As it became clear to the hypocrites in the WTA and the parasites on her own back that she really was in love with me, they struck back.
Hell, it was nothing compared to what the women’s movement had dished out.
Billie Jean advised her that having me around wouldn’t be good for her career. People would know she was a lesbian. Coming from Billie Jean, a woman Martina had worshipped, this was sad and yet funny.
Martina came back to the hotel one day and asked if I intended to organize women’s tennis into a feminist group. God knows what they’d said to her.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. You can’t organize children. The last time that was done was in the Children’s Crusades in 1212 and virtually all of them died.
Most athletes are by definition apolitical children. They are kept in adolescence an unnaturally long time. I certainly wouldn’t have minded if the tennis players had organized for their own self-interest, but since Billie Jean was running the show, forget that. Her interest was their interest.
As I said, Martina can’t take pressure. She can on the court. One of the reasons she was such a great player was that the court was her refuge and her excuse. The more her friends attacked me, the closer she drew to me, but she would never face them off. She was afraid of Billie and she was right to be. Martina has no political sense. She can’t maneuver, build alliances, create a plan. Why should she? It’s not her talent.
Billie Jean and Gladys Helman created professional women’s tennis. Billie had enough energy to organize and be the best player of her day. Her drive coupled with Gladys’s brains and business acumen carried the day.
Billie could have eaten Martina for lunch.
But on the court, Martina sliced and diced her. Not in the beginning, not when she was still a teenager awed by Billie. Billie’s pain—one of many pains, for she’s a woman with tremendous inner conflict—is that she will not be remembered as a great player. One of the best of her generation but not one of the all-time greats. But she will always be remembered for what she built.
Martina will be remembered by tennis aficionados as one of the greats, along with Helen Wills Moody, Suzanne Lenglen, Alice Marble, Mo Connolly and Steffi Graf, who may yet tower over all of them.
Luckily, I suffered no illusions about being welcome in women’s tennis. Why would that world be different from any other American institution, even though a high percentage of the players and even the administration was gay? As usual, they were more frightened of me than the straight people were.
We were isolated. I noticed right away, but Martina didn’t. She was on top of the world, and all that attention distracted her. Her first clue was being nominated for the presidency of the WTA and not getting it. Hurt and angry, she tearfully came back to our hotel room in New York and lashed out at everybody and everything. Fortunately, only I was there to hear it. But she was right. They screwed her not because she was gay, but because she didn’t bother to deny it. She didn’t say that she was, she didn’t say that she wasn’t: the closet with the open door. However, given the libel laws of the country, no one could write that she was a lesbian. They could write that I was.
Herculean efforts by IMG and the WTA kept that story off the page in America. Not so when we arrived in London for Wimbledon. Their libel laws are vastly different, and their gutter press makes the National Enquirer look like a daily prayer book.
Hounded at every turn, I worried that Martina wouldn’t be able to concentrate. I stayed inside at the rented apartment in Belgravia. The reporters camped at the door. When we were short of groceries, I climbed to the roof, went down the fire escape and hurried to a market. No sooner had I turned an aisle in the store than there they were, flashbulbs in hand. I was represented as a lesbian wife.
I sent the garbage that appeared in the tabloids to Mom with the note, “The only time I will be accused of being a wife.”
For an American accustomed to thinking the best of England, it’s jarring to see the worst of England. Perhaps being jammed so close together there, they must keep a surface politeness, much like the Japanese. Their tabloid press releases the hostility and tension. We released a lot for them.
Later that year in Brighton, hundreds of girls waited outside the building where we were playing matches. They cheered when we emerged, and they apologized for their press. I saw one match at Wimbledon itself, hiding in the locker room, watching on TV. The rest of the time I was literally trapped in the apartment with reporters banging on the door. I guess they paid the super to get into the building.
Martina lost in the semifinal, 4–6, 6–4, 6–2, to Chris Evert, that pretty little girl from my Florida days. I don’t know how Martina stood the ordeal. Neither of us complained to the other, though. We made jokes about it.
