Tight Spots in Tennis
I
DON’T worry, Cap, I won’t let the team down.’ The words were whispered by Donald Budge to Captain Walter L. Pate as he crossed the net to change courts at the crucial moment of the fifth and deciding match of the Interzone Final between the United States and Germany. The score was four games to one in favor of Baron von Cramm. Things had indeed looked black all afternoon for the American team. In the previous match Henkle had evened the Tie by easily defeating Parker. This had been expected, but Budge now seemed to be just as easy a victim for von Cramm. Budge was obviously playing under his best game, and it was just as apparent that von Cramm was inspired. When Budge had evened the match at two sets all, Captain Pate’s hopes and expectations must have risen considerably, but when the Baron ran up a 4-1 lead in the fifth set his feelings hit a new low.
It was a foregone conclusion that the winner of the Interzone Final would be returned victor over England in the Challenge Round the following weekend. The American team had entered the match an overwhelming favorite. Budge had won the Wimbledon Singles, defeating von Cramm easily in three sets, and, paired with Mako, had won the Doubles from von Cramm and Henkle in the final round. If Budge lost this allimportant match, Pate would be subject to severe and bitter criticism. Budge would be accused of overconfidence, lack of courage, and all the other things a loser is usually accused of. Instead of returning home the conquering heroes, the team would be just another Davis Cup team that had failed when the going got ‘tough.’ If the Cup was to be won, Budge was the only one who could do it, and here he was facing a 1-4 deficit in the final set of the deciding match.
Budge won the next game on his own service to reduce his deficit to 2-4. Rising to superlative heights, he broke von Cramm’s service and followed this break with three service aces to win his own service and even the match to a 4-4. The situation looked better, but was still precarious. Von Cramm, fighting desperately, held his service to 6-6. At this point Budge broke through again, with the aid of three lovely backhand passing shots, to assume the lead for the first time that afternoon, 7-6. With the average player an unconscious letdown might have occurred, but not with this champion. His concentration increased, if possible, and he ran out the final game with the loss of one point, thus completing one of the greatest rallies in Davis Cup history. One may well imagine Captain Pate’s sigh of relief.
Von Cramm seems to be very unfortunate in the matter of winning important matches. Three years ago in an Interzone Final doubles match, paired with Lund against Allison and Van Ryn, he was on the threshold of a victory which would have given his team an opportunity to reach the Challenge Round, in which they had an even chance of victory. The matches were one-all, and a victory in this match meant certain victory in the Tie, as von Cramm appeared a winner the next day in his singles engagement. The doubles progressed up to two sets to one in favor of the Germans. The set score was 4-5, thirty-all, Allison serving. Two points from victory! Von Cramm had been playing what Allison afterwards described to me as the greatest one-man doubles match he had ever seen or played against.
Allison served, the ball was returned by Lund, and after a brief rally the Germans advanced to the net. Van Ryn hit the ball down the centre of the court, and von Cramm volleyed for a placement to bring up match point. At this juncture there occurred an incident, heretofore unexplained, that was unparalleled in Davis Cup history. Von Cramm walked over to the umpire’s stand and informed the umpire that the point belonged to the Americans. He explained that the ball he had just hit had touched his partner’s racket before he had hit it. Not one of the ten thousand spectators present had noticed this, so slightly had the ball touched Lund’s racket. Even Allison and Van Ryn were dumbfounded. They assumed, as did the reporters and onlookers, that, the Baron’s racket had hit the net. Consequently, instead of the Germans’ needing one point to win the match, they needed three. The tide of the game turned, and the Americans went on to win.
It was the finest and most instinctive display of true sportsmanship I have ever seen. Often a player will accidentally touch the net and, of course, lose the point, but that is usually obvious to everyone. Von Cramm wanted victory in this match as much as anything in the world, but he wanted it in the right way.
