to play with a pad on it for protection. First
stop was Honolulu, and flying over the Pacific allowed me
much time to think of Ken Rosewall. He certainly didn't
pack the power game of any of the big names in tennis. Ken
weighed 142 pounds, and was barely five feet seven inches
tall. His tennis reminded me of a fencer, thrusting, parry-
ing, nimbly dancing. Strategy was his forte. Strategy, I
thought, can be overcome by sheer power.
His stroking was flawless. He was exactly what the in-
structor ordered. He played the game literally the way it was
taught. His backhand, slightly undercut, looked stronger than
his forehand. But that was deceptive. He took his forehand
shots nicely on the rise with pace. His serve held no terrors.
Yet it was effortless and well placed.
176 Man with a Racket
Reporters rushed to interview me in Australia. "Rosewall
is in better condition than I am," I told them, "but I will
guarantee he won't be for long." Queried as to whether I
thought I'd beat him, my answer was, "Everything being
equal, a good big man can beat a good little man."
Kramer, writing in the Melbourne Argus, said, "Off the
record, Gonzales appears a likely winner, but stand by for
an upset."
The Australian Nationals were ending and Lew Hoad was
a surprise loser to Neale Fraser in the semi-finals. Hoad
was in great pain during the match, but he offered no ex-
cuses. Lew's trouble was thought to be a slipped disc, but a
specialist later identified it as a strained ligament in the
lower part of his back. It was necessary to encase his aching
back in a sixteen-pound cast, and this raised a big question
mark about the blond bomber's future on the courts. A re-
currence of the trouble might jeopardize Hoad's chances
of cashing in with the pros. So painful was the injury that his
wife, Jennifer, had to put on his socks and shoes for him be-
fore the contest against Fraser.
In the opening match against Rosewall at Kooyong Sta-
dium, Melbourne, I won 6-3, 3-6, 6-3, 1-6, 9-7, during 125
minutes of torrid play. Ken came right back the next night
and dumped me 7-5, 6-4, 14-12. He seemed more assured and
dictated matters right from the start. His reflexes were
razor-sharp. It became touch and go. We had another mara-
thon match lasting three and one-half hours. I took it 3-6,
6-3,11-9,1-6,15-13.
What surprised me was the ease with which he was re-
turning my service. Waiting for it, he reminded me of a
coiled spring. Then suddenly he would whirl in the direc-
tion of the ball. Aces against Trabert were fairly com-
mon. Not so now.
Crowds were beating all expectations. Kramer wore an
The Day I Exploded !77
almost continuous smile. For the first six matches gross
receipts totaled $113,000. Five o the outdoor matches were
sellouts. Rain dampened the sixth. For the Kooyong appear-
ances the gate touched $42,000. It looked to me like Ken
would realize $100,000 for the tour. Quoting from a letter
Kramer's wife, Gloria, wrote to Jeane Hoffman, the Los An-
geles Times sports scribe:
"It's a smash success. There is a bigger demand for seats than
there are seats available, so they sell standing room only
except that it's really sitting room and fans sit on the grass
in front of the regular seats. Everything the boys do down
here is front page news. In fact, even Frank Sinatra's arrival
took a secondary spot!"
The drawing power of professional tennis moved Donald
F. Ferguson, ruling voice of the Australian Amateur Tennis
Association, to complain that Kramer was dipping into the
ranks of amateurs for his players, that he was robbing the
country of tennis power. He also rebuked the owners of Koo-
yong Stadium for renting the facilities to our troupe. It was
apparent that his attitude was crystallized by falling gate
receipts at the Australian Nationals with no Rosewall entry
and Hoad failing to reach the finals. Seven thousand was the
top crowd.
The attack on professional tennis was launched at the an-
nual interstate tennis conference held in Melbourne. Several
delegates urged that amateur associations should stop co-
operating with touring professionals. G, A. Bitcon proposed
that no professional matches should be allowed on any State
Association courts within a month before, or until fourteen
days after, a national championship, Davis Cup, or inter-
national matches.
Another delegate, D. M. Frankenburg, said: "We should
not allow the immediate dazzle of gold from the profes-
sionals to blind us in our long-range vision. We should ask
178 Man with a Racket
ourselves: 'Are we helping to develop professional tennis to
the detriment of the amateur game?' They make large
amounts of money from our courts, whereas if they were
pushed into other stadia they would make only half the
money and be able to offer only half the inducements to our
young players to turn professional. It hurts me to see them
get rich by exploiting the amenities that amateur officials
have worked to build up,"
Delegate A. R. Colvin, a man not given to verbosity,
summed up the success of the pros by stating: "A polished
acting society will always make more money than a repertory
company."
All this talk sounds too much like our troupe is composed
of plunderers and cradle-snatchers. In defense of our actions,
let me say that Jack Kramer presented the Victorian Tennis
Association with $3,200 from the matches in Melbourne and
the N. S. W. body received $6,000. Also, Jack made sizeable
donations to the Lawn Tennis Association junior devel-
opment plan and a project which operates in the Hardcourt
Associations.
No fanatical tennis partisans exist anywhere in the world
like the Australians. They have rabid, shirtsleeved, cheering
crowds comparable to Milwaukee's amazing baseball fans.
It was to be assumed that I'd be on the short end of the ap-
plause. Ken was one of the real sports heroes of the country,
and my height stacked up against his turned it into a midget-
giant struggle.
Most of the Australian sporting public are fair-minded. A
small percentage are wildly boisterous, completely lacking
control the real noise-making, razzing kind. These antics
are embarrassing to the majority who try hushing them up
and later apologize to the competitors.
While competing in the AMPOL Tournament of Cham-
pions in Adelaide, South Australia, a spectator got my goat.
The Day I Exploded 179
Fifteen thousand people were watching the pros in a round-
robin style of play. Though it was night, the temperature
hovered around 105 degrees. Humidity was high. Some of
the fans were sopping up beer, and beer and humidity and
tennis just don't seem to mix.
From the outset of the tour several newspapers had become
habitual misquoters. Every statement I made was twisted
until they had the overtones of braggadocio. One of the
spectators with a retentive memory was catcalling some of
the quotes. His voice echoed around the court. The con-
stant heckling was bearing down heavily on my frayed nerves
and over-tennised condition.
I walked in front of a section holding about five thousand
people, where somewhere the heckler was concealed, and
called: ."Listen, Horsehead, you're very brave hiding among
all those people. Why don't you come down here where I can
see you?"
Of course he didn't move.
Later, Jack Kramer said he would probably fine me and
demand an apology. He did neither. We both let the incident
slide.
As the match progressed, I won the first two sets and it was
4-all in the fourth with game-point on my service. I faulted
and threw the ball into the air for the second serve. Just be-
fore it fell a voice boomed, "Go!" I let the ball drop, stood
and waited. General bedlam broke out in the stands while
hundreds tried to quiet the shouter. Finally I served again
and double-faulted. I lost the game.
I was thoroughly disgusted with myself as I walked to-
ward the umpire's stand to change courts. My head was
down and I was tense and brooding, seething with suppressed
wrath. I looked up. Directly in front of me was a dead micro-
phone, the only thing around that couldn't sue me if I hit it.
I slugged it with my racket hard. I had to take out my
180 Man with a Racket
feelings and release my emotions on something. I like to
think I'm human.
I lost the set, and in the final set Ken played magnificently
to take the match.
Then the press really loused things up, claiming: "Gon-
zales turned and hurled his racket at the umpire box. It struck
with such force it hit a microphone and bounced into the
stands/ '
This was unkind and untrue. It happened as I described
it. While I admit my outburst was wrong, I don't think I
shattered tennis etiquette too severely. Once in a while an
emotion has to slip out. At least I didn't spit at the crowd
like Ted Williams did in baseball.
Back in Los Angeles, Henry commented, "If I know my
husband, he called the heckler a much worse name than
'HorseheadV Well, I admit I thought of a worse name but
I didn't use it.
Pancho Segura won the tournament. I'm glad he did. He
won $4,500 in cash and an immeasurable amount of confi-
dence. I played Rosewall once more before returning to the
United States. He smothered me, 64, 6-4, 6-2. 1 was tired and
weary, and my hand was hurting, but I got out of Australia
with a 7 to 4 lead. I felt fortunate.
And, oh, yes Jack Kramer paid for the busted mike.
A few days before I left Australia a newspaper approached
me and offered to pay for several byline articles. Believing
it a good chance for a final, accurate interview, I accepted.
Here are a few excerpts:
"Now that I am calmed down over the Adelaide incident, I
don't want Australians to think I am a knocker of the greatest
sports nation in the world. Please don't put me in the same
class as Art Larsen and Dick Savitt who squealed when they
went back to the States that they would never return to
The Day I Exploded 181
Australia. Apart from the lame brains in Adelaide, the
Australian public has been wonderful to me.
'Tve tried to repay them by playing the best tennis I can,
The truth is I've never had it better than in Australia. In one
month here I've put away more money than I extracted from
Jack Kramer in five whole months last year for blasting Tony
Trabert in North America.
"I made one hundred thousand dollars in my first pro year
in 1950, but I played fast and wild with it. Then came lean
years. Now I aim to get out of pro tennis with around two
hundred thousand dollars which should give me a good income
for life.
"Only Ken Rosewall stands in my way this year, and after
that looms Lew Hoad. If you want to know something, I
think I am lucky Rosewall is only half my size. Every time
he returns a well-placed first service it amazes me. He ought
to be an inspiration to all the small players in the world."
For the first time in my life, while riding on a plane from
Honolulu to Los Angeles, I took sleeping pills. I felt no ef-
fects. Upon arrival in Los Angeles I made several important
appointments, including one with my income tax man and
another with Lou Warren. I kept neither. The sleeping
pills struck with delayed action, delivering a punch that
knocked me out for eighteen hours. At a press luncheon the
following day everyone said, "You look great. Refreshed and
rested." I should. Eighteen solid hours of sleep is a precious
thing. Yet I was worried about my hand. I told everyone:
"It feels fine." It didn't. But, again, there was no time for
rest. The test was coming February 18 in Madison Square
Garden.
The Garden held 11,416 spectators on the night our tour
made its American debut. They paid from three to six dollars
a seat. I wanted to give them more than a faulty, sore-handed
exhibition. I believe I did. I put a pad over my cyst, put de-
182 Man with a Racket
sire in my heart, and played with a minimum of errors,
trouncing Ken, 6-2, 6-4, 6-2.
My hand felt pretty fair. Confidence, big, wonderful gobs
of it if such a delightful thing can come in gobs returned.
I strongly felt I'd win the tour. The canvas-covered court was
lightning fast and made to order for my serve and volley. If
the serve and volley worked well, I figured I wouldn't have
to fear my opponents' ground strokes. Still, I didn't think I'd
beat Ken as easily as I handled Tony Trabert. Tony and Ken
clashed in Australia and Ken won the decision in straight
sets, taking up where he left off in Davis Cup play and the
U. S. Singles. Ken moves better than Tony.
An amateur switching to the pro game indoors always is at
a disadvantage. The artificial lighting, the strange footing on
the canvas court, and so many other first-time experiences
stack up against him. But then there was my damaged hand.
I wondered if it could balance the scale.
15 And Now, Lew Head
As my tour with Ken Rosewall progressed over wearying
miles of travel, from city to city, from arena to arena, I
gradually assumed complete mastery over my Australian foe;
and by the time our troupe reached Bakersfield, California,
to close out the long journey, the score stood 51-26 in my
favor. I was very tired, very happy, very gratified.
Plans had been made for scheduling the tour in South and
Central America, but I begged off. I wanted to stay at home,
rest, and begin knowing my family again. Ken, though, was
committed to finish the grind. I felt sure that he was going
to be relieved at my absence on the opposite side of the net.
He may have been somewhat discouraged, yet he never
showed it. In Princeton, New Jersey, he told a newspaper
scribe, "Pancho just doesn't seem to have any bad nights.
It's not human. He's not human. He's always tough. I have to
183
184 Man with a Racket
work like crazy in every match, and it's only when I'm playing
extremely well that I'm able to pull off a win. Somebody
ought to define and spell the word 'slump' for Pancho. I don't
think he understands it."
Jokingly, Ken told reporters that he grows fearful when
someone in the stands provokes me* "It is then," he com-
mented, "that Gonzales takes it out on me, the innocent by-
stander, and practically blows me off the court/'
He was referring to one night in Boston, a night when I
thought the old saying about "banned in Boston" might be
applied to me as well as book censorship. I made for a heck-
ler in the grandstand, but I'm happy to say I was restrained.
Too many people enjoy suing these days.
We interrupted our tour to compete in the National Pro-
fessional Championships, in Cleveland. I got a respite from
Ken. Segura neatly arranged this by eliminating him. After
a first round bye, I handled Frank Parker, 6-2, 6-3; Tony Tra-*
bert, in a battle down to the wire, 3-6, 8-6, 11-9, and went on
to defeat Segura in the finals, 7-5, 4-6, 6-3, 6-1.
At this point I want to contradict a rumor that reached
my ears at least a dozen times. It's been said that after losing
a particular hectic match to Ken I jumped into one of our
tour cars without waiting for the customary passengers, driv-
ing alone and in anger to the next city thus fouling up our
transportation and creating an over-crowded situation.
Added to this were whispers that I was trying to leave town,
as fast as possible after losing.
This rumor is untrue. I believe I know its origin. One
afternoon after Ken beat me, I was anxious to get started
for the next town and I hurried everybody up, nearly pulling
Segura out of the shower before he was finished. I had a rea*
son, childish as it might be. In my mind the sooner I got to
the next city, the sooner I could avenge my defeat. Crazy
And Now, Lew Hoad 185
thinking? Sure it was, but it was the motivation for my hurry
and too-fast driving.
While we were winding up the tour I was taking a long-
range look across the Atlantic at the forthcoming Wimbledon
tournament, sharing Jack Kramer's worries about the dwin-
dling class of first-rate amateur competitors. Jack expressed
sorrow that America's first ten players were the weakest
he had seen in fifteen years. For once I was forced to agree
with him. Vic Seixas, an accomplished Internationalist, was
too old; Ham Richardson was wrapped up in his studies;
crafty Budge Patty was over the hill; and Herb Flam was
unable to climb the same hill.
Both of us agreed that the only hopeful prospect in our
country was Alex Olmeda, a student at the University of
Southern California. Alex is a good future bet. He even scowls
like an old pro. However, Alex is from Peru. America has no
fine prospect unless there's one hiding out in the woods.