Of all the strange pressures we endured, sometimes unwittingly, that Wimbledon of 1980 made me proudest of her, all the more so since Billie blamed the ordeal on me: If I weren’t in Martina’s life, all would be well, none of this would happen. She brought it on herself.
Blaming the victim temporarily soothes people. When a woman is raped, people want to know what she was wearing and what hour it took place and in what part of town. If she wore attractive clothes and it was late at night, then it was her fault. It’s a systemic problem but no one wants to look at that. For one thing, it’s so big. For another thing, we must each take responsibility for tacitly supporting a system where women get raped, children starve amidst wealth, and a corporate executive can take drugs while street bums get busted.
Martina was the victim then. She, not homophobic attitudes, was responsible for the mess. Get rid of me, they told her, and everything will be okay.
I should have taken the gloves off. I didn’t. It was Martina’s world and I didn’t want to interfere. I was wrong. I should have fought like hell for the woman I loved and for our relationship. I didn’t know how badly the furor affected Martina. She can’t express discontent directly. She can tell X, hoping X will tell Y, but she herself will give you no direct emotional information.
I thought we were okay. On the surface we were.
We worked well together. She enthusiastically supported my writing and promised that when her career was over, she’d organize my days as I had organized hers. I believe she would have tried, although by the time she retired she’d become jaded. Small wonder.
I could make her laugh. She followed me like a puppy dog, so I felt adored. If I said, “We’ve got to clean out the damn kitchen,” she’d do it. She wanted to be relieved of daily decisions.
In a strange way, Martina wanted me to live her life for her. That added a burden to my writing but she said many times over that her career was short-lived while mine would last until I died.
She tried to read the books I gave her but invariably I’d have to tell her about them. She’s not dumb, but she has no intellectual discipline. The time she put into her body I put into my mind.
I was a good enough athlete to hold her interest on that level and she was intelligent enough to keep me from brain death. She has a quick mind, but she’s like a magpie—she has bits and pieces of stuff but nothing’s pulled together. Alice Marble was like that, too.
My discipline had to grate on her. She subsequently said of our relationship that she was “just” the tennis player whereas I was the writer. I have often been so sorry she felt that way, because I didn’t.
But life has taught me it doesn’t matter what you felt, it doesn’t matter what you meant; if the other person feels differently, that’s her reality.
We were both displaced persons. She was stateless at the time, having fled Czechoslovakia. I was an outcast in my own country. Together we made a new country. I give us credit for trying.
63
Bugjuice
Bud Collins, voluble, fit, funny, made every experience richer. His lady, Judy Lacy, guaranteed he’d not be bored. Judy was a beautiful blonde who hit a mean tennis ball. Bud’s no slouch either.
Bud and Jud
y paid no heed to the screeches of women’s tennis. They welcomed me with open arms, as did Don and Elaine Candy, two people who ought to have their own sitcom. Don, a fine Australian player of the Lew Hoad generation, sees a tilted world. Elaine, as petite as Don is tall, is as gifted a raconteur as her husband. However, they aren’t just verbally funny. They’ll do adventurous things, like buy a racehorse. I’m surprised they haven’t outfitted a sloop and sailed around the world. They’re wild.
Don was Pam Shriver’s coach. When Martina was between doubles partners at the end of 1980 she asked me what to do. As I’ve said, I tried to stay out of her business. Being number one on my high-school and college teams hardly qualified me to dispense advice.
On this occasion, however, I put in my two cents and I’m glad I did. She narrowed the choices down to three: Billie Jean, Candy Reynolds and Pam. Billie’s behavior put her out of the running, although Martina wanted me to be the one to say it. I refused, so we both glided over Billie. Candy, a strong player from the Tennessee program coached by my old Tri Delta buddy, Alice Luthy Tym, was a strong candidate and a very nice person. But I kept coming back to Pam. Her reach and buoyant spirit somehow seemed to sync with Martina. After trial and error, playing matches with both, Pam won the nod. Together they won more titles than I can count, including over twenty Grand Slams. Candy Reynolds was gracious about it.
