‘A beautifully written work … [It] is among the triumphs of sports publishing. It is also the funniest tennis book ever written …’ London Times
‘It has reduced more than one reviewer to the embarrassment of public laughter – the helpless, tearful mirth that makes one seek privacy …’ London Times
‘… [With] gentleness and bubbling wit, [Gordon Forbes] is putting an arm around our shoulders and inviting us to share something good … Its only genuine flaw is that it has a last page …’ London Times
‘A mesmerizing new autobiography! We are told of the golden days of tennis … Forbes goes so far as having written the most raucous, irreverent and downright Rabelaisian memoir I have read … the most jingly-jangly hilarious sporting memoir that can ever have been published.’ The Guardian
‘The old, valiant days live vividly on his pages. He is a natural, elegant, if somewhat quirkish writer and he brings the characters of the game beautifully to life …’ London Daily Express
‘A vivid gift for expression … players spring to life under Forbes’ kindly microscope …’ The Birmingham Post
‘Gordon Forbes romps through a rollicking tale of court craft, wine, women and outrageous anecdotes …’ The Newcastle upon Tyne Journal
‘A riotously extroverted memoir. I can’t get out of my mind some of the funny scenes that Mr Forbes paints.’ The New York Times
‘Warmth, wit and a touch of madness …’ Minneapolis Tribune
‘… written with great polish … stylishly cerebral … shriekingly funny … a book about people … hysterically tongue-in-cheek … Even if you have never struck a tennis ball in anger, you must read it.’ Jane Fraser, Rand Daily Mail
‘An explosion of wry wit and constant mischievous intent … delicate touches of sheer poetry … Gordon Forbes has finally cracked it. He is top seed in the world.’ Sunday Times
‘Rollicking, raucous and riveting … I laughed my head off … An inborn writing gift is required to make people laugh aloud, and Gordon has succeeded with this sporting gem …’ Sunday Express
‘Gordon Forbes, you’re wrong! Your name will go down in tennis history, after all!’ The Citizen
‘Forbes joins the greats of sporting literature. A strange mixture of whimsy, ribaldry and farce … it is either laugh aloud, or bubble and squeak as the air tries to break out …’ Cape Times
‘… not just another tennis book … highly sensitive … an unreturnable ace in sports literature … I can hardly wait for a sequel …’ Sunday Tribune
‘One of the warmest, most entertaining sporting autobiographies ever published …’ The Star
‘It’s a laugh a minute …’ The Herald
‘Fortunately he thought his stories worth recording … Fortunately he preserved his diary … Long live Forbes.’ The Field
‘Even if you don’t have much interest in sport, this is a must.’ The Signature
‘… crammed with anecdotes and hilarious stories …’ Tennis Australia
‘… the splendid awareness that good times are at hand. The book is a triumph.’ George Plimpton
‘Suffused with a mood that makes it unforgettable …’ Tennis USA
‘The longer it lasts the more delightful it becomes.’ Charles Fortune, sports commentary icon
‘Thank you, Gordon, for reminding us of the fun we had.’ Björn Borg
‘Forbsey got it right – forehands, fun, food and laughter.’ Rod Laver
‘Gordon captured the sweet era of tennis perfectly.’ Ken Rosewall
‘The greatest book on tennis ever written.’ Lew Hoad
‘Congratulations! The best book on tennis, and also the funniest.’ Charlton Heston
‘The book should be made compulsory reading by all pros …’ Bob Bryner, CEO of the Association of Tennis Professionals
‘It’s the best book on tennis. Period.’ Bud Collins, leading US TV commentator
‘Quite simply, the best book on tennis ever written.’ Mark McCormack
‘I enjoyed the book so much that I threw a minor tantrum when it ended … My God it’s good!’ Joy Goodwin, author of The Second Mark
‘Forbes’ greatest strength as a writer … a sum of uncanny adjectives, remembered phrases, captured emotions.’ Steve Tignor
‘My total admiration goes to this hilarious autobiography …’ Richard Evans in Tales from the Tennis Court
‘… the greatest cast of characters any sport would ever dare claim.’ The Tennis Book
‘Gordon Forbes’ beautifully titled A Handful of Summers belongs in the small group of athlete writers who have written superb books on their own.’ The Norton Book of Sports
‘Forbsey’s book! People keep talking about it, which means I have to read the bloody thing again.’ Fred Stolle, doyen of great players turned TV commentators
‘I didn’t realise Fred could read …’ Roy Emerson
A Memoir
Gordon Forbes
© Gordon Forbes, 1978, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission from the copyright holder.