On the other hand, Australia, as usual, boasted of an abun-
dance of fine players, like Ashley Cooper, Mai Anderson,
Neal Fraser, Rod Laver, Bob Mark, Mervyn Rose, Bob Emer-
son. Any one of these could rise to greatness. The Aussies seem
to turn them out like a factory and must surely have a net-
work of conveyor belts leading from the crib to the court. Still
there was one player head and shoulders above the pack, and
that was Lew Hoad, the powerful, chief guardian of the Davis
Cup. Hoad was the star, if not sometimes recalcitrant, pupil
of Harry Hopman.
As previously stated, Lew had been stricken with the
miseries and during 1957 his tennis was only spotty. I had
an idea he was saving himself for an all-out effort at Wimble-
don. I sincerely hoped so. The gap was wide between Lew
and his countrymen. If Lew lost at Wimbledon, or for that
matter even if he won and refused to turn professional, 1958
186 Man with a Racket
promised to be a dull year for World Tennis, Inc., and Pan-
cho Gonzales.
Interviewed by Jeane Hoffman, of the Los Angeles Times,
Jack aired his views:
"Overall/' he said, "there's nothing wrong with the tennis
picture today. Tennis, on a sporting goods basis, is doing
greater than ever. More people are playing it. But either the
kids of top ability are going into other sports, or they aren't
getting the right foundation. A degree of it is my fault; I
helped popularize the boom serve and net game, and too many
kids start out that way now. You've got to master the funda-
mental strokes and baseline play first/'
Kramer lamented that "Even Don Budge, who's forty-two,
can take the measure of some of the kids coming up today.
It's a rough situation. I've been accused of whipping the
cream off America's amateur tennis, but at the moment there's
no cream to skim."
So it was squarely up to Lew Hoad. Only Lew could add
more sugar to the already rich, creamy confection that was
professional tennis. Without Lew the confection might go
stale. Of course it was also up to Jack Kramer; up to him to
come through with an offer that could not be refused. I had
every confidence in Jack. Combine a bankroll with personal
magnetism, add a dash of superlative salesmanship, and the
merger is nearly unbeatable. It was Hoad winning Wimble-
don, or bust, as far as my 1958 plans were concerned.
First round play of the 1957 Wimbledon tourney provided
no test for the stocky Aussie. He took Pierre Darmon of
France in straight sets, 6-2, 6-4, 6-3. The second round saw
Lew score another easy victory as he raced through Roger
Fancutt of South Africa, 6-4, 6-2, 6-1. He was still untested.
The third round found Lew stroking sharply and crushing
Johnny Lesch, a UCLA student, 6-3, 9-7, 6-4.
Fellow-traveling Australians were now crowding the brack-
And Now, Lew Hoad 187
ets, and all of them loomed as severe roadblocks along Hoad's
pathway. Several of them had beaten him in major tourna-
ments. Yet, when he swept aside the challenge of one of them
Roy Emerson 6-4, 64, 6-2 to gain the quarter-finals, I
breathed easier.
Mervyn Rose, another of the Aussie contingent, was next
on the docket. Mervyn, who had been playing in U. S. winter
tournaments, was always tough. Lew mangled him, 6-4, 4-6,
10-8, 6-3, and was scheduled to square off in the semis against
Sweden's Sven Davidson, conqueror of Vic Seixas. Lew took
the sometimes brilliant Swede, 6-4, 6-4, 7-5. He was ready for
the finals against still another Aussie, Ashley Cooper, who
had polished off the retrieving Herbie Flam in straight sets,
and countryman Neal Fraser, three sets to one.
Cooper was a good-looking, power-type player. Bobby-sox-
ers sigh at the sight of him. Hoad did anything but sigh. At
his tremendous best, his attacking game completely demoral-
ized Cooper. Twice Lew's stinging shots sent the racket fly-
ing from the hand of his rival. Gardnar Mulloy, dean of Amer-
ican players and 1957 Wimbledon doubles winner with
Budge Patty, characterized him in World Tennis as "a re-
minder of one of Disney's animated rabbits whose feet spin
when running at top speed."
It required only fifty-five minutes for Hoad to do the job.
Cooper was beaten, 6-2, 6-1, 6-2. 1 believe Lew, in winning his
second consecutive Wimbledon, maintained a calmer attitude
on that memorable day than I did. I paced. I fretted. I kept
bothering newspaper sports desks by constantly calling in for
results. Although Davis Cup play and the U. S. Nationals
were still on Lew's tennis agenda, he was now fair game for
Jack Kramer's offers.
Lured to New York, Hoad signed with Jack, much to the
consternation of the Australian Lawn Tennis Association.
That august body had been counting heavily on Lew defend-
188 Man with a Racket
ing the Cup. Lew received a guarantee of $125,000 against a
20 per cent gross for a two-year contract.
Australian sports columnist Harry Green, long a protago-
nist of pure amateurism in tennis, exploded in the Melbourne
Sun that Lew's action had toppled the Davis Cup from the
very insecure perch of the world's top tennis fixture.
"From here at least for several years the Davis Cup is
strictly for second-raters," he declared.
Bitterly he wrote: "How can the challenge round be the
test of the world's tennis supremacy when hardly any of its
contestants are among the world's top ten?"
"Surely, the only real battle could be between Hoad, Ken
Rosewall, and Frank Sedgman, representing Australia, and
Richard Gonzales, Tony Trabert, and Jack Kramer for the
United States. If any of these six players are at the challenge
round, it will be as newspaper or radio commentators. Out
on the court will be players either too young or not just
good enough for the professional game."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bonnie Hoad, mother of the twice-
crowned Wimbledon champion, admitted that it seemed a
miracle that her twenty-two-year-old son was even playing.
She revealed that Melbourne doctors who examined him six
months earlier placed him under a sentence of tennis death.
Medicos believed that Lew, close to the peak of his career, was
slated never to hold a racket again.
Mrs. Hoad further disclosed that after the national titles
in Melbourne in January, 1957, doctors told her that her son's
injured back would forever stop him playing. "Instead of
taking this advice," Mrs. Hoad said, "Lew placed all confi-
dence in the Sydney doctor who had been treating him. The
doctor found Lew's spinal discs had not been displaced, but
that a ligament beside them was stretched.
"He placed him in a plaster cast, gave him special exercises
and gradually cured him."
And Now, Lew Hoad 189
It was this statement by Mrs. Hoad that provided me with
an insight into the character of the youth I would face during
1958 a young fighter who refused to give up even after doc-
tors had read his requiem.
Trying to familiarize myself with Lew, I began assimilat-
ing scraps of information I had heard about him, adding to
my own personal observations. I recalled that he didn't give
a damn about diet, once stating, "I'm fond of ice cream and
bananas for breakfast, so why shouldn't I eat them?"
I could hardly conceal a laugh at this, recalling that I was
a beans and Coca-Cola man myself. But one man who
wouldn't think it funny was Jack Kramer. If he had his way
and he generally does Lew's diet, especially the early
morning one, would change to the more conventional break-
fast type.
Lew had little formal instruction. At nineteen he was al-
ready an Australian hero, having beaten the ears off the
Americans challenging for Davis Cup honors. He wore his
hero's mantle unconcernedly. "I won," would be his only
comment after taking a big match. If he lost he would ex-
plain with equal feeling, "I lost," letting it go at that, minus
excuses. And for a losing tennis player to be fresh out of
excuses is heresy.
Under the globe-circling taskmaster, Harry Hopman,
boss of the Aussie Davis Cup team, Lew was a revolutionary
hating rules and regimentation. Failure to do roadwork,
using the wrong knife or fork, or profanity was punishable by
small fines in the Hopman camp. Lew was steadfastly guilty
of these offenses, regularly paying a shilling here or there.
Some have said that Hopman himself absorbed the fines.
Hoad is a cool customer before a tremendously important
match. He displays no emotions. His eyes are dreamy, his
manner carefree.
Quoting from Life magazine, "One day his casualness
190 Man with a Racket
caused a minor panic. One o his teammates explains, 'The
Duke and the Queen were there and we were all a bit jumpy,
you know. When it was time for the match we suddenly
couldn't find Lew. We looked all over the place and finally
there he was, fast asleep on the massage table/ "
See what I mean?
Physically, Lew is a fine specimen. Accent is on the wrist.
He attacks on backhand as well as forehand. His service is
something discharged from a cannon. Opponents may beat
him, but they'll never tire him out. He rarely breathes hard,
and between sets, when most exhausted players drop grate-
fully into a chair for a few moments of precious rest, Lew, of
course, follows the custom. Yet it seems he would pre-
fer standing or starting right in again.
In summation, Lew may be a tough nut for Kramer to
crack and orient into the pro game where you have to put out
100 per cent every match. When an Aussie plays Davis Cup
for the honor of his country, he's a fighting terror. When
playing for cash, there could be just the slightest let-down.
This is pure speculation on my part. Lew's wife, Jennifer,
may help. Jennifer herself is a member of the Australian
women's team. If Kramer wins her over to his side, she may
be able to help shape her husband's moods.
In the pro game, Lew must learn how to pace himself.
This phase of the game took me years to conquer. You just
don't blast every first service. You learn to place the ball,
change tactics and become tricky. Amateurs, even if the score
is love-40 against them on their opponent's serve, go all out
for the point. Not so the pros. Only if the score is deuce or
to their advantage do they make a herculean effort for a serv-
ice break. Lew is a spectacular shot-maker, a specialist in the
put-away and crosscourt placement. He'll have to curb these
temptations in the professional ranks, eliminating chances of
erring.
And Now, Lew Hoad jgj
Lew admitted he expected it to be tough as a pro, stressing,
"You can't miss the easy shots and win." How right he is. No
pro can afford to blow a setup, just like a golf pro can't flub a
short putt. Lew acknowledges he has lots to learn. Every
freshman pro does.
While the plans for our tour were being made someone
asked Lew how he expected to fare against me. "I think I
have a better opportunity than anybody else," he said. "After
all, I will have had a six months' period to get ready for him.
Maybe Pancho will get soft. He's almost thirty now. At that
age it's tough to take a layoff and then come snapping back."
Pro debut for Lew came in Jack Kramer's 1957 Tourna-
ment of Champions at the West Side Tennis Club, Forest
Hills. Lew took Frank Sedgman apart, 6-3, 6-4, 6-4. News-
papers heralded the feat as a "smashing success." They were
a bit premature. Sedgman, who moves with the agility of a
cat, had been out of competition for over a year and his game
was a far cry from its former sharpness. No one can take a
long layoff and hope for anything but mistiming.
The tournament was a round-robin affair in both singles
and doubles, and offered ten-thousand-dollar prize money.
Competing were the leading six pros in the world: Hoad,
Sedgman, Rosewall, Segura, Trabert, and myself. I bowled
over Rosewall, 6-2, 8-6, 64; Sedgman, 5-7, 7-5, 3-6, 6-3, 6-3;
Trabert, 6-3, 3-6, 11-9, 6-3; Segura, 6-4, 6-3, 64, and was ready
for the final-day match against Hoad.
But Hoad on that hot blistering day wasn't ready for me.
I won 9-7, 6-4, 3-6, 6-3 and felt that I was always in command.
Lew's chief fault was trying to finish a shot before it was really
completed. He got out of position too fast. After the execu-
tion, he sped for the center of the court too rapidly. His over-
head drew raves. If I lofted one to him the best thing for me
to do was to seek cover under the umpire's stand.
He used the same grip as Frank Sedgman. If anybody
192 Man with a Racket
anywhere has any similarity whatsoever to Frank Sedgman,
that's enough to place me on my guard. I would unhesita-
tingly place Frank as second in the world rankings.
Lew showed he is basically an offensive player. He can't
change pace yet, and this hurts his game. It's bang, bang,
bang all the way, and when those sizzling shots develop in
accuracy I'm in for plenty of trouble.
Where I was surprised was on my service. I thought I could
back Lew up a few feet. I couldn't. He stood just inside the
baseline waiting stoically for anything I sent his way. Only
Segura stands so close on me.
After a nine-day run, here's the final singles standing in
the Tournament of Champions:
W L
Gonzales 5
Sedgman 3 2
Hoad 2 3
Trabert 2 3
Rosewall 2 3
Segura 1 4
Trabert and Sedgman proved too powerful a duo during
the doubles competition, snaring first place. Rosewall and I
took second. Then it was on to Los Angeles, for a replay,
called this time the Master's Tournament. Dinny Pails was
added to the cast, and all matches were to be two out of three
sets.
While Jack had anticipated a splendid turn-out for this
tournament its second year he must have received one of
the pleasantest surprises of his life when the fans fought to
buy tickets. Myron McNamara, publicity director of World
Tennis, Inc., who would part with a free ducat as readily as
his right leg, performed in his customary manner by hand-
And Now, Lew Hoad 193
ing out few passes. I spent three hundred dollars on tickets
for friends.
At the conclusion of the firing I had won another one
and was some three thousand dollars richer. I dropped one
match, a thriller to Ken Rosewall, 22-20, 1-6, 6-2. Then Tra-
bert and Sedgman obliged by eking out wins over Ken.
Sedgman, against whom I'm always at my best, was the man
I had to beat on the final afternoon. Entering the contest a
3-1 clubhouse favorite, I won 6-1, 3-6, 6-1. Hoad was easy for
me, and everybody picked on him. Again Rosewall and I
grabbed second place in the doubles behind Trabert and
Sedgman.
Against Frank, I won the match early in the third set. All
that's needed in this pro business is one quick break and the
handwriting is on the wall. Three backhand passing shots
that angled cross-court wrapped it up for me, breaking
Frank's serve. After that I simply held my own and I was
home.
Lew proved a bitter disappointment. One reporter wrote,
"He played like an amateur." I wouldn't go so far as to be-
little him that much. I would say that he simply didn't look
like a $125,000 investment, after losing every match.
The money I won in this and the Forest Hills tournament
averaged in excess of three hundred dollars per day; not bad
for work that is enjoyable. I can only guess at the Los Angeles
tournament gross, but I'd put it at better than fifty thousand
dollars.
The usual number of stars from the entertainment world
were present. I noticed Dick Powell, June Allyson, Walter
Pidgeon, Doris Day, Ginger Rogers, Rita Hayworth, Howard
Duff, Mark Stevens, Groucho Marx, MacDonald Carey, Burt
Lancaster, and there were dozens more I couldn't identify
with the lights in my eyes.
194 Man with a Racket
Friends of Sedgman had hinted of his having bursitis in
his arm, combined with a bad leg muscle. Frank waved aside
any alibis. "Pancho just beat me/' he said. "I felt fine, fine
as can be expected at the end of a long tournament like this.
I think Pancho has changed his game. He used to try power-
passing shots. Now he passes you with sharp angles and dink
shots."