Because of Pam, Don and Elaine and I spent happy hours together.
Pam, eighteen at the time, under pressure to be the next Chris Evert, had the unenviable experience of watching Andrea Jaeger unravel. Tracy Austin, Pam’s and Andrea’s nemesis, wouldn’t last either, but that was due to back problems. Pam, wise beyond her years, said nothing about not becoming the next Chris. She’s not a person to make excuses anyway. If Pam didn’t attend cotillion, her mother and grandmother worked overtime. She’s a person of honor.
High standards of personal conduct kept her out of the fray. She steered clear of both camps with a dexterity that impressed me. I hoped she’d run for public office someday. Pam could be a productive public servant.
Bud, Judy, Don, Elaine and Pam and I never went to dinner or the movies together. Time and everyone’s schedules conflicted. But I could sit in the stands with Judy—her running commentary was worth the price of admission—or hide out with Don, who protected me, or giggle at Bud, an engaging man.
Bud has never received credit for what he has done for televised tennis. Let’s face it, athletes are rarely good interviews. How many times can you hear “I was hitting the ball well today” before you reach for the No-Doz? Bud invented personalities. He’d study a player, find a distinguishing characteristic and use it. He created color and tension on-screen, and after a few bland replies from the interviewee, he’d interpret and come up with something good. Bud Collins single-handedly made tennis a TV sport.
Many times a player got furious because Bud would say something on camera like “So-and-so gave you the finger” or “So-and-so got in a fistfight in the locker room today. What happened?” But he was right. Ratings picked up.
Bud understood that tennis is entertainment. The players didn’t. They want to play tennis, which is natural enough. They’re too young to realize that they’re competing against films, theater, baseball, soccer, you name it. We, the public, are overwhelmed with choices. Why watch tennis?
Long considered an effete, upper-class game, tennis isn’t easily grasped. The scoring system is complicated. Football is complicated, too, but its violence is addictive.
Tennis is physical chess. Your body is not in danger. A show jumper, polo player, boxer or football player is in more danger in ten minutes of contact than a tennis player is in for her entire sporting life. But it is physical, and when two evenly matched people blast away hammer and tongs it’s exciting. I love the game and I love what Bud did for it.
NBC shuffled him from anchoring the matches to being the color commentator. They thought an ex-player could anchor the matches. They also realized that no one could do what Bud did, but I liked it best when he was in the booth, living the match. The color stuff has been overdone. They push him too hard to do handsprings for us.
The only equal Bud ever had in the booth was Don Maskell, the extraordinary English commentator who was known as “the voice of Wimbledon”—Bud’s opposite in every way save knowledge of the game.
Judy covered tennis for The Boston Globe. Once, after she and Bud had a fight, she took his credit cards and maxed them out.
“I’ll spend that son of a bitch’s money!” she shouted, whipping out the MasterCard as though it were a Smith and Wesson.
What a day. When the fullness of the damage reached Bud, did he hit the ceiling? Hit her? Cry and moan? No. He laughed and laughed.
“Touché,” was all he said.
That’s a man, girls.
Don Candy is much like Bud in that he too can laugh at himself. Don won my heart because like me he supported his mother until the day she died. Who else he has supported I can only guess, because he has a big heart. He’s sensitive to people’s suffering. If Elaine didn’t keep an eye on Don, he’d give everything away. Even when he blusters, sounding tough, he’s the opposite. Elaine isn’t hard-hearted but she coaxes him into more “structured” giving.
These people broke the ice surrounding me. I can never repay their kindness.