ISBN: 978-1-928257-42-4
e-ISBN: 978-1-928257-43-1
First published in hardcover by William Heinemann, 1978
First published in paperback by Jonathan Ball Publishers, 1979
Paperback reissued by Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 2010
This edition published by Bookstorm (Pty) Ltd, 2017
Published by Bookstorm (Pty) Ltd
PO Box 4532
Northcliff 2115
Johannesburg
South Africa
www.bookstorm.co.za
Cover design by publicide
Book design and typesetting by Nix Design in OrigGaramond
Ebook by Liquid Type Publishing Services
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank Peter Ustinov, Owen and Jenny Williams, Ron Bookman, Gladys Heldman, Kate and Marshall Lee, Jacques Sellschop, Jane Fraser, the Segal girls, Pat Tayler, Allie Inglis, Margo Blanchett, Jenny Archibald, Jane and Burt Boyar, Frances Forbes, Ed Fernberger, Russ Adams, Arthur Cole, C.M. Jones, H. Harris, The Press Association Ltd and Drysdale.
For Jeannie
For the players who raised the laughter
And for the game that we play –
For Tennis itself
Contents
Spring 2017
Foreword by Peter Ustinov
Introduction
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Postscript
Pictures
Spring 2017
This book tells of the unique period in which tennis changed from a simple, amateur game to the rich and colourful spectacle it is today. And yet that long ago era – from the early 50s to the late 60s – ingenuous as it was, is much loved by the people who know of it, remember it, and find comfort in the artless nobility of it. The age of innocence, you may call it, if you don’t mind old and well-worn phrases – but then the book itself is old and well-worn, moves at a leisurely pace, and still seems able to offer a fleeting escape from the commotion of the modern world.
Everythin
g then was steeped in thrift – the tournaments, the people who ran them, the travel, the bus rides, the people who watched the tennis, the players who played it, and the little hotels they stayed in – and the thrift they knew was comfortable, necessary and manageable. Life was simple, tennis a game, travelling a thrill, good living a treat; and one of the consequences was that to enjoy the world on a tight budget, the players had to be creative, resourceful and ingenious. And it was their ways and words that my sister, Jean, and I found so interesting and funny, and that lead to the stories in this book.
Oh, there were rich people in the world, of course – not as many as today, but they still had mansions, Bentleys, yachts and the sort, loved the company of tennis players and issued the most luxurious invitations – which of course were eagerly accepted. But while the players revelled in such luxury, they knew very well that it was only on loan, and if they wanted to own it, they’d have to devise their own ways to get it. Some of them did, and virtually all of them found their places in the world, for they were a resourceful lot, used to making their way …
Enough! In short, they were ordinary people, so the book is about ordinary things – a game of tennis, a cold beer, a good laugh, a fine romance, a sunny day on the beach. After all, so many people still like ordinary things.
G.F.
Foreword
Just as the backbone of the acting profession has always been its character actors, so the backbone of the tennis circuit is that squadron of talented players unlikely to win championships with any regularity, but always able to upset the stars on an off-day.
Sport would be nowhere without its underdogs, its plucky Davids to lure Goliath into error and over-statement.
Gordon Forbes was just such a David, always capable of great achievement, even if consistency in triumph was denied him, perhaps by temperament as much as by natural genius. The Westerns teach us that the good guys have to be worse than the bad guys if they are to shoot it out with any chance of survival, and the habit of victory is perhaps engendered by the cultivation of a killer instinct in a player, a peculiarly chilling adjunct on any centre court.
It is a curious irony, or perhaps it is merely logical, that South Africa, a country with a particularly difficult stance in the world of sport, should have produced players of unequalled tact, charm and intelligence. They have needed it all to face up to the barracking, the firecrackers of demonstrators, and the protective police cordons which have dogged their footsteps the world over.
No player will dispute that Cliff Drysdale is one of the most enlightened of players, with a broad culture and an inquisitive yet disciplined mind. Gordon Forbes is equally endowed with such qualities, not least of which are an exemplary objectivity and fairness of mind. Cliff is married to Gordon’s sister, Jeannie, a highly individual intelligence in her own right. It is good to know that all these attributes are bandied about like tennis balls within the sanctum of the same family.
Abe Segal was another one of that rare crop of delightful South Africans, plunging about the court like a minor prophet, his fine face creased in nascent despair as victory threatened to be elusive and the voices from above were silent, whereas Cliff was expressionless as a confirmed aesthete and Gordon looked forever like promising officer material from the First World War. And there are others, consistently interesting, delightful and unexpected.
I had met Gordon at Wimbledon, but I really got to know him at a luxurious club in Istanbul, dedicated in equal part to tennis and fencing, tantalisingly called the Istanbul Tenis re Eskzim Külüp. I must say I never saw a sword drawn within its distinguished walls, even after matches punctuated by doubtful decisions.
Gordon rashly invited me to join him and two charming ladies in a mixed doubles match. Conscious of the fact that he dampened his service somewhat in order to accommodate the corpulent amateur facing him, I asked him with equal rashness to serve as though he were playing in a tournament match. I failed to return the ball not because I could not reach it, but because I did not see it.
He chooses to make certain observations about my service within these pages, which evidently amused not only the players, but a growing audience of uninhibited Turks, who cramped my lack of style by roaring with unrestrained laughter every time I threw the ball into the air. In the interests of truthfulness, I feel I must inform him that I have changed this service, and that I have adopted one even more inscrutable and subtle. At the risk of immodesty, I must also claim to have aced Tom Okker, another player of exemplary generosity towards hopefuls like myself. The ace in question was so slow that he fell attempting to reach it, and play was held up while he received medical attention. I walked about masking my impatience, and registering the usual signs of frustrated sportsmanship I had observed in professionals.