II
Now let our thoughts drift back a decade. One sunny July afternoon in 1928, some 14,000 howling, frenzied Frenchmen, all loyal patriots, rose to their feet and wildly acclaimed the once greatest tennis player of the world with shouts of ‘Tilden, Tilden! Bravo, Tilden! Bravo!’ For at that moment the great American player was entering the Stade Roland Garros with his opponent, the then world’s champion, René Lacoste, the French ace. It was to be the first match of the Davis Cup Challenge Round. It would seem unusual that this crowd, which had heretofore been very partisan, should be cheering Tilden. It was not only a great tribute to the American, but a tribute to French sportsmanship, because the crowd realized what a great mental strain Tilden was under.
Eight days previously the United States Lawn Tennis Association had announced that owing to a violation of the ‘player-writer rule’ William T. Tilden was ineligible for Davis Cup competition. This decision had been a terrific blow to us of the American team, because Tilden was our mainstay. We also knew that the violation of the rule was purely technical and entirely unintentional. Tilden’s articles were being printed in American newspapers and were not supposed to contain current news, which in this case meant that if he covered any of the matches in which he played the story could not be printed until forty-eight hours had elapsed from the time of the event of which he wrote. The article which had been cited and used as the cause of Tilden’s suspension was printed only a few hours short of the forty-eight-hour limit. Tilden had many caustic critics, and it was due mainly to this fact that such a strict interpretation was put upon his story.
The team that year was composed of Tilden, Hunter, Hennessey, and me. Without Tilden we were hopelessly weakened. Immediately following the announcement that Tilden was barred, a great cry of protest arose from the French press, claiming the actions of the U. S. L. T. A. to be unfair not only to the American team but to the French team as well. It was pointed out that this was France’s first defense of the Cup and that the French team wanted to defend it against the best American team that could be put into the field. These protests reached a climax seven days later when the United States Ambassador to France, Myron T. Herrick, cabled the U. S. L. T. A. stating that it was his opinion that a great deal would be accomplished in the way of international goodwill if the U. S. L. T. A. would rescind its action and allow Tilden to compete in the Challenge Round. Under this pressure the U. S. L. T. A. finally acquiesced.
In the meantime Tilden was practically in a panic. He was nervous and upset, and played very little tennis. It was impossible for him to concentrate on his game under such conditions. He was reinstated the afternoon before the match. The draw was made and he drew Lacoste, a young man of twentythree who had beaten him in the three previous matches. So, while that July afternoon may have looked sunny to some people, to Tilden and the rest, of the American team it looked dark indeed. Tilden was thirty-five at that time and past his peak. It was the beginning of the French ascendancy. As Tilden walked on the court I could not help thinking to myself that if any tennis player had ever been in a worse spot than this I had never known of it.
What happened in the next hour and a half was a revelation to me; I have never witnessed its equal before or since. Tilden gave the greatest exhibition of brainy tennis ever seen. He was facing a man often referred to as a ‘human machine.’ Lacoste was typically a base-line player, and one of the greatest. He had beaten Tilden in the previous Challenge Round and also won the United States Singles Championship. Psychologically and mentally he had a big advantage over Tilden.
Tilden used chops, slices, fiat shots, top-spin drives, drop shots, lobs, and varied acute-angle shots. By the middle of the second set the rhythm of Lacoste’s stroke was completely broken. He would start his ordinarily fluent strokes in his usual manner and end up by jerking at the ball, as he could never tell just what spin Tilden was going to use. Tilden won the match in five sets, and I was so excited I jumped from the grandstand, a drop of fifteen feet, in order to get down to congratulate him and help him get off the court before he became mobbed by enthusiastic admirers. It was truly a grand exhibition of iron nerve and super-intelligence.
While things were very serious during the week of Tilden’s suspension, there was one situation which struck me as being rather funny. Tilden has a slight flair for the dramatic, and, with popular opinion so heavily on his side, I am not at all certain that he did not actually enjoy the situation. Immediately upon the announcement of his violation of the player-writer rule, Tilden called a meeting of the Paris press. John Hennessey and I also attended this meeting. The newspaper men were gathered in a small lounge of the hotel, and when Tilden came in he mounted an orchestra stand and delivered his address, which was written in English on a piece of paper. I gazed around the room and whispered to Hennessey that less than one of every five reporters knew what Tilden was saying. As the reporters filed out we noticed a group gathered around the Associated Press man, so we walked over. Sure enough, Abbott was explaining to his French colleagues what Tilden had said. Abbott was the only one who had understood.