I can't agree with Frank's theories concerning changing
my game. True, I changed my style against him, but against
others I'd play my old tactics. I felt that to hit the ball hard
to Frank would only be leaving myself open for errors. When
he's knocking off those volleys, he is unbeatable. I'd rather
try moving him around since I knew he was pretty tired. I've
been lucky against him. One of these days that guy is going
to handle me.
My Feud with
Jack Kramer
Once I fought in a big war against dictatorship, and now
I'm doing it again. Only this time the fight doesn't involve so
many people. It's just a private war between promoter Jack
Kramer of World Tennis, Inc., me and a piece of paper
known as a contract. My signature is on the contract.
Throughout Jack's reign as King of the Pros and his suc-
cessful tours against Bobby Riggs, Frank Sedgman and my-
self, Big Jake received a 30 per cent guarantee of the gross.
Since those days, to my knowledge, there's been no decline in
the price indexes of any commodity on the market from ten-
nis players to a loaf of bread. Everything's gone up. Well,
everything but my percentage. That's gone down.
Fresh out of the amateur ranks, I got 30 per cent when Jack
walloped me on tour. Hitting the comeback trail a number
of years later against Tony Trabert, my share was a flat fif-
195
196 Man with a Racket
teen thousand dollars. Jack gave me 20 per cent against Ken
Rosewall, a figure that later was upped to 25 per cent and
called a bonus.
Now my next opponent, Lew Hoad, was signed for a
guarantee of $125,000 matched against 20 per cent gross over
a two-year period. The sum involved is fifty thousand more
than has ever been offered in a pro contract before.
I asked Jack for 30 per cent of the Hoad tour. His answer
was "20 per cent." Finally I tried to arbitrate and agreed to
settle for 25 per cent, to which Jack still said no.
My feeling is that no professional champion in any sport
should earn less than the promoter. Kramer's cut is 50 per
cent of the gross in the United States, 55 per cent if the tour
goes over three hundred thousand dollars. But on European
tours, he divides 75 per cent between the players and Fred
Perry, European representative, and takes care of operating
expenses out of the 25 per cent left.
Jack has a counter argument. "I made only twenty-seven
thousand dollars last year/' he claims, and offers to throw
open his books to me.
I don't read many books.
Why, I ask myself, my friends and my lawyer, Lou Warren,
should I drop in percentages? Have I dropped in class? Can't
I make as many, if not more, service aces, placements, and
smashes? I'm an improved player and a bigger gate attraction
than ever. During the Rosewall tour spectators in large cities
like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Cleveland, Washing-
ton, Boston, and Philadelphia increased around 30 per cent.
A lot more people are becoming tennis conscious, and I be-
lieve I'm responsible for the trend. I even get a batch of daily
fan mail. And a woman in Peoria has named her dog
Pancho.
Jack says his reason for holding me down to 20 per cent
My Feud with Jack Kramer 197
is that he's committed to the other players. Fine. I want to see
the supporting cast on the tours well paid. They're my
friends. They deserve it. But I deserve it also. I can beat any-
one in the world, but I'm not being paid in proportion to my
ability.
Tennis seems to be the only sport where the champion
must take short pay, while the challenger commands fantastic
figures. Somebody will have to explain the reason to me. In
my book it doesn't figure. I played and defeated Ken Rose-
wall 51 matches to 26, and had plenty of anxious moments
during my matches with the gutty little Aussie. He's a bull-
dog that's hard to shake off. I played the series with a cyst in
my right hand and later picked up a bad case of athlete's foot
perhaps a combination of assorted germs from seventy-
seven locker rooms. I still have it.
You never know what ailments are going to strike as the
tour stretches into thousands of miles of travel. Anything can
happen. Your arches may start hurting in Kansas City; in
Detroit you may catch cold; in Reno you may sprain your
hand pulling the crank of a slot machine. A tour calls for
total abstinence from anything in the slightest way detri-
mental to fine physical condition.
The position of a pro champ is extremely precarious; some-
thing similar to walking a tightrope between two skyscrapers.
Lose one tour and you're finished. Then your income can
dwindle to the point that you can make out the tax forms
yourself without outside assistance. Oh, you can pick up a
little change playing the U. S. National Professional
Championship at Cleveland, or the World's Professional
Championship at Wembley Stadium, London, and perhaps
in a supporting role on the tours but your earning powers
have been decimated. You're an also-ran. You become a man
with a racket in something that isn't a lucrative "racket" any
198 Man with a Racket
longer. So in this business you have to get it while the getting
is good, and there are altogether too few years in which to
pick the frosting off the cake.
I'm thirty years old. To persons middle-aged or old, I'm
still an infant. In tennis, I'm considered close to the wheel-
chair. In this run-run-run vocation when you pass thirty the
reflexes can slow, the legs fail to obey the will of the brain.
I believe I'll be top dog until I'm thirty-five, but who knows
what ambitious, hungry amateur will come to the fore within
the next five years and run my shorts off.
When Jack Kramer added his former doubles partner and
my constant court nemesis, Ted Schroeder, to his World
Tennis, Inc. organization, it came as a surprise to me. Ted
had spent ten years in the refrigeration business, giving it
all up to return to his first love, tennis.
He joins a tightly-knit little group that includes, besides
Czar Kramer, Myron McNamara, publicity; Olin Parks, tour
director; John Stinson, equipment manager; Bob Barnes,
Australian representative; Fred Perry, European representa-
tive, and Cecile Kay, secretary.
Ted will work on the booking end of the tours. He's
a quiet fellow who will have to talk much more than he did
while making a splash in tennis circles. Then his flashing
racket did the talking for him, plus the umpire's final words:
"Game and match to Mr. Schroeder."
Bob Falkenburg once made what I considered a choice
remark about Ted during a tournament. Bob said, "Ted's
my doubles' partner, and the only time he's spoken to me in
five days was when he asked, 'Whose serve is it?' "
Ted acts as sort of a liaison man and a patcher-upper of my
troubles stemming from Jack. I like him. He doesn't argue
that I'm wrong, and he doesn't say that I'm right. But, he lis-
tens. You can't get mad at a guy who just smokes his pipe,
nods and listens.
My Feud with Jack Kramer jgg
My present contract with Jack, signed in December, 1955,
runs until December, 1960. That's a long time to be in bond-
age. It didn't take Lincoln that long to free the slaves.
Of course this hassle places my relationship with Jack on
the frosty side. Anything I do with him from now on is purely
business. When Jack gave me a 5 per cent bonus against Rose-
wall he called it an increase in pay. This is a misnomer. A
bonus is something given as an incentive or reward. I'd like
Jack to take a lie detector test on this point, but I guess
such procedure is unheard of in a civil case.
Recently I heard someone remark, "J ac and Pancho need
each other." Truer words were never spoken. Jack needs
me and I need Jack. He's the promoter and I'm the star
the star who doesn't twinkle very brightly financially. To-
gether we can make money. Divided, we fall on our respec-
tive noses. Summing it up, the relationship is comparable to
a marriage of convenience with mutual admiration entirely
lacking.
I was bitterly opposed to Jack's move when he signed Lew
Hoad before the U. S. Nationals and Davis Cup play. So was
the Australian Lawn Tennis Association. Jack tossed him
into the Tournament of Champions at the West Side Tennis
Club, and a replay of the same at Los Angeles, being known
there as the Masters' Round-Robin Tournament. Jack's eyes
were on the turnstiles, and he knew that Lew would play a
tune on the cash register.
My eyes were on the future, and I strongly contended that
the Hoad defeats would take the edge off our 1958 one hun-
dred-match tour. It's a matter of record that Lew was badly
mangled by my fellow pros. He was as green as a St. Patrick's
Day parader's necktie. He lacked confidence.
Jack's argument was, "We're seasoning him." It was the
same as a baseball team having spring training. Before
200 Man with a Racket
meeting me, Lew, playing in various foreign countries, would
have had seventy to eighty matches under his belt.
I even tried to help him. I never tried to help an opponent
before. Perhaps I'm getting mellow. But in Lew I saw a rep-
lica of myself just starting in with the pros and losing night
after night. The image softened me.
Yet I still say that even with this seasoning Lew's past per-
formances are bound to bruise the gate.
Yes, this is just one of my multiple disagreements with Jack
Kramer. We've had several rows over the use of unauthorized
endorsements, but I won't go into that. I'm a big boy now,
and I don't like being pushed around, squeezed contractually
or taken general advantage of. I'm caught in a wringer and
I want out. I'm the best tennis player in the world, and I
desire monetary as well as press recognition of this fact.
Speaking of press recognition, it took me years to build up
to the level where the public recognized me as the champion.
On the Trabert tour the pretty printed poster screamed in
large type: JACK KRAMER PRESENTS, and then I fol-
lowed in small lettering. Half of the audiences still thought
Jack was the No. 1 tennis boy in the world.
I threatened to back out of the two round-robin tourna-
ments, but each time Lou Warren and his partner, Eugene
Glushon, broke down my resistance. I'm really a pretty peace-
ful guy who likes to go around petting my boxer dogs, but
when I think of how Jack is clamping me down, I begin to
breathe fire. He makes like he's doing me a favor when he
offers me the same percentage he did against Ken Rosewall
and no bonus.
So I went to court in Los Angeles to prove my point. Jack
beat me again. The judge ruled I didn't have a case. But I'm
hoping for another chance against him. He'll have the first
serve, but if he doesn't ace me, LOOK OUT!
Nearly every reporter who interviews me wants to know
My Feud with Jack Kramer 201
of my future plans. I never thought anything in the future
was certain except dying. Certainly I've given some thought
to what comes after Lew Hoad. Still I hate to look ahead of
Hoad. He's my immediate future.
Seriously, I hope to go on knocking off amateur threats for
at least five more years, provided there actually exists an ama-
teur threat. Tennis tournaments may well lose their sponsors
unless a player of exceptional caliber comes to the fore. Why,
in the 1957 Nationals the gallery was so conspicuous by its
absence that when a small child began to cry somewhere in
the depths of the stadium, it was so noticeable the referee ad-
monished:
"Try to keep that baby a bit quiet, please!"
Some years ago fifty babies could have howled in chorus
and I doubt if the noise would have bothered anyone.
I'd also like to see a movie made on my life, and I could
either play a role in it or hang around as technical adviser. I
believe it would be an inspiration to underprivileged kids.
Actor Charlton Heston, a tennis devotee, has shown some in-
terest in my life story and, believe me, any guy who can come
down off Mt. Sinai as Moses in The Ten Commandments to
the tennis courts to play Pancho Gonzales must be one hell of
an actor. I've heard that few sports pictures make money, but
my life would have a guaranteed Spanish-speaking audience.
By the time I retire from active tennis I hope to have some
income property. If any of the tenants play tennis, they'll
have an easy time stalling me for the rent.
Where will you teach? I'm asked. I don't think I will. How
can I teach when I've never had a single lesson? When you
teach you have to keep hitting the balls to your pupils or
they'll become discouraged. I doubt if I could do this. I'd be
tempted to scorch one down the sidelines.
Anyway, Southern California has enough tennis teachers.
Competent instructors like Carl Earn, Harvey Snodgrass,
202 Man with a Racket
Bob Harmon, Bob Rogers, Sam Match, Johnny Lamb, Walter
Westbrook, Phil Greens, Ray Casey, Vini Rurac, Frank
Feltrop, George Toley, Loring Fiske, Jerry Hover and many
others.
Tennis has been good to me. It's improved my life. I just
moved into a nice red two-story house in a quiet district in
South Los Angeles. I gave my old house to my brother,
Ralph. He helped me a lot on tours. My boys haven't been
sick a day in their lives, and we've always been able to give
them good food to eat. I don't know how long this financial
independence will last, but it looks promising. I love and re-
spect my mother and my father, and I want to make up for
the bad times I gave them as a boy, when I wouldn't go to
school.
Speaking of boys, kids look up to me, and young boys need
help. Pancho Segura and I have talked a lot about opening a
tennis school for kids. I'd like to form a Little League tennis
program. My oldest boy is eight now, and he'll be ready
for something like that very soon. He thinks and dreams of
tennis more than I did at his age. One good example came
the time I was going to spank him. "Please, Daddy," he re-
quested, "use a tennis racket instead of your hand."
Young boys need support just like I did once. When
you're of Mexican and Spanish descent very often you don't
get off to a good start. It's like running the 100-yard dash and
being forced to give a two-yard handicap. The Latin kids
and kids from the East Side don't get the promotion they
need. They need encouragement. You've got to make tennis
available to these kids. That's why we haven't got any good
Latin players in Los Angeles.
Tennis is still at a stage where it takes some money to get
started the correct way. But you can learn almost as much by
watching as by playing. That's what I did. It's tougher,
though. Patience is needed. I watched tennis bigshots hit cer-
My Feud with Jack Kramer 203
tain shots and tried to duplicate them with old rackets and
beat-up balls. By practicing over and over again I licked it.
I hate to think about quitting competitive tennis. I know
111 be forced into retirement some day. But I'd like to stay
in sports. I need a challenge for everything I do and sports
furnish the challenge. To meet a challenge keeps me inter-
ested and alive, sharpening my senses.
Maybe in fifty years I'll slow down to the point where Hen-
rietta will challenge me to a knitting contest. Ill accept. And
111 beat her by ten stitches.
// The Toughest Tour
I'd enjoy writing off this chapter in a single sentence:
I beat Lew Hoad, 48 matches to 34.
But it's not that simple. Every trick I ever learned, more
concentration than was previously required, rigorous condi-
tioning, and, lastly, a maximum of determination were
needed before Lew was conquered.
Starting out like a whirlwind he ran up an 8-5 lead in Aus-
tralia, extended it to 18-9 in this country and I didn't pass
him until that night in Kansas City when I went out in
front, 22-21. Lew was supposed to roll over and play dead
when I lengthened this lead to ten matches. Instead of play-
ing dead he came very much to life, moving to a slim 36-31
deficit and hanging right onto my tail until the wear and
tear of the trip sent him to the pits with an aching hip.
At tour's end, back in Los Angeles where I was master in
204
The Toughest Tour 205
my own home again (although Henry had just ordered me
to take my feet off an end table) I was talking with Larry
Negrete, 1957 Public Parks doubles champion who casually
mentioned, "It's not that Jack Kramer did anything to you,
Pancho, it's what he tried to do."
I knew what Larry inferred. Jack had Lew on the road
from the time he turned professional until our first clash in
Australia. Lew, together with Jack, Segura, and Rosewall,
played all over the world. Lew got slimmer, trimmer, wiser.
He was readied for me as no challenger had ever been in the
history of professional tennis. It was comparable to the New
York Yankees, after a full season of spring training, opening
against the White Sox whose squad had just reported for the
first game.
