Days of Grace

by Arthur Ashe

  Donald Dell, who had come in for the matches, convinced Connors to apologize to Mills. As Donald put it, Jimmy had to apologize to preserve the honor of the United States. I don’t know if Jimmy fully appreciated this concept, but he understood it sufficiently to make what Mills called a “very genuine and personal apology” to both him and the umpire.

  By this time, Henrik Sundstrom had defeated McEnroe, who also found the clay surface daunting. McEnroe’s rustiness showed, and he had also injured his wrist. The next day, in the doubles, McEnroe and Fleming fell to Jarryd and nineteen-year-old Stefan Edberg in four sets—and we had lost the Cup. We had prepared shabbily, and had paid the price accordingly. For this I bear most of the blame.

  The tie now decided, Connors asked to go home to his wife. I gave him permission to do so, and Arias finally had his chance to play. I had named Arias to our team after he had become one of the top ten in the world, then stuck with him when his ranking slid into the twenties. Then I heard from agents for other players who couldn’t understand why he was on the team and they were not. I believed that I had to be loyal to Arias, and not dump him simply because he had slipped a little. Meanwhile, Arias himself made it clear that he did not enjoy being a backup player, even to Connors and McEnroe. He wanted to play singles. Now he had his chance in a best-of-three-sets “dead rubber” match.

  Against Sundstrom, Arias took the first set and seemed on his way to an easy triumph. Then, inexplicably, with no sun or wind to contend with, and on his favorite surface, clay, Arias began to hyperventilate. He simply became too excited. As I watched in deepening embarrassment, he began to cramp up badly. Sundstrom won, 3–6, 8–6, 6–3.

  THE WAY WE had lost to Sweden, more than the loss itself, truly hurt me. Whatever their reasons, Connors and McEnroe had not come prepared to play at their best. I suppose I could have demoted them just before their matches, but I don’t think anyone else would have done so. Above all, I hated being associated with the vile language Connors flung about on the court, and the flagrant abuse of the officials. I was also taken aback at the awards dinner when Hunter Delatour, the president of the USTA in 1983 and 1984, apologized to the Swedes for the Americans’ conduct during the tie. I know that I would not have done so, and some of the American players were livid. I took it as another rebuke, although one not unjustified, when the incoming president of the USTA, J. Randolph Gregson, promised to make a “complete evaluation” of our Cup effort. Then Harry Merlo, chairman of the Louisiana-Pacific Corporation, the sponsor of our national team, threatened to withdraw its support if such misconduct continued. “Unless we can be assured that such constructive changes will be made,” he insisted, “we will move to withdraw our sponsorship.”

  We were heading toward a crisis. Public criticism of the players became widespread; I received about fifty letters asking me to banish McEnroe and Connors, at least for a year. In a syndicated column, William E. Simon, a former U.S. Secretary of the Treasury, called their behavior in Sweden “one of the most disgusting and vulgar displays of childishness ever seen in a world-class sporting event.” The column was entitled “America’s Punks.” A highly respected Washington Post sportswriter called for the two players to be “kicked off the U.S. Davis Cup team immediately.”

  Then Merlo and Gregson came up with a plan. In January 1985, the USTA sent out letters to the top thirty or so American players asking them to apply for Davis Cup selection only if they were prepared to abide by a list of guidelines for good behavior. If they applied for a spot and were chosen, they would have to sign a Davis Cup “contract” that required them to behave like gentlemen.

  To me, the idea seemed like a loyalty pledge. The U.S. Davis Cup committee had a right to expect good behavior, but umpires and referees already had the power to discipline players. Some players were scornful. “I could have written the proposed guidelines in third grade,” Fleming jeered. “They aren’t exactly revolutionary.” And one prominent tennis writer compared them “to the Pledge of Allegiance sleepy kids recite every morning in school.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to take a resolutely hard line against the players even if they needed it, and even if they behaved in ways that I detested. In January, at an event I attended to promote a new line of sports clothing, most of the questions put to me were about the players’ behavior. I tried to put the burden of disciplining them on the umpires and referees. “If I feel a player is wrong,” I told a reporter, “I’ll let the umpire nail him. Then, if it gets too embarrassing, I’ll tell the players to stop or we’ll roll down the nets. But if the umpire doesn’t nail the player, then …” Even I could see that this was hardly an adamant statement.