When Gordon told me he had written a book, I determined to be as elegant towards him as he had been towards me, and I told him I would consult my publishers about where such a manuscript should be most profitably sent.
‘To us’, was their reply, after only a couple of days. I must say I was at least as thrilled as he was, and am more than honoured that I should be chosen to umpire the first match between him and his public.
Having read the book, I declare that he has won the toss. Mr Forbes to serve. Play …
Peter Ustinov – 1978
‘In the middle of a lifetime
Of days and nights
And the unexpected seasons that
Sly changes ring;
Go back down the years
And recall if you can
All the warm temperate times;
You may find with surprise
That they’re all squeezed in
To a headful of thoughts
And a handful of summers.’
G.F. Diary notes – 1968
Introduction
Wimbledon: 1976
Staircase number one at the All England Club leads you into a section of the stadium just above the members’ enclosure. Climb the stairs on finals day and there, suddenly, in the sun, the soft old centre court, lying waiting, all green; waiting; for two o’clock. It is venerable, that court, and it lives. Heaven knows why, but it does. Perhaps the shades of green do it; or the canvas awnings, or the smell of the place. England and cut grass. From the stand at the top of staircase one, you get a perfect, almost end-on view of the court.
I arrived early, and sat there with my chin in my hands, allowing memories to wash over me; of this Wimbledon, and of others past. The soft, sad nudges of good times spent, of chances gone, and of dreams half-dreamed. You could see right into the players’ enclosure from the stand at the top of staircase one. In 1954 I had watched Drobny and Rosewall take the court. They wore blazers and baggy shorts that tipped up at the back when they bowed towards the Royal Box. Good God! The inordinate thrill of that very first Wimbledon!
At two, there came a crash of applause and Nastase and Borg appeared, superbly fitted out in beautifully cut tennis gear. They took their bow, arranged their paraphernalia, and began to play; easy, expert strokes. Exclusive and aloof. There is no doubt at all that Borg is one of the game’s great athletes. There is a simplicity about the way he plays – a marvellous logic that carves away all complications. And Nastase! Who can add to the screeds already written about the charm and roguery of Nastase? I sat there, engrossed in the tennis – this new tennis with its indefinable air of style and grandeur. I sensed the hero-worship for the young Swede and the pure glamour of Nastase. The aura of theatre! I found myself thinking suddenly of the older days when tennis tournaments had been simpler and more personal things; when there were no Las Vegas Spectaculars, no money prizes nor the fascinations created by money, nor any of its motivations; times when the spirit of the game had been much more the thing, and getting into the next round meant no increased winnings, but only the excitement of a victory and a small step nearer to some private, much-
beloved and unimaginably longed for ambition.
This book is about tennis when it was a game played in white; about an extraordinary band of players who travelled the world playing tennis for fun and the few pocketfuls of loose change that could, by sly and devious means, be extracted from the thrifty amateur officials.
This book is a story about tennis and me when we were both a little younger.
I’ve wanted to write it for years. The diaries which I kept during my playing days are dotted with the random beginnings of books.
‘There I was, in Rome,’ I find scribbled, ‘locked in combat with the dreaded Italian, Pietrangeli. Slow courts, Pirelli balls, foreign language, boiling sun. Suddenly, at six-five in the first set, the umpire called out “new balls” in Italian, which I, at that time, thought meant “boiled eggs”.
“What’s happening?” I asked. “Are we stopping for a snack?” One never knows with Italians, you see.’
It rambles on about the agonies of the grass court player, bogged down on the damp clays of Rome.
There were many such beginnings.
This one, perhaps, will lead to something more coherent.
One
Diary Notes: 1942
Yesterday was Saturday, so in the afternoon we all went into town. Joseph opened the first gate for us, and my father threw him a penny. My father says a penny is a lot of money for a little black boy. We looked back and saw him waving to us through the dust. Jack and I opened the other four gates, and Jean slept in the back. At the tennis club it was so hot that we climbed the trees by the side of the courts and just sat there. My father says it’s a damn shame that the club has only nineteen members. My mother won all her matches quite easily.
The spring that year must have been a rainy one. By midsummer, I remember, the wheat was waist-high and ripening. If you lay flat on your back in the wheat field, you saw the stalks and ears stark against the white sky, and if you turned your cheek to the soil you could smell earth smells and summer. Dreams came drifting. Then, if one of the big, black, floppy-tailed birds loped over you with his tail just brushing the wheat husks, you could leap up and chase him. And sometimes catch his frantic tail in a huge dive that brought you and him down in a tumble amongst the wheat stalks. You could look at him while you held him, see his frightened eyes, feel his little heartbeats and smile at him so strangely close to you, when before, he was just a flapping bird, far away. Then, having scolded him for being a fat and clumsy bird, you could throw him up and laugh at him paddling away.
A Handful of Summers Page 1