Money, I believe, was secondary in Jack's mind when he
took Lew on this preliminary tour. The gate would have
been just as satisfactory without Lew because many of the
countries where they played rarely had a chance to see any
stars in action. Jack's motivation was to whip Lew into such
fine shape that he would knock me off the throne.
Well ... he sure came close.
I'm not a mind reader as I have often discovered in poker
games with Jack, yet this time I had a piercingly clear picture
of what went on inside his head. Lew represented a $125,000
investment and was a genial, easy-to-handle chap. I'm not a
genial fellow and, as Jack will tell you, even if you don't ask
him, I'm hard as hell to handle. So if Lew beat me all would
be rosy for Jack. I'd be out of the pro picture and out of Jack's
hair. Lew would be in his rear pocket where he'd peacefully
rest, coming out only for money.
I understand that Gar Mulloy, while playing at Wimble-
don, used to go to the London Aquarium and stare at fish to
relieve tension. Gar's methods may be fine for Gar, but I
have different ones. These are not to relieve pressure but to
206 Man with a Racket
touch off an angry explosion inside which makes me play
harder. I don't have to visit an aquarium. I look into a mirror
and see the biggest fish in Kramer's special aquarium trapped
by a seven-year contract.
When Lew began beating me in Australia and New Zea-
land the writers had a field day. Almost to a man they de-
serted Pancho Gonzales, now known as a "sinking ship/'
"Time has run out on the champion" was the trend of think-
ing. Out of all the experts and alleged prognosticates only
Mercer Beasley supported me.
"Gonzales will win by fifteen matches/' he predicted.
The bookies in Australia made Lew a 6-to-5 choice. Im-
provement of Hoad was cited as the reason, plus my age and
lack of incentive. "Pancho is set financially," someone wrote,
"and the desire to win will be lacking." How ridiculous this
sounded to me! Maybe the writer forgot there's a little un-
avoidable item in this country called income tax.
This seems a good time to inject a letter written by Gloria
Kramer, Jack's wife, to Jeane Hoffman and published in the
Los Angeles Times.
"Dear Jeane:
Well, you've just got to put this Australia down as the
tennis capital of the world! In 10 matches to date 75,000
people have come out, and thousands more turned away. Add
11,000 fans in New Zealand for three matches. And if you
want to mention money, the tour has drawn in $135,000
for the 10 matches in Australia and $28,000 in New Zealand.
"No doubt you are surprised that Hoad is leading. So is
everybody here. I keep saying to Jack, 'Why is Lew winning?'
Because, earlier when Jack had written to me from Europe,
he said what a great kid this Hoad was but he didn't think
he'd ever win!
"Obviously, the little 'warmup' trip to Europe under the
tutorship of Jack did a lot of good. Also the steady competition
against Pancho Segura, Ken Rosewall and Jack. It's sort of
The Toughest Tour 207
cute how Jack watches over Lew like a mother hen. Lew is
very well liked by all the boys, at least the ones working for
Jack. Wonderful disposition, very co-operative, will do any-
thing to help make this tennis a success.
"I'm not an authority, but from a spectator's view (and not a
very good one, at that) Lew appears the stronger. He's built
like an ox. Pancho seems to tire quickly. Lew is thinking in-
telligently, and hitting with tremendous confidence. There
have been some fabulous shots by both.
"As for the relationship between Pancho and Lew, all I can
say is that Lew has such a great disposition, you can't get mad
at him. In the three matches I've seen, Pancho behaved very
well, although the first match in Wellington was under a ter-
rible wind, and it bothered Lew so much that Pancho won
easily. That was the first match I saw in New Zealand. After
that, Lew not only won the next four in Christchurch, Auck-
land and two in Perth, but all wins were in straight sets.
"Just a minute and I'll ask the boys if anything is wrong
with Pancho. That's what people will probably start asking,
isn't it?
"No, nothing is wrong with Gonzales that anyone knows
about. The regulars at the L. A. Tennis Club will have a lot to
talk about figuring this one out. Incidentally, when the boys
go into America for the opening in San Francisco I think the
score will be 8 to 5, because the single matches will soon wind
up down here.
Love
Gloria."
Gloria expressed the situation pretty well. No, there was
nothing basically wrong with me that a tour grind wouldn't
fix up. Hoad is very strong and he is built like an ox and if
I wanted to make a bad joke I'd say that I love to eat oxtail
soup. And speaking of soup and cooking in general, Lew
wasn't going to get any more of a native Australian speciality
which was kangaroo tail soup. He was about to embark on a
foreign diet. I knew what my stomach was made from cast
208 Man with a Racket
iron. Lew's stomach was going to get severely tested from
restaurant to restaurant, night after night, and the strain of
the eyes whether he's driving or a passenger watching that
concrete ribbon of roadway could exact its toll.
To get down to the main reason why we play money
the tour, the National Professional Championship which I
copped in Cleveland, the Masters that I won at Forest Hills,
the Masters that I didn't win in Los Angeles, foreign exhi-
bitions and endorsements netted me around ninety-one thou-
sand dollars during the playing year, 1957-58. Now I know
that all you office slaves clerking and filing away at seventy-
five dollars per week will think this over and come up with,
"How can he be mad at Jack Kramer when he earned that
nice chunk of dough?"
Well, I can. I'm not going to rehash why. I did that earlier
in the book.
Melvin Durslag, sports columnist on the Los Angeles
Examiner, asked Jack if I had any nice qualities.
The answer was:
"I hate to admit it, but he does. For one thing, he's very
good-hearted. He's also a very determined player. He's
loaded with guts. He's very trusting. He has never yet asked
to look at my books. And he's also honest. I would leave all
the money I own in an open locker next to his and feel confi-
dent he'd never take a penny/'
Thanks, Jack. I'm not going to pass along my opinion of
you. I'm not a hypocrite.
Jack also mentioned to Durslag that if "Pancho ever got
me over a barrel, he's going to turn the crank."
There's no opportunity for a barrel or a crank in that iron-
clad contract which has my signature at the bottom. I've com-
mitted seven years of my life to him and even if he has put
money into my pockets I've earned it the hard way under a
The Toughest Tour 209
trying condition. Did you ever hear of anyone in the Army
loving his sergeant?
The Hoad tour was the worst strain I ever went through.
Frankly, I'm not too anxious to play him again. Even when
my lead widened I couldn't afford to relax. I'd replay every
match in my mind hours after it was over. Especially those I
lost. I'd be mean for days, even scowling at waitresses and
strangers on the street. A scowl didn't have much effect on
Lew. It's hard to see across the court.
March was the great month of the tour for me. I began to
regain my touch, move in and handle Lew's second service
better and I dropped down to my normal playing weight. A
friend said, "Pancho, you're a cinch to win the athlete of the
month award."
"I doubt it," I growled.
"Wait and see."
I waited. I saw. They gave it to Silky Sullivan. Silky Sulli-
van, in case your memory needs jogging, is a horse.
On the tour I drove a Thunderbird. Alone. Those nights I
lost and traveled to another city I really took it out on that
car, in the form of abuse. And then I'd tinker it back into
shape again. Tinkering with a car is the best therapy I know
of. I found out that I average nearly 20 miles per hour faster
on nights that I lose.
Professional tennis strains a person more than any other
sport. In basketball, football, or baseball when a player is
hurt a substitute jumps in. This never happens in tennis.
You've got to go on nearly every night. I've played with a
sprained ankle and Lew splattered himself against a wall
that nearly jarred his teeth loose, but finished out the match.
Blisters, calluses, cramps, etc., are occupational troubles too
minor to even mention.
During the mornings when time hangs heavy on our hands
210 Man with a Racket
some of the boys visit museums to sop up culture. I never do.
Maybe this is regrettable. I'm certainly not proud of it. The
truth is that I just don't get any kick from cultural pursuits.
All I want to do is bang the ball where my opponent isn't.
When I do, a symphony concert or standing in contempla-
tion before the Mona Lisa can't thrill me nearly as much.
We gave the crowds crowds that broke all records to see
us some pretty good matches. Since a tennis player never
forgets I can recall that the real crowd-pleasers were in White
Plains, New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Cincinnati,
Louisville, Kansas City, Missouri, Memphis, and St. Louis.
There were also a share of bad ones. They were in Madison
Square Garden, River Oaks, Muncie, Indiana, Toledo and
Tampa, Florida. On these nights nothing worked for either
of us.
When Lew's hip began bothering him, Jack flew his own
personal doctor, Omar Fareed, from Los Angeles to take care
of him. Dr. Fareed had previously done a good job with the
cyst on my racket hand. At his suggestion, Lew dropped out
of the tour in May. The play stoppage cost him somewhere
between twenty-five hundred and four thousand dollars. On
several occasions during the tour Hoad had twinges of pain.
Tests at the UCLA Medical Center confirmed the original
diagnosis of Dr. Fareed that Lew was hobbled by right sciatic
neuritis. It is believed this condition was an outgrowth of
Hoad's previous back trouble. Physical therapy and drugs
were prescribed.
Early on the tour when I swung into stride taking sixteen
of twenty-one matches, I was certain Lew would begin to
crack and I would win in a breeze. Yet he managed to hang
on like a bulldog. After I had a 10-point bulge, 33 to 23, he
thumped me in East Orange, New Jersey, and went on to win
the next four times. You see what I mean? I hope that I never
The Toughest Tour 211
meet a finer competitor. He really gave it all he had. Two of
our matches will long remain in my memory. At Kooyong
Stadium, Melbourne, Lew slid by me 4-6, 9-7, 11-9, 18-16.
The struggle lasted three hours and forty-five minutes. An-
other marathon occurred in the Masters at Los Angeles. This
time I downed him, 3-6, 24-22, 6-1.
I want to touch a bit upon Perry T. Jones' appointment
to captaincy of the United States Davis Cup team. It's a well-
deserved honor, arriving at long last to a man who has de-
voted his life to fostering tennis. He's been in the promo-
tional end of the game for forty years. Before then, he was
a fine player.
All Mr. Jones needs is one great player and we'll regain the
Cup. Hell get that player, but when and who it will be, I'm
not certain. The pros have worked with Barry McKay, and
it might be big Barry; or even Chris Crawford, a Northern
California youth; perhaps young Earl Buckholz is only a few
years away. Southern Californians have high hopes for Don
Kierbow. Little is known of Don except that in one of his re-
cent brief tournament appearances he ousted Herbie Flam.
And reaching far into the younger generation don't count
my son Richard out of things, if youll pardon the parental
prejudice.
What amateurs are coming up for serious professional con-
sideration? By "serious" I mean to play the role of challenger
and not a member of the supporting cast. Only two: Ashley
Cooper and Mai Anderson, both of Australia. Cooper bagged
a rare "triple" in 1958 the Australian, Wimbledon, and
U. S. crowns. Only the French Championships eluded him.
At the present time I don't think he's ready to extend me,
but if Jack ever signs him or Mai and benefits them by a slow
seasoning and ripening process, I might have my troubles.
Both are the phlegmatic type, schooled in the Harry Hopkins
212 Man with a Racket
drawing room etiquette manner of gentlemanly tennis play-
ers. These boys are hard to ruffle and never let off steam on
the courts.
I got a big kick and a loud laugh the day Kramer amplified
his feelings about me before the press at Forest Hills. "I'd
like to get out from under this burden," he said, referring to
me as the burden. "I am fed up with Pancho's gripes, his
constant demands and his repeated holdouts. I can't find out
what he wants. I can't make schedules or commitments. I told
Pancho just this week that he could buy the contract himself
if he wanted it at a reasonable price."
Jack called fifty thousand dollars a reasonable price.
Of course this idea wasn't original. Slaves bought them-
selves out of bondage thousands of years ago. The world
hasn't changed much. Only the prices.
Sure, Jack's willing to sell my contract. He knows he hasn't
got an outstanding amateur to play me next year. He's des-
perate. If there was a good amateur or pro coming along,
Jack wouldn't think of selling.
Well, be it Cooper or Anderson or Lew Hoad again in the
near future, you can be sure of one thing I'll show up. Every
year from now on the critics will refer to my "slowing down"
and be watchful for indications of decay. Their typewriters
and words from mouths will be trying to make an old man
out of me before my time.
The rocking chair's a long way off.
I'm the best damned tennis player in the whole wide world
and I expect to remain so for a long, long time.
Bring on the challengers, Jack!
This book requires an appendage.
It is necessary so that the readers won't construe the emo-
tions exhibited by Henry and me toward each other as tinged
with hypocrisy. Our feelings are unchanged since the day we
The Toughest Tour 213
married. I love her; and I believe she loves me. Only we can't
live together any more.
Henry and I are divorced.
On December 22, 1958 in the Los Angeles Domestic Rela-
tions Court before Superior Judge Burnett Wolf son, an
agreement was consummated to the mutual satisfaction of
both parties.
When M use the word "satisfaction" I mean monetarily
speaking, The heart has been excluded.
I understand Henry's attitude. She says that I haven't
matured enough to accept my responsibilities in life. She is
referring to herself and the three boys.
Maybe she's right. But I think it goes deeper than that.
Perhaps T have some psychoneurosis. I just can't hold still
long enough to be a model husband. I can't relax. I've got
too much energy. I can't come home at night, put on my
house slippers and lead a domestic, by-the-fireside existence.
In this took I have the last word and by using this preroga-
tive to sp^ak of our breakup; I am in no way seeking sym-
pathy. A long time ago I came to the conclusion that I'm not
composed of the stuff good husbands are made of.
Something inside makes me want to run, run, run in all
directions' and none of them lead toward my home.
18 Tips for Beginners
Obviously, the most important thing in tennis is the racket;
without one, the game cannot be played. Thus it stands to
reason that after purchasing a racket this instrument of pleas-
ure should be afforded choice treatment. Tape the end of
the frame if you're scraping cement courts, place in a press
after using, slip into a case, clip any frayed strings, shellac
when necessary. Don't be afraid to coddle it like a baby.
Above all, don't buy a cheap racket. A cheap racket is com-
parable to a cheap fishing rod. In the case of the latter, a cast
can't quite make it where the big one is splashing; in tennis,
a shot will be missed that normally could be made if the
racket is first-class.
A price-conscious mother whose son intends learning the
game may argue, "We can't afford an expensive one. We'll
start him out with a cheap one and then get him a better one
214
Tips for Beginners 215
later on." This is just another penny-wise and pound-foolish
argument. If you follow this line of thinking, you will invar-
iably end up buying two rackets instead of one.
Rackets by arrangement with tennis shop proprietors
may be bought on time payments. Look upon this expendi-
ture as not just a purchase of wood and tightly drawn and
laced strings, but as a long-term annuity policy guaranteeing
fine physical condition, socializing, and sportsmanship.
Getting down to fundamentals.