III
John Doeg won the National Singles with as little stroke equipment as any national champion ever possessed. He had very little more than a tremendous service and a fine volley. Off the ground he was defensive on both sides, chopping both his backhand and his forehand. To offset this deficiency, he had a fighting heart that has never been equaled. In winning the Singles in 1930, Doeg defeated Tilden in the semifinal in a torrid five-set match where only his great determination pulled him through.
Tilden was still a fine player at that time, having every stroke in the game at his command, while Doeg gave an exhibition of sheer fighting ability that was beautiful to behold. His plan was to serve and run to the net at every opportunity, regardless of the score. Many games he rescued from 0-40. When it was Tilden’s serve it was still the same plan — get in to the net and force, force, force. Of course Tilden passed him many times, but as the match progressed Tilden began to miss more often, until finally Doeg’s tenacity wore him down.
But this was only half the battle with Doeg. He had made up his mind that he was going to win the tournament and that nothing could stop him as long as he could stay on his feet. The final found him facing Frank Shields, his equal physically, and possessor of a far superior stroke equipment. In fact, it seemed as though Shields were better in every department of the game except possibly the service, in which he was at least Doeg’s equal. The betting around the Stadium was 2-1 on Shields. But very few people reckoned on that indefinable something within Doeg. I call it spark.
When Doeg won the match at 16-14 in the fourth set, the gallery of 10,000 could scarcely believe their eyes. We had seen Shields making beautiful shots as Tilden did the day before, yet Doeg had won the match. A concentrated spark had carried the day.
Being a close friend of Doeg’s, I sat with tears of admiration in my eyes as he flung himself on the ground after the final point. He had given everything he had.
IV
‘Bill’ Tilden had probably the most unusual experience a first-class player ever went through. It is not customary for him to show a reversal of form, yet he was the victim of perhaps the most exciting rightabout-face ever witnessed in a tennis match. In the 1926 Wimbledon, Tilden was leading Cochet two sets to love and 5-1 in games. Just what happened at this point I don’t suppose will ever be known; Cochet began to win one game after another, taking the third set 7-5 and running out the last two sets and the match easily. There have been explanations, among them that at this moment King Alfonso of Spain had just arrived and Tilden, with his great love of showmanship, decided to toy with Cochet for a game or two for the benefit of the King. In doing so he completely lost his touch and could not get started again.
Tilden had a great faculty of creating his own dramatic situations. He delighted in allowing his opponent to accumulate what seemed like a commanding lead and then proceeding to pull the match out of the ‘fire.’ There were times when he got in too deep, however. Once this happened when I was his opponent. He had let me get a twoto-one set lead in one of the early tournaments in Florida, and had been playing around with me in the fourth set up to the point where I reached 5-4 and 30-40 on his service. All I needed was one point to accomplish what seemed to me the greatest thing in the world. I do not doubt that Tilden thought he would pull the match out with a service ace. He served a fast service, but I got my racket on the ball and sloughed back a weak return. As he came in to the net to put the ball away he slipped on the line and fell down, so that I won the match! For five minutes all I could do was yell like a wild Indian. This did not strike Tilden as being the slightest bit funny, and for the next three weeks, in the finals of the three succeeding tournaments, he proceeded to toy with me but never to the point of allowing me to get close to victory. His method of punishing me struck me as a variation of the old Chinese tortures.
There is such a thing as talking one’s way out of a tight spot. Let me take you back to one of the most interesting players of all time — Jean Borotra. He was a great actor on the tennis court. I well remember his match with ‘Little Bill’ Johnston in the 1927 National Singles Championship. ‘Little Bill’ had won the first two sets, and Borotra began his most successful act — that of appearing to be completely exhausted and saying to his opponent, ‘I am so tired I can’t walk. You are much too good for me.’ Johnston was a sympathetic sort of person, and the first thing he knew the match was over and Borotra was the winner. That night in the clubhouse a number of the officials of the U. S. L. T. A. were gathered around Vincent Richards, Borotra’s opponent the following day. Advice was coming from all sides, and it was pointed out that above all things Richards should not allow Borotra to work that same trick again.