  McEnroe hated the pledge and made it clear that he would not sign it. “I don’t see why I should have to sign it,” he said, “simply because they [the USTA] were backed into a corner by some sponsor who wasn’t even involved the first six years that I played.” Earlier, he had announced that he would skip our next match, against Japan—the first Cup tie he would miss in seven years. His aim, he said (and I believed him), was to give other players a chance to shine. He would then return to the team, if selected. But he would not sign the pledge. “What if I signed,” he asked insouciantly at one point, “then went on a rampage in the next match? Would I have to sign again?”

  In the final analysis, I faced the fact that I had been chosen captain by the president of the USTA and had an obligation to enforce its decisions or else resign. And I did not want to resign in apparent defense of the right of players to misbehave. Publicly I called the guidelines enforceable, and looked to the future: “A more disciplined U.S. team should emerge.”

  As for coarse language on court, I tried to point out that “all athletes curse at times—at themselves, at opponents, at officials, and sometimes at the public.” However, tennis players would have to realize that the presence of microphones on the court, as well as the traditional gentility of tennis, meant that the players would have to learn to restrain themselves, although their tirades boosted television ratings for tennis matches. “Tennis players are not going to stop cursing,” I said, “but they are going to have to learn to do it sotto voce or else they will be defaulted. In the future, audible coarse language will not be tolerated from our team members.” I believed I had taken as firm a stand as I wanted.

  IN MARCH 1985, in Kyoto, Japan, and in the absence of Mac and Jimmy, I named Eliot Teltscher and Aaron Krickstein to play singles, and Ken Flach and Robert Seguso to play doubles. Now I had to endure the anger of Arias and his agent.

  “You kicked Jimmy in the teeth!” he screamed at me. “In the teeth!”

  “I gave him a chance in a match that didn’t really matter,” I countered. “And he blew it.”

  In Tennis magazine, Arias complained bitterly (but not very effectively, I thought) about me. “I went to Bucharest in the middle of the winter,” he said. “I’ve attended every single match as a water boy, practically. I just felt I’d paid my dues.” He would play Davis Cup tennis again, he offered, “but with Arthur as captain, it’s questionable.” (He failed to mention, apparently, that he was paid $60,000 as a team member for the year.) Teltscher, too, criticized me. My “indecisiveness” annoyed him. “He asked me if I’d be available to play,” Eliot explained to the press. “I said, ‘Are you asking me to?’ He said, ‘No, I just wanted to see if you’d be available.’ I just want him to make a decision and let me know.”

  I didn’t take such criticism too much to heart. Most players want to play, even if they don’t deserve to do so ahead of other players. Rookies seldom like watching veterans enjoy the fruits of their years of labor. I thought John had earned the right to expect a favor or two, but lesser players often complained about that. I remember one heated exchange with Arias.

  “How come Mac can show up a day late for the tie,” Jimmy fumed, “and I have to be here on time? How come, Arthur?”

  “Go win three Wimbledons and four U.S. Opens like John,” I snapped back, “and then w
e’ll discuss it.” (In 1986, Arias redeemed himself by winning the decisive fifth match against Ecuador.)

  In Kyoto, we dropped only one set and moved past Japan, 5–0.

  Next we faced a tougher opponent, West Germany. We needed to field our best possible team. The USTA still stood by its pledge, and McEnroe and Connors still refused to sign it. I made it clear that I wanted McEnroe. “If John doesn’t sign,” I told a New York Times reporter in May, “there may be other ways to put him on the team. His willingness to play might be acceptable. And if he makes himself available, I’ll pick him whether he signs or not.” Although I knew that this statement would not sit well with the USTA or with Harry Merlo of Louisiana-Pacific, I wanted to make it clear that I thought we should have McEnroe with us.