FOREHAND. Tennis grips come in three choices. Forget
any of the modifications or exaggerations you may hear
about, such as my own hammer grip. For the forehand, use
the Eastern grip. The Eastern grip is obtained by shaking
hands with the racket much in the manner you would shake
hands with a friend.
On the forehand, you either draw the racket back straight
or take a circular swing. No two forehands are exactly alike.
They vary like fingerprints. The circular swing leads the
field in popularity and is the ultimate in rhythm. Hit the ball
flatly with a good follow-through. No turn of the racket. No
hitting up motion. Forget topspin. Topspin slows speed, en-
abling opponents to cover the shot easier while a well-hit flat
shot fairly flies toward the backstops.
Extend your left foot toward the net but don't point the
toe. On every return that isn't high the knees must be bent, if
possible. Stand like a ramrod and you'll never be a tennis
player. At first, knee bending is difficult. Soon it becomes, an
automatic reflex.
Hold the racket tightly. Keep a stiff wrist. A loose, floppy
wrist is the curse of tennis.
Most instructors from time to time bellow: "Keep your eye
on the ball!" I never stress the point. The eye can't be blamed
216 Man with a Racket
for an error. I assume the pupil is going to keep his eye on
the ball by sheer instinct. It's almost self-protective: keep
your eye on the ball and hit it or it will hit you. Naturally, a
space judgment is necessary to quickly and accurately meas-
ure your distance from the ball. This also develops through
instinct.
BACKHAND. The backhand frightens many beginners.
They hate to take a shot on what they feel is the wrong or
weak side. True, you can't hit the backhand with the speed
of the forehand for as many placements, but you can develop
it to the point of less errors. It can easily become the steady,
always dependable side of your game.
Shots to the backhand cause the beginner to develop a ten-
dency to run around balls in order to get off a forehand shot.
Of course some running is acceptable where the chance for
an unreturnable shot is presented. Otherwise don't consider
any running around the backhand. Valuable time is given
your opponent on such maneuvers.
For a backhand grip the racket must be turned slightly, the
top rim moving a couple of inches toward the right. Never
put your thumb straight up; lay it across the handle. In this
position, the backhand can be driven in the manner of the
forehand or hit for safety's sake with a little underspin. Watch
the head of your racket. If it drops, it's a danger sign. Keep
it up, above the wrist level.
SERVICE. To be able to serve you must possess a strong,
agile back that is pliable and can be bent and twisted. Suffer-
ers from sacroiliacs, discs, etc., will undergo trouble and
ofttimes considerable pain executing the proper services.
The generally accepted beginner's service is a slicing form
of delivery abetted by the Continental grip. Hold the racket
in your left hand directly in front of you. Grip the racket by
Tips for Beginners 217
the throat. Now, fasten the fingers of your right hand on
top of the handle. That's the Continental.
Stand barely behind the baseline, feet spread, weight
adjusted in a way that it shifts toward the court after the ball
is struck. Never toss the ball in excess of two or three feet over
your head. Throw it slightly ahead of yourself above the left
shoulder.
Racket and ball meet at the height of the toss for the for-
ward swing. After the racket descends you will find the head
of it traveling by the side of your right leg. The serve requires
more coordination than any single stroke and infinitely more
practice. It is a combination of movements that gradually
merge into a continuous one.
Once the simple slice service is mastered, the pupil may
advance to the twist by giving his back an arch and throwing
the ball so that he has to reach for it over his left shoulder.
After this service lands it has spin, often jumping to the oppo-
nent's backhand, forcing him out of position.
Additional speed can be generated by a first service varia-
tion of this twist by tossing the ball up over your right shoul-
der and hitting it with the full face of the racket. Although
this move eliminates spin, exceptional speed is gained with
the chance of service aces being scored.
THE VOLLEY. No grip changes are necessary in going from
the Continental grip service to the volley. Learning to volley
(hitting the ball while it comes toward you in the air) is a
step that is in comparison to graduating from high school to
college. Here the beginner shakes off his apprenticeship,
advancing to the stage where he can furnish anybody with a
good singles workout and be desirable as a fourth for dou-
bles. Nearly any player can learn to hit a fair ball from the
baseline, but to move netwards and hit the ball while in flight
is a different matter.
218 Man with a Racket
The majority of learners rush forward to crowd the net in-
stead of standing the most advantageous distance from it,
which is halfway between the net and the service line. The
pupil's knees should be slightly bent. The backswing is short;
the shorter the better, with elbow bent. Don't wait until the
ball is opposite you; hit the volley when the ball is well in
front and punch at it like a boxer delivering a short jab. It is
a short, punching, crispy stroke. Every volley has underspin.
Underspin gives you ball control.
THE SMASH. The smash is exactly what the name implies,
a crashing overhead stroke with the same grip as the volley
and service. It always reminds me of an anti-aircraft gun
downing a plane. Anything in the air you hit and hit hard,
shifting weight to unload all possible power into the stroke.
A clean smash can provide a great, uplifted feeling the feel-
ing of sheer power.
Not every overhead, of course, can be smashed. On some
you may be out of position, or backing up. On these you must
settle for half-power.
Never allow an overhead to bounce if you can hit it safely
in the air. Your opponent may be out of position and scurry-
ing toward the center of the baseline. If you let the ball
bounce first, you give him time to get into position and antic-
ipate your shot.
DON'TS FOR THE BEGINNER
Don't foot fault. That white line has not been placed where
it is by some brush-happy painter or whitewashes It's a
boundary. Observe it.
Don't return service using a half stroke. Whenever possible
use a full swing.
Don't play with balls until they are worn down to the skins.
A light ball floats, the wind plays havoc with it, and the loss
Tips for Beginners 219
of weight from missing nap takes the real pleasure out of
stroking.
Don't try a running, driving, forehand volley. This is far
too difficult for the beginner to master.
Don't try to shave the sidelines or nick the baseline with
drives. Keep hitting well inside the court.
Don't try to drive the ball at your opponent while he is at
the net.
Don't try low lobs until you've reached an advance stage of
the game. A poorly hit low lob sets up a "cripple" for your
opponent.
Don't purposely attempt half-volleys, which means hitting
the ball on pickups. A half-volley is often a desperate save
and almost always purely defensive.
Don't try hitting balls on the rise. Hit them at the crest of
the rise. Only the very talented can hit on the rise.
Don't lose concentration. Rid your mind of everything ex-
cept the game you are playing.
Don't keep hitting to your opponent. Keep moving him at
all times.
Don't present an unkempt appearance. Tournament and
club officials want to see a neat player with an all-white ap-
pearance.
Don't take too long to serve. Your opponent may do the
same thing to you.
Don't attempt to barely clear the net on drives. Keep a safe
distance between the ball and net.
79 Not for Beginners
Just learning to play tennis?
If such be the case, pay no attention whatsoever to the con-
tents of this chapter. Run do not walk to a tennis in-
structor, and discover in slow, graduated stages the rudiments
of the game. Begin while you're barely big enough to clutch
a racket in your tiny hand. Years later, when the blisters and
calluses heal, open the book to this chapter. Perhaps then,
and I use the word "perhaps" with many reservations, assimi-
lation can follow.
Let me first speak of condition. Condition is of cardinal im-
portance. It is a state of body, not of mind. Condition alone
can win matches. In the fifth set if you're 5 per cent
stronger, you can be 25 per cent worse and still win.
Better read the last sentence again . . . slowly. Digest it.
Every word screams the truth.
220
Not for Beginners 221
To be in tip-top condition before a match, eat a light meal
from two to four hours before the start of play. The more
sleep you get, the better. There is no such thing as being over-
slept before a match. Each extra hour in bed means extra
stamina on the court. Should a little tension exist and inter-
fere with sleep, pick a pleasant subject to concentrate on.
Never pick your opponent. Think of counting money, think
of a pretty girl, think of a beautiful sunset. But no sedatives.
Never, never any sedatives.
Manage to wake from sleep at least an hour before match
time. Sleeping up to the final few minutes makes it difficult
to shake off lethargy. Don't watch TV or go to a movie di-
rectly before a match. You'll suffer unconscious eye strain.
It's tough enough to focus a pair of rested eyes on a ball, let
alone tired ones.
IMPORTANT. Warm up for at least twenty minutes. Should
your opponent show an eagerness to get started and keep ask-
ing, "Are you ready?", simply keep answering "no." Don't
let him hurry you. Don't figure on gradually easing into the
match and waiting for an opportunity to spurt into the lead.
Start fast! Serve your speediest serve the very first time it's
your turn. Get the early jump. The jump can mean the
match.
Never lose concentration. Forget the girl who jilted you,
income tax, mounting bills. Turn off all stray thoughts.
Keep an even temperament. Players have been known to
lose matches when irked by a bad line call. And don't think
you won't get plenty of them. Forget petty annoyances like
applause at the wrong time and loud voices in the stands. Or
even a fly. I've seen a player blow an important match because
a fly annoyed him. Remember, that same fly can cross the net
and buzz around your opponent. Don't let it bother you if
most of the applause is for your competitor. Maybe he has
222 Man with a Racket
more relatives. As long as he isn't related to the umpire,
you're safe.
During intermission time after the third set, lay off hot
showers. Take them lukewarm. A few minutes under the
water is enough. Under no circumstances drink cold liquids.
Cast aside the temptation. Hot tea is good. Lemon-sucking
keeps the inside of the mouth just right. A small glass of or-
ange juice is fine for energy restoring. Salt tablets are strongly
recommended. Too much liquid is a condition destroyer and
slows you down within a few games. Running becomes as
difficult as rowing a water-logged boat.
Before meeting an opponent, if possible, study his style.
Learn his weak points and, believe me, every player has at
least one. Ask other players for advice. They will readily ex-
pound their knowledge. No one is impregnable. Hammer at
these weaknesses, even if they seem strong points in the be-
ginning. You'll eventually break them down.
Try to be fair at all times. Never quick-serve, or take too
much time on the service. If you're fair with your opponent,
generally hell be fair with you. Don't stall. If you're out of
gas, stalling won't help much. Only a rainstorm will save you
then. Should anything bother you, tell the umpire. He'll try
to correct the situation. Don't take it out on the poor innocent
ball boys or the linesmen. They're doing you a favor by show-
ing up.
If you're a young player, I'll safely guess that you are try-
ing to hit too hard. Forget blasting. Learn to keep the ball in
play. I don't mean by pat-balling but by solid stroking. For-
get nicking the sidelines. It would be difficult enough nicking
them with a rifle bullet, let alone a tennis ball. Certainly you
may score a brilliant unreturnable shot, but you're flaunting
percentages. Playing percentages pays off. Above all, elimin-
ate the idea of fantastic crosscourt shots. Learn to send up a
Not for Beginners 223
high lob in order to get back into position a real high deep
one even if it brings rain.
RUN, RUN, RUN your opponent. A player forced to run to
hit a shot has far less chance returning it than one who doesn't
have to move. Don't give him what I call the "rocking chair
shot."
Going back to lobs, make sure they come down near the
baseline. A short lob is fatal. Keep away from trying to mas-
ter the low, topped lob. When this lob strikes the court, it
shoots toward the backstop and proves almost unreturnable.
Admittedly one of the brilliant shots of tennis, it's too hard
to learn. The Kinsey brothers were specialists at this, but if
you're not a member of the immediate family, forget it.
Don't even think about a drop shot. They are rapidly be-
coming a thing of the past. If you're a woman, though, use it.
There is no better weapon for draining an opponent of stam-
ina. The speed of men cuts down its effectiveness. The drop
shot of importance is the drop volley. It requires a sensitive
touch. The payoff is big. Hours of practice will provide you
with one. Don't be discouraged by repeated failures the first
week. Keep practicing.
Change of pace is also outmoded. Years ago it was consid-
ered superb strategy when two players stood in the back court
and the ball crossed the net dozens of times, Tilden once en-
gaged in a rally where the ball went over the net 126 times.
Today, if you play the big game, the ball is lucky to travel
back and forth four times in a single point. So change of pace
becomes meaningless when an opponent whacks the ball in
flight. The only change of pace I've observed is the uninten-
tional one of going from bad to lousy.
If you are playing clay, cement, wood, or grass for the first
time, practice on the surface a couple of days in advance. The
Man with a Racket
difference is tremendous, especially indoors on wood. The
long, deeply stroked backhand loses its authority here unless
shortened considerably. You'll rarely have to think about any
wood except that in your racket frame unless you fill out an
entry blank for the National Indoor in New York. The transi-
tion from grass to hard court is not easily managed, and the
results bring upsets in form. Remember this: the highest
bounce is on clay, followed by cement and then grass.
Time to speak of the serve. Periodically cross up your op-
ponent by hitting the second service first. This maneuver
gives you more time to storm the net due to the high hop of
the ball. It's pretty foolish trying to baffle an opponent by
employing your fast first service on the second serve. Again,
you're bucking percentages.
Another pointer is on service return. If you return it short
and your opponent lowers his head to hit the ball, don't stand
in one place. Keep active. Being conscious of the fact that you
are running may cause him to take his eye off the ball for a
fraction of a second to see where you are. Due to your move-
ments he may overplay the shot. A departure from the con-
ventional on receiving serve is to shift in position toward the
backhand as if you believe it is weak and you are protecting
it. Thus, when the server sees more court open he will make
a flash decision to try for an ace which can cause a fault.
In running for a well-placed lob barely within range, learn
to lengthen the grip on your racket, holding it in a stiff-arm
position. Extra inches are proved, and a few additional inches
may spell the difference in making or erring on the shot.
Dwelling for one paragraph on the racket grip, 1 cannot
fairly advise which one to use, the Western, Eastern, or Con-
tinental Try them all and then do what comes naturally after
you have mastered the fundamentals of the game. My own
grip has been called by Don Budge and others, a "hammer
Not for Beginners 225
grip/' It is in between the Eastern and Continental, for both
forehand and backhand. My fingers are never spread. My
hand is at the end of the handle, clutching it like I would a
hammer. I wouldn't advise many to copy it. Control is much
easier if the fingers are slightly spread.
The weakest link in American tennis has been doubles.
Kramer and Schroeder teamed smoothly together, and, of
course, there was the famous George Lott and Les Stoefen
duo and Johnny Van Ryn and Wilmer Allison, also Don
Budge and Gene Mako. After these, memories must be
strained to remember outstanding combinations. One reason
for our deficiencies stems from too many pickup teams. Con-
tinuous changes in team personnel hamper harmonious play.
In Australia it is different. There, combinations are endur-
ing. That's why the Aussies have captured 67 per cent of all
Davis Cup Challenge Round Doubles matches. Next comes
the U. S., with 46 per cent. Doubles is like marriage. Players
must know each other's strengths and weaknesses. They must
be tolerant. They must encourage and warn during tough
sledding.