The match came along, Richards in a commanding position with a lead of two sets. Suddenly the Frenchman began letting it be known he was all in: he was so tired, no more strength left, and Richards was much, much too good. Richards, like Johnston, was of a sympathetic disposition. In about one hour Borotra was once again the winner, and Richards, like Johnston, was relegated to the side lines. It was a great act, but could only be successful against a player who did not know him, for the next aft ernoon Borotra met his teammate, Rene Lacoste, in the final round and attempted the same strategy unsuccessfully. Lacoste went into a commanding lead as did Johnston and Richards, and as usual Borotra let it be known to everyone present that he was tired, and so forth. As he was resting in between games and telling his story to Lacoste he was interrupted by his phlegmatic countryman, who said coldly, ‘When you are ready we will continue.’
V
When Mrs. Helen Wills Moody defaulted to Helen Jacobs at 0-3 in the final set in the Women’s Singles Championship she placed herself in a precarious position as far as public opinion was concerned. She had injured her back. If she had continued with the match permanent injury might have resulted. The gallery had been rooting for a Jacobs victory because Mrs. Moody had been winning from Miss Jacobs for so many years, and in this match it did seem as if Miss Jacobs were about to realize her ambition — winning the National Championship from her great rival.
When Mrs. Moody was unable to continue any longer without suffering great pain she informed the umpire that it was impossible for her to go on. This action caused a great howl from the press. It was contended that, regardless of her condition, Mrs. Moody should have continued the match until the finish, if only going through the motions. Unwittingly she had placed herself in a socalled ‘spot,’ from which she did not extricate herself for several years. Having known Mrs. Moody for over ten years, I never doubted that she had done the right and sensible thing.
Over a year passed before she was able to play any tennis, and it began to look as though her tennis days were a thing of the past. When an athlete, man or woman, reaches thirty, it becomes increasingly difficult, after a year’s absence, to regain the peak of past effectiveness. In the case of Mrs. Moody, with over a year’s complete absence from the courts, a successful comeback was doubly difficult, as she had mental as well as physical troubles to overcome. But when, a year and a half after the Forest Hills incident, Mrs. Moody announced that she would play at Wimbledon the coming year, I was pleased beyond bounds. No one knew better than she just what she would have to go through. The women players of the world had improved tremendously, and no longer was she considered invincible. She knew that the odds against her winning were great, but, win or lose, she was going to silence her critics.
It had been the custom of the United States Lawn Tennis Association to pay Mrs. Moody’s expenses on such trips. But they evidently did not have complete faith in her. Thus Mrs. Moody played in this tournament, six thousand miles from her home, as an individual; she was on her own. By dint of hard work she reached the final round, but only after several close matches against players she would have beaten easily earlier in her career. Her opponent was none other than Miss Jacobs, who was playing the finest tennis she ever played.
Every seat in the Centre Court was sold. It was impossible to buy a ticket even from the London speculators, who had already sold their tickets at $100 per pair. And the match was well worth whatever price was paid. The first two sets were divided, but it was obvious that Mrs. Moody was far from her former self. In the past she had beaten Miss Jacobs as badly as 6-0, 6-0. Of course Miss Jacobs had improved, but Mrs. Moody had gone back. The third set went along with Miss Jacobs slightly ahead until the score reached 5-4 and 40-30, with Miss Jacobs serving. Match point. A rally began, Miss Jacobs advanced to the net, and Mrs. Moody put up a rather short lob. In her excitement and hurry, Miss Jacobs flubbed the ball weakly into the net. The game was brought back to deuce. Miss Jacobs was still dangerous. But Mrs. Moody, calm and unruffled at this point, pulled herself out of this predicament and, playing steady, consistent tennis, won the game. She was past the crisis, and took the next two games, winning the third set and the match. She had proved herself under fire. Even her severest critics were cheering her loudly and wildly at the conclusion.