  Connors’s refusal was more symbolic than substantial. He had never really been one of us. Then he announced that he would not play Davis Cup anymore. At least he was honest enough to admit his shortcomings. “I’ve never been a team man,” he conceded. “That’s why I never joined the Association [of Tennis Professionals] and why I don’t play doubles anymore. I’ve always taken full credit for my success and full controversy for my failures.”

  Later in the year, in World Tennis magazine, my journalist friend Bud Collins stoutly defended McEnroe and Connors: “It was an insult to be asked to sign.” He went further: “I guess I’m even more disappointed by captain Ashe and the Davis Cup players other than McEnroe and Connors. Their failure to stick together against the imposition of a loyalty oath, and in defense of their comrades, Mac and Jimmy, by refusing, en masse, to sign the undemocratic pledge, tells me that the team was not really a team.”

  In August 1985, in Hamburg, I assembled the same team that had defeated Japan: Teltscher, Krickstein, Flach, and Seguso. (We didn’t have McEnroe, but we received a telegram from his family wishing us luck.) The Germans had an ace waiting for us: redheaded Boris Becker, who had electrified the tennis world the previous month by winning Wimbledon at the age of seventeen. I had never seen a tennis prodigy built like Becker; he reminded me of some overgrown high-school basketball superstar suddenly thrown in with the top professionals, making some mistakes but dazzling his elders all the same. Six feet three inches tall, powerful, athletic, and impetuous, he promptly subdued Teltscher, 6–2, 6–2, 6–3. Like some infant unaware of his own strength, Becker marveled afterward at how easily he had disposed of a higher-ranked player. “I thought it would be a tougher fight,” he said. “Like maybe four sets.”

  Then followed one of the most frustrating matches of my Davis Cup captaincy.

  As a tennis player, young Krickstein had a great deal going for him. Blessed with big shoulders (he had started out as a swimmer), Krickstein had mighty groundstrokes, excellent control, and abundant stamina. He had everything except the so-called killer instinct, if the killing had to take place at the net. He was a decent volleyer, but even on drop shots, Aaron would often rush in to retrieve the ball, then scurry back to the baseline, where he felt much safer. The result was that he seldom finished points quickly—or games, or sets. In fact, he didn’t finish matches quickly. In a mixture of respect and derision, Aaron came to be known among the players as “the King of the Five-Setters.”

  In Hamburg, against low-ranked Hansjörg Schwaier, Aaron played his royal game. He won the first set (6–2), dropped the second (1–6), won the third (6–2), dropped the fourth (1–6). Midway through the fifth, however, he started to cramp up, and then lost the match. He had dominated most of the points but refused to come to the net to finish them off. A win in the doubles and the first of the reverse singles kept our hopes alive, but then Becker blasted Krickstein, 6–2, 6–2, 6–1. Becker started the match wearing a sweater, and never bothered to take it off. Urged on by cries of “Bravo, Boris!” and “Deutschland!,” he needed only an hour and a half to win.

  West Germany, hardly a major power in world tennis just two months before, had beaten us. For the third straight year, I had led the United States to defeat in the Davis Cup. I understood that my days as captain were numbered.

  THAT SUMMER, IN a personal consolation, I was inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame at Newport, Rhode Island. As happens only on rare occasions, the committee inducted me as soon as I was eligible, five years after my retirement. I would like to think that my heart operations had nothing to do with their decision. Inducted along with me were Fred Stolle of Australia, an old tournament companion from my playing days who excelled above all in doubles play, and Ann Haydon Jones of Britain, who had won a Wimbledon singles crown in 1969. I made a family affair of this honor of a lifetime. Jeanne and her parents attended the event with me in Newport, as did my father and stepmother, as well as my brother Johnnie, his wife, Sandra, their daughter, Luchia, and other members of our large family.