Chances of a service break in doubles reveal the prohibitive
odds of around 7 to L For this reason safety measures should
be discarded by the team on the receiving end. Everything
possible should be done to steal the offensive. Daring play is
required.
From the spectator's viewpoint, doubles is more spectacular
than singles. It's a slam-bang affair with four players trying
to take the net at the same time. However, it is not devoid of
light touch shots dumped at the feet of the incoming server,
acute angles and lobs.
Many young tennis aspirants say to me, "I can't afford les-
sons. Have you any suggestions?" Yes, I have. It's the eaves-
dropping system. Move as close as possible to any court where
226 Man with a Racket
a teacher is instructing. Keep your eyes and ears open and
your feet ready for mercurial duty should the pros chase you
away. This is learning the hard way, but you will pick up
plenty of pointers. One of our nationally-ranked players used
this system.
If you can talk somebody with a home movie camera into
shooting pictures of you in action, certain flaws in your game
are possible to correct. During screening camera action can be
halted precisely when a mistake occurs.
The most truly valuable advice I can offer is never to play
against players you can beat. Play those who can beat you.
Then you will learn the hard way, but the productive way.
Should your ego require a few victory plums, these can be
snatched where they really count most in tournaments.
Men can learn a lesson from women in that the latter in-
variably practice against the opposite sex. Once they are used
to the harder hitting, there remains little to fear from the
comparatively soft shots of members of their own sex.
Never take defeat lightly. It's fine to be a sportsman and
smile through your tears while on public display. Surface-
wise you can be the carbon copy of a laughing boy, but once
exiled from the crowd, brooding should be in order. Deep
inside let the loss nettle and goad you into discovering why it
happened, and better still, what you are going to do about it
should you ever cross rackets again with the same foe.
Try to recall where you made the important mistakes.
Practice against a repetition. Practice for hours. Have a rally-
ing partner hit two or three hundred shots to your weaknesses
and watch them vanish. Laborious hours must be spent in
practice.
Practicing with a tennis machine is a wonderful and mod-
ern method for improvement. The machine can be set to
send balls to any given place at different speeds. Even lobs.
But few have access to such machines. So borrow a human
Not for Beginners 227
machine a friend. If you haven't got a friend, find a back-
board. Any handball court will do. A backyard fence or the
side of a building is next best.
The road leading to the pinnacle of tennis success is
bumpy, slippery, steep, lined with pitfalls and booby traps.
If you make it, the rewards are incomparable.
I'd sooner be what I am than President.
Questions and Answers
Everywhere I go people ask me questions. I try to answer
them to the best of my ability. Often it's difficult. I may be
hurrying to a match, rushing for a shower, hungry, late for
an appointment, or in a bad mood.
To those I gave hasty retorts, I apologize. To those I
wouldn't reply, I apologize. To those I gave the wrong an-
swers, I again apologize,
I wish to make amends.
Many of these questions culled from my memory were, I
realize, good, honest questions. Some have remained firmly
lodged in my mind. Now I am going to answer them.
X Do spectators ever bother you?
A. Only by staying away from my matches.
>. Is amateur tennis in the East snobbish?
228
Questions and Answers 229
A. More so than in the West.
). A national magazine once stated you were refused admis-
sion into the dining room of the Forest Hills Inn because
you weren't wearing a tie. Is it true?
A. No. Some sports writer was reaching for a story.
Q. Do you ever talk jive talk?
A. I don't dig you.
Q. Have you entertained ambitions of becoming a bull
fighter? I've heard it mentioned on account of your fast
footwork and graceful movements.
A. Never. I like animals too well to stick anything into them
but a fork.
Q. If you hadn't become an athlete, what do you think you'd
be doing today?
A. Working in a garage as a mechanic.
Q. Do you sleep soundly?
A. Like a dead man. I hear nothing. And I hope no burglars
read this.
Q. Would you want your three children to become tennis
players?
A. Not champions. Just play a social game.
Q. Could Pancho Segura beat Frank Sedgman on a tour?
A. I don't believe so.
Q. Could Pancho Segura beat Tony Trabert?
A. In any given match, yes. On a tour playing under adverse
conditions, I seriously doubt it.
). Who's your favorite sports announcer?
A. Sam Baiter, KLAC, Hollywood and Los Angeles Herald-
Express sports columnist. He plays a pretty fair game of
tennis himself.
Q. Whom do you hate worse than anyone in the world?
A. I can't think of anybody. People say I'm lazy.
Q. Whom do you consider the best tennis writer in the na-
tion?
230 Man with a Racket
A. Allison Danzig, New York Times.
). Do you believe the national championship will ever be
played on hard surface courts?
A. I hardly think so. Grass has tradition behind it even if it
does become pretty worn and slippery at times.
). Do you believe in lessons?
A. For everyone in the world except myself.
Q. What do you consider the most important stroke in ten-
nis?
A. No doubt, the serve. If you don't believe me ask those
considered fairly easy servers like Rosewall, Flam, Segura.
Q. What was the most surprising defeat in your career as
both professional and amateur?
A. When as a pro Don Budge beat me on the stage of the
Shrine Auditorium, Los Angeles, in my own home town.
His tennis was a throwback to his youth.
Q. What's the main difference between pro and amateur
tennis?
A. Skill and money. As a pro you earn all your money legit-
imately.
Q. Do you have any superstitions when you play?
A. Not to my knowledge. I have a habit, however, not far
removed from a superstition. When playing I don't roll
or fold my socks. I wear them straight up.
). Why aren't women tennis players better looking?
A. Did you ever see Gussie Moran, Louise Snow Isaacs, Carol
Fageros, Laura Lou Jahn, Nancy Chafee Kiner, and
others? But on the whole I'm inclined to agree they
aren't exactly starlets. The main reason's sun beating
down on them all day. Skin dries up, becomes leathery,
legs get muscular, shoulders broader.
Q. Are you romantically inclined?
A. I'm of Latin temperament.
). Are you friendly with any movie stars?
Questions and Answers 231
A. Yes. Walter Pidgeon, Gilbert Roland, Howard Duff, Doris
Day, Ida Lupino.
). Any suggestions for recapturing the Davis Cup?
A. Just one. Keep the same men playing doubles together for
a number of years.
Q. Give me your definition of a "tennis bum."
A. A tournament player who keeps postponing going to
work.
Q. Do your best friends call you Pancho or Dick?
A. Both. Some call me Gorgo. Means gorilla in Spanish.
Q. Are there any amateurs today who could press you?
A.. No.
(). Does your wife accompany you on tours?
A. She'll meet me in certain cities and then fly back home.
. What are the best tennis balls to use?
A. I represent A. G. Spalding.
Q,. What would be your idea of a super-tennis player?
A. A player with two heads. Then he could intimidate the
linesmen and argue with the umpire at the same time.
Q. If a handpicked squad of the best amateurs in the world
battled the best pros in a replica of the Davis Cup
matches, what would be the outcome?
A. Five to nothing in favor of the pros; with a chance o
4-L There is a possibility the pros might lose the doubles
as they often change partners and rarely play too long as
a unit.
Q. Has the drop shot much value in tennis?
A. On a hard surface court, no, except to take a little out of
your opponent by running him. On hard surface if you
chase the shot you stop short like you have brakes and
race into back court for the lob which usually follows.
On clay or grass you skid and can't always get back into
position in time.
232 Man with a Racket
Q. Were you ever socially snubbed or felt you were unac-
ceptable?
A. I wouldn't know. You never find out those things with
an ego like mine.
Q. Who is your favorite racket stringer?
A. Arzy Kunz, Olympic Tennis Shop, Beverly Hills, Cali-
fornia. Besides mine, he strings Kramer's, Segura's and
many other leading players.
{7. Will Mr. Kunz take mail order stringing jobs?
A. He'd be delighted.
). Do you advocate showering during the rest period after
the third set of a match?
A. In my case, yes. Possibly in the case of a slow starter, no.
You can judge what's best for you.
). How can you cure "tennis elbow?"
A. You'll have to get medical advice.
Q. What happened to that grand old tradition of leaping the
net to congratulate the victor?
A. It probably ended in a flurry of broken legs. It's enough
to leap around the court, let alone take a running high
jump when you're dog-tired after a match.
(). If you win the spin of the racket for choice of court or
serve, which would you take?
A. The service, even if yours is weak.
<>. Name your favorite tennis book.
A. The one you're reading.
Q. If a tennis ball gets wet, will it become dead?
A. No.
Q. If you had your life to live over again would you make
any changes?
A. Only one. I'd never learn to play poker.
(X Why was Pancho Segura one of the last players to wear
shorts?
A. The answer is obvious when you study his legs.
Questions and Answers 235
Q. Will smoking injure your game?
A. I've posed in a Viceroy advertisement.
(). How good is a nylon gut?
A. Lasts a long time and is excellent for beginners, poor
for tournament players.
Q. Is there anything that can be done to restore life to a
dead tennis ball?
A. Heating them in an oven gives a temporary higher
bounce.
Q. Does a windy day bother you?
A* No more than my opponent.
Q. Some people say you'd like to be an actor. Is it true?
A. I'm already one every time I'm on a court.
Q. Do women use drop shots more than men?
A. Yes. It's a deadly weapon made to order for women's play
because the other sex can't cover the court as fast. Beverly
Baker Fleitz and Dottie Knode are masters of this spe-
cialty.
Q. What's the most difficult shot in tennis?
A. The drop volley, which is difficult to execute. They must
be just eased over the net, sharply angled. They require
a fine touch.
Q. What's the size of your racket handle?
A. Four and three-quarters.
). What weight racket does Jack Kramer use?
A. He uses a 15, which is too heavy a war club for me.
f). Name the advantages of playing on grass over cement.
A. Cooler, kinder on the muscles and more traditional.
Q. What should the beginner learn first?
A. Ground strokes.
}. After intermission following the third set, is any practice
serving allowed?
A. No.
Q. Who were the best lobbers you ever watched?
234 Man with a Racket
A. Budge Patty, Ken Rosewall, Tony Trabert, Art Larsen,
Maureen Connolly, and Bobby Riggs. Riggs was the best
of the lot.
Q. What do you think of two-handed hitting?
A. Twice as difficult to learn as one hand, and not twice as
effective.
Q. Where can I sell my used tennis balls?
A. Playballs, 540 South Kenmore, Los Angeles; or American
Novelty Company, Box 625, Merrick, L. I., N. Y.
Favorite Stones
A good tennis tale always intrigues me, especially an off-beat
one that manages to escape from the stereotyped, "I was
down 5-0, and match point . . ." kind. There's a scarcity of
interesting stories dealing with the sport. The few going the
rounds are doled out like half-rations. Players themselves are
poor narrators, preferring deeds of the racket to the racon-
teur. A notable exception is George Lyttelton Rogers, per-
haps the tallest big-time competitor in the history of the
game.
Rogers, former Irish Amateur Champion, turned pro when
he moved to the United States. He still retains his Irish citi-
zenship which gives him the privilege of slight embellish-
ments. This is not intended as a slur on the Irish, and before
they swarm down from their green hills demanding a retrac-
tion, let me hastily add that I love them.
235
236 Man with a Racket
Returning to George Lyttelton Rogers, the man is a pow-
erful spinner of yarns. He needs no leprechauns, banshees, or
werewolves. His characters are tennis players and in the fol-
lowing story, related to me in London where we faced each
other in a professional tournament, George plays the princi-
pal role. For reading convenience it has been transposed into
the third person.
A CHARACTER FROM IRELAND
When an athlete owns two diverse and outstanding talents,
one must be subjugated. Top-flight success comes only to the
specialist. Such an athlete was George Lyttelton Rogers.
In 1930, Rogers, a gigantic combination of knife-and-forker
and tennis player arrived in the United States to concentrate
on legally lifting some tournament trophies. Had the tour
been confined to restaurants, the depression might have
ended a few years earlier because the visitor could point with
pride and bicarbonate to the following records:
Liquid Department
Drank a magnum of champagne in three minutes flat.
Downed seventeen steins of German beer in thirty min-
utes.
Tossed off twenty-one straight glasses of water in Paris,
where a single glass of the stuff is considered unusual.
Food Department
Breakfast consisting of five soup bowls of oatmeal, six eggs,
eight slices of bacon, six pieces of toast, washed down with a
full quart of orange juice, topped by three cups of coffee.
Afternoon tea: twenty-one cakes and one cup of tea.
Had the largest single dinner tab in the history of Simp-
sons, famous London roast beef house.
Rogers differed physically from contemporary epicures.
Favorite Stories 237
While nourishment bulged the latter's stomachs, the starches,
fats, and carbohydrates he consumed ran to length. He was
six feet, seven inches tall, thin and wiry.
George Rogers did not come to the United States for the
purpose of eating, although it was a habit picked up since he
was a baby and one which could not easily be broken. He
came here for tennis. While his native Ireland is thought to
be the greenest country in the world, he found the United
States even greener, the chlorophyll difference fashioned by
the coffers of the United States Lawn Tennis Association,
where expense accounts, even then, were important issues.
Newspapers immediately tagged the visitor from Erin as
the 'Irish Giant," and tennis writers with unfailing regular-
ity inserted into their copy "tallest player in the world." He
was.
He played a sound all-court game. His towering figure at
the net presented lobbing problems. Opponents had to hit,
almost high enough skyward to bring precipitation, in order
to get the ball over his outstretched arm.
His record was little short of terrific. Naturally, he was the
Irish champion, a title he could have won by substituting a
shillelagh for a racket. He had swept over the continent like
a vacuum cleaner, winning eighteen international tourna-
ments in successive weeks. Henri Cochet, the remarkable lit-
tle Frenchman, one of the Four Musketeers, and Jack Craw-
ford, the dependable Australian, were among his victims.
Receiving an entry blank from Perry T. Jones, Rogers jour-
neyed to Los Angeles for competition in the Pacific Southwest
Tournament at the Los Angeles Tennis Club. This tourna-
ment was treated like the Forest Hills of the West Coast. The
difference lay in the fact that few, if any, foot faults were
called and that during a sensational rally the appearance of
a female movie star took spectators' eyes from the flight of
the ball to the curves of the torso.
238 Man with a Racket
Jones allowed Rogers eighty dollars for round trip food ex-
pense from New York to Los Angeles. The train ride was
tedious, and there was little to do but wait for the porter's
announcement, "The dining car is now open." When Rogers'
ears picked up this bit of interesting information, he would
disappear down the aisle in a flying welter of arms and legs,
hell-bent for the diner.
Upon reaching Los Angeles the first thing the young Irish-
man did was call on Perry Jones. The conversation went
something like this:
"Mr. Jones, my name is George Rogers. Eighty dollars
round trip is insufficient expense money for my food."