VI
There comes a time in every athletic career when the winning or losing of close matches depends upon quick thinking and brainwork. In tennis, after one reaches thirty, court-covering ability depends upon one’s ability to conserve his energy. A younger man will invariably win a long match from an older opponent if the two are fairly equal in skill, unless the older man lets his brain do the hard work. Even with the most careful conservation, the older man is apt to find himself lost if it is an especially long affair. Then he has to depend entirely on his own intelligence and ability to outthink his opponent.
Last fall Vincent Richards and I met Karel Kozeluh and Bruce Barnes in the doubles final of the first open tournament ever held in the United States. Barnes is a younger man just in his tennis prime, and Kozeluh is the type of player who can play all day and never tire. He has played tennis every day of his life, and like ‘Ol’ Man River’ he goes on and on. Richards had been in a terrible automobile accident three years ago in which he had broken his arm and dislocated his hip. He was lucky to be playing tennis at all, let alone championship tennis. And, like the ‘Old Gray Mare,’ I was n’t what I used to be.
At the start of the match I knew that our opponents’ strategy would be to wear us down. By no process of reasoning could we be figured to last a hard five-set match. That is what they thought. We lost the first two sets, 6-1, 6-4, and our case looked hopeless. We eked out the third set and gratefully accepted the ten-minute rest. At the beginning of the fourth set I thought I noticed a peculiar psychology on the other side of the net. Even though they were ahead and looked like certain winners, they were much more nervous than we were.
The set went along until they finally reached match point with Richards serving. Up to this time I had not crossed over once on Kozeluh’s return of service, as I knew that I needed to save my strength. But here at match point I decided to poach. It was to be all or nothing,
Richards served, Kozeluh returned his usual cross-court shot, and I ran over to hit it. The return was higher than usual, but I made a wild stab at the ball, going up in the air like a ballet dancer. I managed to catch Barnes at his feet: so that all he could do was put up a short lob, which I smashed for a placement to bring the score back to deuce. The tide turned from then on and we won that set and the fifth. The final set was close, but we had them beaten mentally, as they were never sure just what we might do. The threat of unexpectedness had pulled us out of a bad hole.
VII
During my career as an amateur tennis player I often wondered just what it was that kept me playing the game year after year. It seemed to me that perhaps it was the plaudits of the crowd, or maybe it was the personal satisfaction I derived from seeing my name in headlines. I accidentally stumbled upon the solution of the mystery at the Longwood Cricket Club one afternoon back in 1932. I was coming down the stairs of the club on my way to the Stadium. On the clubhouse court were two gentlemen I knew very well. They were close friends, and I had never seen them in other than a friendly mood — Fred (‘Pop’) Baggs and ‘Doc’ William Rosenbaum. Their opponents were two men I did not know so well. These four were playing the finals of the Veterans’ Doubles. They had an umpire, but no gallery.
I stopped a second to see what ‘Pop’ was up to, as he is usually doing something amusing. Much to my surprise, ‘Pop’ was in deadly earnest, with a most serious expression on his face. Well, I thought, anything that commands such serious attention from ‘Pop’ is certainly worth at least a few minutes of my time. So down I sat.
‘Pop’ wasn’t talking to ‘Doc,’ and the only indication he gave of being aware of ‘Doc’s’ presence was to groan loudly every time the latter missed a shot. And ‘Doc’ ignored ‘Pop’ altogether. Well, I had played a lot of matches all over the world that I had wanted to win, but my partner and I had always maintained at least a speaking acquaintance while the match was in progress. And both ‘Pop’ and ‘Doc’ completely ignored their opponents. There were no cries of ‘Good shot’ or ‘Well played.’ No sir. This was a match for blood, no quarter given or asked.
The tennis itself was good. Of course there were no shots of blinding speed. It was more like a game of checkers; each team was trying to outmanœuvre the other before trying for the kill. And it seemed as though life itself depended upon the outcome. I watched the match to the finish, becoming so completely engrossed that I forgot I had started for the Stadium. At the conclusion, as I walked slowly on to the Stadium, the realization came to me that the reason I had played so many years of tennis was that I liked to win, and that when I got past the age of battling for big titles I could still play the game as I had in the past, even if only for the championship of Paducah.
Oh yes, Dr. Rosenbaum and Mr. Baggs won.