  On October 22, The New York Times carried a story headlined: “Ashe to Be Dropped as Davis Captain.” The usual “informed sources” said I had been advised that I would be let go, and that Randy Gregson had lost confidence in me “for a perceived lack of discipline and organization on the team.” The sources were well informed. A few days previously, at a meeting in midtown Manhattan, Gregson and Jorgensen had informed me that I was finished. I made it clear that I wanted to stay on, but they had made up their minds.

  At noon on the day after the Times story appeared, I called Gregson in Arizona and tendered my resignation. I underscored my continuing loyalty to the Davis Cup competition by accepting the essentially ceremonial position of vice-chairman of the Cup committee.

  Not long afterward, Tom Gorman, an old friend and former Davis Cup player, was named to replace me. I wished him well, although I was a little hurt by the headline of an editorial (by Steve Flink) in World Tennis magazine: “Can Gorman Raise the Cup From Ashe?” Had I really brought it so low? Looking back on my career as captain, I can point with some pride to my record of 13 wins against 3 losses. I am also proud to be only the second captain in thirty years to lead the U.S. team to consecutive victories (1981 and 1982). However, as I had led some of the most talented teams ever fielded by the United States, we should have done better, and some of the blame must rest on my shoulders.

  To be more effective, I suppose, I should have been more gregarious at times, and at other times more aggressive. I should have tried harder to impose my will on the players. But I couldn’t do that, and I have to live with the consequences. I accepted the fact that as much as I want to lead others, and love to be around other people, in some essential way I am something of a loner.

  Nevertheless, that knowledge did not make me more reclusive. My setbacks in connection with the Davis Cup helped me to understand that to be effective, I would have to step more boldly into the spotlight, especially if I wished to be effective in the crucial area of social and political progress. My Davis Cup captaincy was a rich, challenging, and also satisfying experience, not least of all because of that simple lesson.

  Chapter Four

  Protest and Politics

  AS I HAD hoped, my captaincy in the Davis Cup proved to be a bridge—albeit one with some broken planks, and one that sometimes swayed ominously in the wind—between my glory years as a player and the obscurity of retirement. The Cup kept me in the public eye and in the sports pages much longer than I otherwise would have been. This exposure probably also brought me a few endorsements and other financial opportunities that I would not otherwise have earned. I was lucky, I knew, to have had this bridge; as I have said, the sudden darkness of retirement is for some professional athletes, including tennis players, a shock to the nervous system from which they never completely recover.

  However, my Cup captaincy did not fully satisfy my desire to make the most of my retirement years, or give me an entirely settled perspective on my new life. In the first place, I had been less than triumphant as a leader, after my initial successes. More important, even the most impressive record in tennis would not have stilled certain disquieting feelings that ran deeper in me th
an patriotism or sporting fame. I am an African American, one born in the iron grip of legal segregation. Aside from my feelings about religion and family, my innermost stirrings inevitably have to do with trying to overcome racism and other forms of social injustice, with the search for dignity and power for blacks in a world so often hostile to us. Not the tennis court but the arena of protest and politics would be the single most significant testing ground for me in the middle years of my life.

  A DAY OR so after the announcement that I had resigned from the Davis Cup captaincy, I received a telephone call from the sports editor of Jet magazine. Jet, a sister publication of the better known Ebony, is a lively little magazine of news about the African American world. Like most journals and newspapers devoted to black Americans, it examines most developments with a focus on race and politics.

  “Arthur,” the editor began, “according to various reports, including The New York Times, you didn’t want to give up the captaincy. Is that true?”

  “I think it’s fair to say that. No, I did not want to give up the captaincy. No one wants to go out on a losing note.”

  “You were forced out?”

  “Yes, I was forced out, I suppose,” I answered, “although it certainly was done according to law.”

  “Do you think that politics had anything to do with it?”

  “What do you mean by politics?” I asked.

  “I mean your interest in human rights. For example, your ongoing opposition to the practice of apartheid in South Africa?”

  I thought about the question, but only for a moment. I did not want to misrepresent the situation and embarrass the United States Tennis Association, but I also did not want to avoid telling the truth.