Mr. Jones was unaccustomed to the direct approach on
monetary matters from his players. Usually his well-framed
question such as "How are you hitting them?" would derail
complaints from money thoughts. Slightly stunned he coun-
tered with, "Why not? The average man could eat hand-
somely on that amount."
"To that I agree," returned Rogers, adding, "but I am not
the average man."
"Hmmm," Jones pondered, running his eyes over the
elongated Irishman.
While Jones was in such a speculative state of mind, Rogers
asked him, "How tall is Bitsy Grant?"
The Atlantan was the smallest of American players ranked
in the first ten. Jones knew his tennis statistics. "Five-one"
he said.
"Correct," Rogers nodded, and fired another question.
"Now how much food money would Bitsy Grant get if he
came to this tournament by train?"
"Eighty dollars, same as you," Jones answered without hes-
itation.
Rogers nodded again and pulled a slip of paper containing
neatly inscribed figures from his pocket. Consulting it he read
Favorite Stories 239
slowly, "Grant is five-one. ... I am six-seven. Subtracting
Grant from me, this leaves a discrepancy of 18 inches."
"But-but. . . ." began Jones.
"So you see/* interrupted Rogers, scanning the paper be-
fore him, "if little Grant would receive $80 and he's 18 inches
shorter than I am, the breakdown is simple. He receives ap-
proximately $1.16 per inch. At the additional height advan-
tage I have, or . . ." he paused and glanced sternly at Jones,
"don't seem to have in this case, the differential in inches is
equal to $20.88.
"Therefore, Mr. Jones, you owe me $20.88."
Jones sighed, helpless against such irrefutable logic and
reached for his checkbook. While his fingers wrote, his mind
planned to invite Bitsy Grant to the next tournament and use
the same figures and logic, but in reverse, on the Georgian.
Rogers drew Lester Stoefen in the first round. Stoefen, a
promising junior in those days, was later to become part of a
near-perfection doubles duo with George Lott.
The match, played on an outside court, drew hundreds of
spectators who were not interested in the fact that the youth-
ful Californian extended Rogers 8-6, 8-6. What attracted
them were the shorts worn by the Irishman. Introduced that
season by Bunny Austin, the English star, they had failed
to capture the fancy of the players after all the years of tra-
ditional long white flannels. George Rogers was a progres-
sive. He took to them immediately. They gave him running
room. His extraordinarily lengthy limbs resembled hairy un-
dulating poles as they scurried around the court.
At the conclusion of the match Rogers was summoned to
Jones* office. The Western tennis major-domo was known as
a stickler for conventional court dress.
"Mr. Rogers/' he said, "tomorrow you meet Ellsworth
Vines in a center court attraction."
"Yes, sir/ 1 said Rogers, waiting.
240 Man with a Racket
"I want no shorts on the center court/' voiced Jones.
Rogers launched a vigorous protest, ending with "I
brought only shorts."
Jones had a solution. "Hop into a taxi, buy a pair of flan-
nels and charge them to me." Mentioning the name of the
haberdasher he handed over taxi fare.
Rogers was unhappy.
As if to placate him, Jones led him outside where he
pointed to the top of the stadium. Here the flags from coun-
tries of various competing foreign players blew in the breeze.
"I could locate no Irish flag," Jones said. "But in your
honor, when you play tomorrow, there will be one. You have
trousers made, I have a flag made. We compromised," he
chuckled.
When Rogers arrived at the stadium for his match, he saw,
floating from its moorings, a large green flag bearing on the
surface a white harp and shamrock. The official Irish flag was
blue with a golden harp in the center. He made no comment.
In the locker room, Rogers painstakingly, and not without
some torture and the help of a ball boy, managed to work
into his new trousers. They bound him severely in the crotch,
pressed into his stomach, clutched at his bony knees. He made
a test run around the dressing room, listening for ripping
sounds. Hearing none, he felt reasonably safe as he went to
the court.
In sports parlance when an athlete takes it easy he's "play-
ing under wraps." Well, Rogers didn't take it easy and he
was playing under trousers choking, binding, non-resilient
trousers. He was a man with two left feet in two bear traps.
An exceptionally long-strider, he found it difficult to reach
balls normally within range. There was nothing he could
loosen. Not even a zipper in those days.
Thirty-seven minutes later he was blasted out of the tour-
ney, 6-1, 6-2.
Favorite Stories 241
Before leaving the court he stood for a long moment peer-
ing at the supposed flag of his country, a gesture translated
by the crowd as patriotic and perhaps seeking forgiveness for
his poor showing.
Actually, he was figuring the easiest way up the pole.
Sitting in his office the next day, speculating on the size of
the gate, Perry Jones was disturbed from his reveries by an
assistant who burst through the door gesticulating wildly and
muttering gibberish. Jones followed him to investigate.
He saw, substituting for the Irish flag, a pair of soiled white
flannels, the long legs flapping in the stiff wind.
Here is another one, a tongue in cheek tale, written by my
biographer, Cy Rice, that should appeal to every person who
ever coveted a cup.
THE KING AND MR. BELL
To the French Riviera, that crescented, craggy coastline of
Southern France where rugged mountains wet their rocky
feet in a warm blue sea, there came a turbanned visitor from
India, the Rajah of a small but prosperous province. Accom-
panying the Rajah was a retinue of servants carrying the lug-
gage and accouterments associated with gentlemen of wealth.
With them was a man lugging an oblong case. The case con-
tained six tennis rackets. He was known simply as Mr. Bell.
Mr. Bell was a somewhat mysterious character along the
fashionable Riviera in the early 1930's who might be de-
scribed in Indian social circles as being "from the wrong side
of the jungle." An avid tennis devotee and player of fair abil-
ity himself, the Rajah had, for the convenience of a partner
always within beck and call, hired Mr. Bell as a secretary.
While Mr. Bell might fall flat on his punctuation trying to
insert a semi-colon in its proper place during letter dictation,
he rarely missed an overhead smash at the net. His forehand
242 Man with a Racket
carried the sting of a cobra. He hit his slightly undercut back-
hand on the rise; and when forced into a defensive lob, he
employed a short upward stroke which generated so much
top spin that when the ball landed it jumped toward the fenc-
ings, making it almost irretrievable.
Taciturn, phlegmatic Mr. Bell had one weakness. It was
not a fleshly one, nor the pop of champagne corks or the click
of roulette chips. His basic impotency was tennis trophies. In
plain language, Mr. Bell was cup-happy. On days of tourna-
ment finals when trophies were placed alongside the court
on a table, Mr. Bell might be observed standing before the
glittering array, his body slightly bowed in an almost reverent
position, while softly murmuring admiring words.
This overpowering passion for cups often drained the
pockets of his tennis flannels of every rupee put into them
by the Rajah. Each tournament he entered found Mr. Bell
long and earnestly studying the entry list in all six events in
which he was scheduled to play the singles, doubles, mixed
doubles, and the three handicaps for the same events. If
placed in what appeared to be a favorable position of the
draw, and his chances of winning seemed bright, Mr. Bell
approached the tournament director with a stunning propo-
sition.
"Sahib," he would say, "the cup in the men's singles is very
small."
Before the startled director could frame a reply, Mr. Bell
interjected, "I will personally replace it with a larger one if
you have no objections." This he invariably did. There never
were any objections.
King Gustav of Sweden, royalty's most enthusiastic tennis
player, was on the Riviera that season. While the King pos-
sessed a forehand, the elbow of which rose like a broom han-
dle wielded by an energetic housewife, he had never,
throughout his tennis-playing career, tasted defeat, an ac-
Favorite Stories 243
complishment due solely to the courtesy of opponents. The
King played a fair game, comparable to a Sunday-only busi-
ness man on a public court. Perhaps in a town such as Toledo,
Ohio, he might have ranked ninth in the veterans* class;
surely first in the septuagenarian, if such a division existed.
Tennis decorum called for the King to win but make it
close. It was a must. An infraction meant social oblivion.
There were no transgressors.
The kindly King took a fancy to the Rajah, inviting him,
together with Baron Gottfried Von Cram, the great German
Internationalist, and other net luminaries to be his guests
and play at the Stockholm summer palace courts. Mr. Bell
was included.
The invitation was readily accepted. After a series o gay
social activities centering around the palace, the players
grouped one evening, without the presence of Mr. Bell, and
decided that to repay the King for his graciousness they
would stage a select tennis tournament. Naturally the King
would be the victor. Near the conclusion of the meeting
there was a long moment of silence. All eyes were on the Ra-
jah. He sensed the reason.
Arising, he said, reassuringly, "Do not worry, gentlemen.
I will talk to Mr. Bell."
Karl Schroeder, Swedish champion, flexed his muscles and
suggested, "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to handle the
situation?' 1
The Rajah, understanding the implication, smiled. "I see
what you mean. No thanks, just leave him to me/'
That evening the Rajah unwound his yards of turban, sat
comfortably in a chair and dispatched a servant for Mr. Bell.
The secretary arrived, bowed respectfully and asked, "Dicta-
tion?"
"Yes," said the Rajah. "Dictation. Very important dicta-
tion."
244 Man with a Racket
Mr. Bell whipped out his notebook, unscrewed the cap of
his fountain pen. "I am ready, Master," he announced.
The Rajah said crisply, "My dictation is verbal. Pay close
attention. We are playing in a tennis tournament here at the
palace. The King is competing. The King must win! Do you
understand?"
"Yes, Master. The King must win/'
"Then it is fully understood?"
"Yes, Master. Is that all, Master?"
"Not quite." The Rajah pointed his long dark forefinger
at Mr. Bell. "Remember this. If you meet the King and he
does not win, you lose your job."
Mr. Bell nodded. "Anything else, Master?"
"Yes," the Rajah said grimly. "There is something else. If
you disobey my orders you will lose not only your job, but
upon return to my province you will also lose your head."
"Have no fear, Master," said Mr. Bell.
"I have none," said the Rajah. "The fear will all be on
your part."
Next day the draw was made. The King and Mr. Bell
were in opposite halves. As the competition was formidable
it was considered a certainty that Mr. Bell would fall by the
wayside in the early rounds. However, Mr. Bell confounded
the prophets by playing the best tennis of his life. The cool-
ness of the Swedish climate seemed to inoculate him with
super-human energy. He scampered around the court like
an electrically-charged rabbit. At week's end he was in the
finals, pitted against King Gustav, the world's only unde-
feated player.
The day of the finals was dark and drizzly. Toward mid-
day a fine mist developed which gradually slacked and died
by afternoon. A tarpaulin was unrolled from the court and
the contestants began warming up. The white balls were
fuzzy, ivory spheroids against the backdrop of bleakness.
Favorite Stories 245
"Don't worry, gentlemen/' the Rajah whispered to his
friends, "Mr. Bell understands."
And it seemed that Mr. Bell did. Under the overcast sky
the King took the first set handily, 6-1, and jumped into a
2-0 lead in the second. It was a two out of three set match.
Everything was going according to plans. Those in on the
plan breathed easily.
When it became obvious that increasing winds had chased
the rain away, it was decided to move the cup a huge one
subscribed to by the players to its official resting place on a
table by the umpire's stand. This was done. It was hardly no-
ticeable, obscured by the blackness in the Heavens.
With his own service coming up, the King swung into a
comfortable 4-0 lead. Just then the sun burst from its cloudy
imprisonment. Bright light flooded the court at precisely the
exact moment the King hit a weak return that barely cleared
the net close to the alley near the umpire's stand. Mr. Bell,
anticipating the shot, came charging in, brought back his
racket and to the amazement of the spectators barely touched
the ball. It dribbled to his feet and looked more like a ping
pong stroke than tennis. Something had diverted his atten-
tion.
The cup!
The full glory of the sun shone on the resplendent trophy.
Silvery light rays reflected off its metal surface. It was a daz-
zling sight. Mr. Bell stood transfixed. Seemingly with a great
effort he tore his eyes from the trophy, trotting back for serv-
ice return.
From this moment on the entire complexion of the match
changed. Mr. Bell mercilessly hammered the ball to all cor-
ners of the court. He was the composite of a Tilden, a Budge,
a Kramer.
Mr. Bell took twelve games in a row, gave the dazed King a
cursory handshake over the net, rushed to the cup, clasped it
246 Man with a Racket
lovingly into his arms and ran from the court in panic haste.
He has never been seen or heard from since.
The concluding story comes from the files of Sam Baiter,
Southern California sportscaster and columnist. It's an oldie
from his One For The Book collection. Sam relates it with
warmth and compassion, and to borrow a phrase from TV, it
has more strength in audio than in video.
A NEED FOR EACH OTHER
Tragedy is a grim, unwelcome ghost that stalks the lives of
humans, raising its unseen hand to strike when least ex-
pected. It hits hard and fast and has the power to blot out or
alter the course of a life. Tragedy is ubiquitous and visits un-
expected places like a tennis court during the French Cham-
pionships under the radiant serenity of a Paris sky.
France was a tennis-minded nation long before its Four
Musketeers Cochet, LaCoste, Borotra, and Brugnon be-
gan three years of invincibility. In those pre-Musketeer days
the name of Andre Gobert cropped up with frequency. He
was a stylist, a crafty change of pace wizard whose game was
fortified by a smashing first service.
His service was never more devastating than the afternoon
he was playing the flashy but unsteady William Laurentz in
the finals of the French Championships. Early in the match
Gobert's cannonball thundered off the wood of Laurentz'
racket, caroming into his right eye. Laurentz threw his hands
to his eye, lurched blindly around, staggered against the back-
stop and slumped unconscious to the court.
Gobert vaulted the net, rushing to aid the stricken player.
There was little he could do. A few hours later a surgeon re-
moved Laurentz' eye. Gobert paced the floor of the hospital
waiting room, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands.
Favorite Stories 247
The tragedy weighed heavily upon him, and although in the
strictest sense the blame was not his, he nevertheless felt a
strong responsibility.
After a recuperation period, Laurentz was back on the
court, once more engaged in the tennis wars. But it was a dif-
ferent Laurentz. No longer was he the impetuous, daring
player whose game rose to brilliant, dizzy heights and then
often slumped to netting easy returns. Caution was the key-
note of his play, a one-eyed conservative, far removed from
his former formidable self.
Gobert and Laurentz had contrasting personalities stem-
ming from their backgrounds. Gobert came from a modest
family; Laurentz was a rich and dashing figure. Neither one
had ever sought out the other as a doubles partner. Now Go-
bert practically implored Laurentz to form a tandem. He con-
sented.
They immediately became a feared combination, losing
few matches. Gobert seemed to have an uncanny knack of
sensing Laurentz* blind spots. Standing near the center serv-
ice line he covered many shots difficult for Laurentz to reach.