Virginia Wade extended herself, too. It’s harder for a player because of the competition. Virginia brushed that off and on a few occasions Martina and I dined with her. A highly intelligent woman, her mind honed by British university training, her morals shaped by being a vicar’s daughter, Virginia was totally out of place in the commercial soup that women’s tennis had become. She kept her criticisms to herself, which required restraint because Billie Jean loathed her. Virginia was the only woman on the tour who could successfully challenge Billie’s power. Where Billie ruled with a heavy hand because in essence she fears people, Virginia exerted moral authority. Her behavior on the court, in the locker room, and on the streets was literally above reproach.
Like Pam Shriver, she smiled at people and would go out of her way to help when someone needed it. Virginia was the first to alert people that Andrea needed assistance. No one listened, of course.
Pam was too young to lead at that time. Virginia could have. She sidestepped the role. A showdown with Billie Jean might tear apart what was fragile to begin with; women’s tennis was so new as a professional sport. Virginia put the good of the game before her ego. Few people know it. She smiled under the yoke of King and Co., then went out and won Wimbledon on its one hundredth anniversary, truly one of the greatest moments in sports.
Another interesting soul, Betty Stove, steered clear of cabals, cliques and “in” groups. I wonder how many stupid jokes Betty has endured because of her height. She’s very tall. Luckily she’s very Dutch-looking, which means very pretty. The Dutch incline that way.
Quiet, thoughtful, a student of the game, she was consistently underrated because the press kept building up the rivalry between Martina and Chris. The gate was healthy enough. They could have highlighted other players.
The Aussie player Wendy Turnbull could outrun everyone. Chris had the best tennis brain I ever saw, but Wendy came damned close. People say Ellsworth Vines had a remarkable sense of the game, but I was too young to see him play.
Wendy’s matches, always exciting, drew fans. People would hang over the railing to watch Turnbull fight until the last second. She never gave up.
These women were wonderful. They built the game with their talent but they couldn’t build the administration of the game. They gave what they could.
As for Chris, I could never root against her even when she played Martina. After all, I had held that baby in my arms. I can’t claim special closeness to Chris or her family after I left Fort Lauderdale, but I can’t forget what the Everts meant to me, as well as to the city itself.
Those close matches between Chris and Martina tortured me. My face got
stonier and stonier as the match got closer and closer. I just couldn’t cheer when Martina hit a winner, nor could I cheer when Chris threaded the needle with her lethal backhand down the line.
John Lloyd, Chris’s husband then (she has always displayed a taste for movie-star-handsome men), would usually be sitting next to me. He was so sweet about it. If “we” won, he’d shake my hand and offer congratulations. He meant it. John Lloyd doesn’t have a petty bone in his body. If “we” lost, he’d offer condolences. I was so sorry when that marriage broke up because I respected John, as did everyone. Of course, half the women on the tour had a crush on him, even the gay ones.
Being congratulated for a win embarrassed me. I’d say, “I had nothing to do with it.”
John would reply, “You’re part of the team.”
I didn’t feel part of the team. I felt in the way. Not that Martina ever indicated that. She begged me to be with her even through practice sessions. But the reception worried me. Billie Jean, mean-spirited and backbiting, seemed obsessed with promoting a false image of women’s tennis: that everyone was a straight all-American pixie.
Poor Martina, she wasn’t even all-American and she pulled the unenviable task of battling Chris, the proverbial girl next door. Of course, Chris received more favorable press coverage and better endorsements. Even if Martina had been straight, she would never have enjoyed Chris’s popularity. Americans are jingoistic. Olympic sports coverage proves that to a nauseating degree.
This hurt Virginia, Betty and Wendy, too. Later it was to subdue Gabriela Sabatini’s commercial possibilities, and she has to be the most beautiful woman ever to pick up a racket—even more beautiful than the young Alice Marble. If she were American instead of Argentinean, she’d be on a par with Michael Jordan in terms of endorsements. The world loves a beautiful woman but Americans only want to celebrate American ones.
I felt I contributed nothing to Martina’s tennis, although once I indulged myself and watched Hana Mandlikova practice. Hana has the perfect tennis body for the serve-and-volley game. I told Martina to play her inside since she wasn’t handling anything that came into her body.
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