Such tactics improved Gobert' s footwork and provided him
with a keen anticipatory sense.
Actually he was trying to atone for that awful moment in
the French Championships, by playing the role of benefactor
and big brother. He became irrevocably bound to the man
whose singles game he had ruined for all time, and he felt he
was paying him back by becoming his partner in the world's
best tennis duo.
Neither man ever spoke of the incident. Laurentz, it ap-
peared, had shut the door of his mind on it and never cared
to open it, even a tiny bit. His attitude bothered Gobert. Go-
bert wished to talk it out. Better, he thought, if Laurentz
would be openly resentful and speak the words that were in
248 Man with a Racket
his heart. He began to almost take offense at what he consid-
ered was mock bravery in his partner's attitude, a too martyr-
like approach.-
If Gobert believed that Laurentz harbored any pent-up
intolerance that would some day burst the leashes of self-con-
trol, he was wrong. Laurentz kept his mouth shut, and some
surmised that he thought Gobert unnecessarily charitable.
Despite what may have been smoldering under the sur-
face, they played beautifully together, although tension
mounted with each tournament. They became high strung.
Gobert was too patronizing, overly solicitous. It was inevita-
ble that the pair should break up. There were no arguments,
no discussion, just a wordless parting due to each knowing the
other's instincts.
Both entered the singles at Wimbledon, England. Even
though Gobert had played no singles since the accident, he
was a far superior player than at any time of his life. He was
an odds-on-favorite to capture the title, a title tantamount
to world supremacy. A large delegation of Frenchmen crossed
the channel to support him.
With Gobert watching from the stand, Laurentz fell vic-
tim to a greatly inferior player in the first round. Following
his ex-partner to the court, Gobert barely eked out a bitter
five-set match with an opponent he should have romped
through. Tennis writers could not fathom his poor showing.
Only Gobert and Laurentz knew what was wrong. Still
blaming himself for the old tragedy, Gobert could not dis-
tort the clear-cut image of the flight of the ball striking Lau-
rentz in the eye. It was similar to the hackneyed movie plot
of the pugilist, who after accidentally killing an opponent in
the ring, can never fight again. As his own shot once effaced
the sight of Laurentz, so did the memory of it now hinder his
every move.
It was a miracle that he reached the finals, being on the
Favorite Stories 249
verge of defeat in nearly every match, only his splendid phys-
ical conditioning proving the determining factor. His game
during the finals was at the lowest ebb ever witnessed by
Wimbledon spectators, and the former great singles player
was easily crushed.
Moved by what he saw, the heart of Laurentz melted into
compassion. It became clear to both of them that individually
they were worthless, but together, bound securely by the
tragedy, they could be unbeatable.
When Gobert, filed from the court after his loss, Laurentz
caught up with him, touched his arm and murmured, "Too
bad, Andre/'
Gobert smiled and asked, "Will we play together again?"
"But of course/' Laurentz said.
A real friendship existed at last.
Index
Abbott, Bion, 79
Allison, Wilmer, 156, 225
Amateur Athletic Association, 168
American Lawn Tennis, 53, 59, 94
Ampon, Feliccimo, 156
Anderson, Mai, 185, 211, 212
Austin, Bunny, 239
Australian Amateur Tennis Associa-
tion, 177
Australian Lawn Tennis Association,
118, 178, 187, 199
Baiter, Sam, 229, 246
Barnes, Bob, 198
Barton, Derek, 50
Beasley, Mercer, 168, 206
Bitcon, G. A., 177
Borotra, Jean, 158, 246
Brink, Jimmy, 89
British Lawn Tennis Magazine, 153
Bromwich, John, 158
Brown, Geoff, 84
Brown, Tom, 53
Brundage, Avery, 168
Buckholz, Earl, 211
Budge, Don, 111, 158, 163, 164, 186,
224, 225, 230, 245
Campanella, Roy, 38
Casey, Ray, 202
Clark, Straight, 89
Cochet, Henri, 158, 237, 246
Cochell, Earl, 150
Colvin, A. R., 178
Connolly, Maureen, 115, 234
Connors, Gene, 46
Cooper, Ashley, 185, 187, 211, 212
Crawford, Chris, 211
Crawford, Jack, 158, 237
Cronin, Ned, 129
Danzig, Allison, 62, 159, 160, 230
Darmon, Pierre, 186
Davidson, Sven, 187
Davis, George, 46
Day, Doris, 163, 193, 231
Doughty, David, 26
Doyle, Judge Elmer D., 213
Drobny, Jaroslov, 50, 53, 56-58, 89
Duff, Howard, 193, 231
Durslag, Melvin, 208
Dyer, Braven, 46
Earn, Carl, 150, 201
El Espectador, 137
Emerson, Bob, 185
Emerson, Roy, 187
Fageros, Carol, 230
Ealkenburg, Bob, 50, 53, 65, 150, 198
Falkenburg, Tom, 150
Fancutt, Roger, 186
Farced, Dr. Omar, 175, 210
Feltrop, Frank, 116, 164, 202
Ferguson, Donald F., 177
Ferris, Dan, 167
Fiske, Loring, 47, 202
Flaherty, Vincent X., 116, 117
Flam, Herbie, 23, 24, 26-29, 56, 58,
185, 187, 211, 230
Fleitz, Beverly Baker, 71, 233
Frankenburg, D. M., 177, 178
Fraser, Neal, 176, 185, 187
Gabel, Elsie, 112
Gallagher, Mel, 79
251
252
Index
Ganzenmuller, Gus, 54
Gardini, Fausto, 115
GeUer, Jack, 89
Gibson, Althea, 152, 153
Glushon, Eugene, 200
Gobert, Andre, 246-249
Gonzales, Bertha, 35
Gonzales, Henrietta, 9, 13, 52, 62, 66-
77, 87, 88, 90, 92, 94, 95, 98, 99,
107, 108, 117, 118, 121, 122, 126,
127, 132, 140-148, 163, 175, 180,
203, 205, 212, 213
Gonzales, Manuel, 31, 41, 63, 64, 71
Gonzales, Margaret, 68
Gonzales, Ralph, 105, 106, 202
Gonzales, Richard Alonzo (Pancho)
AMPOL tournament of champions,
178-180
Australian tour, 112
Davis Cup Challenge Round, 84
divorce, 212-213
early years, 32-49, 63, 64
French championships, 84
future plans, 200-203
La Jolla Beach Club invitation
tourney, 62, 82, 83
marriage, 51, 71
Masters tournament, 192-194, 208,
211
National championships, Forest
Hills, 50-59, 65, 78, 84-94
National clay court championships,
81, 84
National hard court champion-
ships, 81, 82, 116-118
National indoor championships, 83
National professional champion-
ships, 111, 122, 184, 208
Pacific Southwest championships,
50, 55, 81
Pan American championships, 82
Pennsylvania grass court title, 84
River Oaks tournament, 84
Southern California championships,
21-29, 65
tour with Hoad, 204-211
tour with Kramer, 96-98, 112
tour with Rosewall, 175-185, 196,
197
tour with Sedgman, Segura and
Budge, 112, 113
tour with Sedgman, Segura and Mc-
Gregor, 112, 113
tour with Trabert, 121-129
Tournament of Champions, 130-
132, 191, 192
Wimbledon, 84
winning first tournament, 46
Gonzales, Richard, Jr., 87, 144, 211
Gonzales, Terry, 35, 68
Grant, Bitsy, 156, 158, 238, 239
Green, Harry, 188
Gustav, King, 242-245
Hall, Gilbert, 158
Harmon, Bob, 202
Harris, Jack, 108
Hartwig, Rex, 118, 119, 126, 128, 129,
130, 132
Hecht, Ladislav, 54
Heston, Charlton, 201
Hoad, Bonnie, 188, 189
Hoad, Jennifer, 174, 176, 190
Hoad, Lew, 63, 115, 116, 118, 173, 174,
176, 177, 181, 185-193, 196, 199-
201, 204-212
Hoffman, Jeane, 77, 186, 206
Hopkins, Harry, 211
Hopman, Harry, 185, 189
Hoppe, Willie, 115
Hover, Jerry, 202
Isaacs, Louise Snow, 230
Isais, Fernando, 26
Jackinson, Alex, 7
Jacobs, Helen, 150
Jahn, Laura Lou, 230
Johnson, Billy, 158
Johnson, Oscar, 102
Johnson, Wallace, 158
Jones, Bobby, 115
Jones, C. M., 153, 154
Jones, Perry T., 23, 24, 30, 46-49, 51,
65, 211, 237-241
Kay, Cecile, 198
Kierbow, Don, 211
Index
Kiner, Nancy Chaffee, 111, 230
Kinsey brothers, 223
King and Mr. Bell, The, 241-246
Knode, Dottie, 233
Kovacs, Frankie, 150
Kramer, Czar, 198
Kramer, Gloria, 177, 206, 207
Kramer, Jack, 42, 52, 55, 56, 63, 80,
86, 96-98, 101, 108-112, 115, 116,
118, 119, 122, 126, 123-125, 130-
132, 157, 165, 173-181, 185-192,
195, 196, 198-200, 205-208, 210,
212, 225, 232, 233, 245
Kumagae, Ichiya, 163
Kunz, Arzy, 26, 101, 102, 143, 232
Kunz, Roxy, 143
Larsen, Art, 54, 55, 57, 89, 150, 158,
180, 234
Laurentz, William, 246-249
Laver, Rod, 185
Lenglen, Suzanne, 114, 151
Lesch, Johnny, 186
Life Magazine, 189, 190
Lopez, Ignacio, 137
Los Angeles Angels, 32
Los Angeles Examiner, 116, 117, 208
Los Angeles Herald-Express, 46, 229
Los Angeles Times, 46, 129, 177, 186,
206
Lott, George, 225, 239
Louis, Joe, 115
Lupino, Ida, 231
Lycette, Randolph, 163
Mako, Gene, 225
Mangin, Greg, 158
Marciano, Rocky, 97
Margaret Evelyn, Sister, 175
Mark, Bob, 185
Match, Sam, 52, 84, 202
McCarthy, Neil, 96
McGregor, Kenneth, 112, 113
McKay, Barry, 211
McNamara, Myron, 110, 192, 198
Melbourne Argus, 176
Melbourne Sun, 188
Melcher, Marty, 163
Merlo, Giuseppe, 115
253
Moll, Fred, 102
Montgomery, Robert, 152
Mooney, Dr. Marcel, 165, 166
Moran, Gussie, 26, 230
Mulloy, Gardnar, 50, 52, 53, 84, 187,
205
Negrete, Larry, 26, 205
New York Times, 62, 159, 230
Olmedo, Alex, 185
Paige, Satchel, 130
Pails, Dinny, 115, 192
Parker, Frank, 50, 51, 53, 55, 56, 84,
89, 108, 115, 184
Parks, Olin, 110, 198
Pate, Chuck, 26, 36-41, 44, 80, 81
Patty, Budge, 52, 84, 185, 187, 234
Pearson, Ben, 163
Peroni, Charley, 102
Perry, Fred, 196, 198
Pidgeon, Walter, 193, 231
Poulain, Frank, 26, 31, 42-49, 101, 112
Prenn, Charlotte, 146, 147
Prenn, Daniel, 146
Puncec, Joseph, 155, 156
Pyle, C. C., 114
Richards, Vincent, 114
Richardson, Ham, 185
Riggs, Bobby, 86, 95-97, 100, 101, 108,
110, 124, 195, 234
Robinson, Jackie, 153
Rogers, Bob, 202
Rogers, George Lyttelton, 235-241
Roland, Gilbert, 231
Rose, Mervyn, 185, 187
Rosewall, Ken, 63, 115, 116, 118, 151,
165, 173-184, 188, 191-193, 196,
197, 199, 200, 205, 206, 230, 234
Ross, John M., 84, 85
Roybal, Ed, 137
Rurac, Vini, 202
Ruth, Babe, 117
Saldana, Luipi, 79
Salm, Count Ludwig, 150, 151
Santee, Wes, 167
254
Savitt, Dick, 153, 171, 180
Schroeder, Karl, 243
Schroeder, Ted, 27, 42, 51-53, 65, 79-
83, 86-94, 129, 130, 157, 161, 171,
198, 225
Scudder, Hubert, 26
Sedgman, Frank, 63, 84, 89, 110-113,
124, 130-132, 162, 188, 191-195,
229
Segura, Pancho, 13, 14, 42, 63, 111-
113, 115, 118, 119, 126. 128-132,
134, 135, 152, 157, 180, 184, 191,
192, 202, 205, 206, 229, 230, 232
Seixas, Vic, 84, 115, 151, 152, 185, 187
Shields, Frank, 54, 87, 88, 90, 92
Sidwell, Billy, 84
Sinatra, Frank, 177
Snodgrass, Harvey, 201
Sober, Pincus, 168
Southern California Tennis Associa-
tion, 23, 51
Sport Magazine, 84, 85
Sproul, Cliff, 164
Stewart, Hugh, 37, 54, 65, 82, 170
Stinson, John, 198
Stoefen, Lester, 225, 239
Stranahan, Frank, 171
Stump, Al, 102
Sturgess, Eric, 56, 58, 59, 82
Talbert, Billy, 53, 83, 84, 89, 121
Tanasescu, Constantin, 154456
Tennant, Eleanor, 115
Tilden, Bill, 151, 156, 158, 223, 245
Thorpe, Jim, 167
Tips for beginners, 214-218
backhand, 216
Index
don'ts, 218, 219
forehand, 215, 216
racket, 214, 215
service, 216, 217
smash, 218
volley, 217, 218
Tips not for beginners, 220-227
Toley, George, 47, 109, 202
Trabert, Tony, 63, 115, 116, 118, 119,
121-132, 165, 174, 176, 181, 182,
184, 188, 191-193, 195, 200, 229
234
U. S. Lawn Tennis Association, 23,
47, 82, 87, 150, 168, 237
Van Ryn, Johnny, 225
Varipapa, Andy, 102
Victorian Tennis Association, 178
Vines, Ellsworth, 108, 158, 239
Vincent, Tony, 170
Von Cram, Baron Gottfried, 243
Von Testa, Wolfgang Alexander
Gerdes, 126
Walcott, Jersey Joe, 130
Warren, Dorothy, 118
Warren, Earl, 118
Warren, Lou, 118, 119, 122, 123, 135-
138, 148, 173, 181, 196
Williams, Bill, 62
Williams, Ted, 180
Wills, Helen, 150
World Tennis, Inc., 110-112, 123, 186,
187, 192, 195, 198
Wright, Beals C., 163
Zimmerman, Paul, 46
m
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