“Over?” Jennifer screamed. “It’s been over for almost an hour. I made Mike wait here for thirty minutes while I kept paging you.”
I had two thoughts: DePalmer had lost—if he’d beaten the number six seed he would have been brought into the interview room. And second, why hadn’t Jennifer come looking for me down here during that thirty minutes? I decided not to voice the second thought.
“So he lost.”
“Yes, he lost and then had to stand around for thirty minutes because I told him the Washington Post wanted to talk to him.”
Some days it was tough being the Washington Post.
I sobered up sometime that afternoon, aided by Bud dragging me to the NBC pavilion for lunch. The woman at the door looked completely horrified when Bud told her I was a guest of Dick Enberg’s. Bud loved doing things like that.
It was on the second Tuesday of the French—by now I had pretty much decided I was ready to move to Paris—that I heard back from Esther. She called as I was walking in the door after a relatively tame night out. Esther is nothing else if not direct. She didn’t ask how Paris was or if I was enjoying the tennis.
“I like this,” she said, referring to the proposal I’d sent her. “I think you have a very good book here. If you’d like me to try to sell it for you, I’d be happy to represent you.”
I was happy that she liked it and that she wanted to try and sell it for me. I had very little idea what that meant. “Thank you,” I said. “So what happens next?”
“I’ll send it out to guys I know who like doing sports books, and we’ll see what happens,” she said. “I hope the next time I call you it will be with an offer.”
I thanked her again and told her my schedule for the next couple of weeks. I finished off my time in Paris by covering one of the great women’s finals in history: Chris Evert stunning Martina Navratilova 7–5 in the third set at a point in their careers when neither player really thought Evert could beat Navratilova. I brutally overwrote the match story (I looked it up recently, and the lead made me wince) but was still glad I’d witnessed it. The next day, Mats Wilander shocked Ivan Lendl in the men’s final. Wilander had beaten John McEnroe in the semifinals while Lendl had beaten Jimmy Connors, meaning it had now been thirty years since an American man had won in Paris.
After a week’s vacation in Vienna and Salzburg—the latter may still be my favorite place in the world—I arrived in London a week before Wimbledon began. It was almost strange hearing English again after more than three weeks in non-English-speaking countries.
The afternoon after I arrived, I had just come back from sightseeing when Esther called again. “Five rejections,” she said. “I’m really sorry.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s not good.”
“Jeff Neuman at Macmillan is still on vacation,” she added. “He’s the one guy I haven’t heard back from. So there’s still some hope.”
I had no idea who Jeff Neuman was, but I was surprised that no one would be interested in the notion of having total access to Bob Knight. Esther, who often reads my mind, read my mind.
“They see him as a Midwestern basketball coach,” she said. “If he coached the Knicks it would be different. The feeling is, why should anyone care what happens to Indiana’s basketball team?”
I was tempted to tell her that if Knight coached the Knicks they would be 30–52 and he might have killed someone by that point. Besides, the book wasn’t about Indiana’s basketball team. But that wasn’t going to change anything.
“Well, thanks for trying,” I said, wondering if this was the end of the road and if I should think about other alternatives. Maybe Knight’s guy in Chicago?
“Don’t give up just yet,” she said. “I haven’t heard from Jeff and there might be a couple of other guys I can talk to. I still think there’s a book here.”
We hung up and I went and walked the streets of London for a while. I was discouraged. If I couldn’t get an offer for this book, what book could I get an offer for? There was no doubt in my mind the book would be good, but how could I prove that to people? I could, I supposed, go to Bloomington and spend the winter, write the book, and then try to get a publisher. That, I knew, was craziness. The only good news of the night was that I found a very good Chinese restaurant called The Good Earth. I got takeout—or, as they call it in London, takeaway—went back to the hotel, and ate myself to sleep.
ESTHER CALLED AGAIN TWO days later. I was in much better spirits. I had ridden the train with the great Ted Tinling to Eastbourne, where the women played their annual warm-up tournament, and had a great time. Ted may very well have been the most entertaining person I had ever met. He was best known for having designed Gussie Moran’s famous lace-panties dress that had caused such a scandal at Wimbledon in 1949. But he was far more than a dress designer; he was a tennis historian who had known most of the great players and hadn’t been a bad player himself.
Ted was 6 foot 5 and completely bald, wore a diamond stud in his left ear, was gay, and had been a spy during World War II. He would say anything to anyone at any time about any subject. He was seventy-five that summer and was working as a consultant for the WTA and Wimbledon, which had finally forgiven him for Moran’s dress by making him an honorary member.
After two hours on the train to Eastbourne with Ted, I felt as if I knew more about tennis than I could possibly tell people in ten years of writing on the sport. On Thursday afternoon, I was sitting in the stands with Ted watching Navratilova play, mostly because I was supposed to have dinner with her that night for a pre-Wimbledon story. The weather wasn’t great (surprise, bad weather on the English seaside) and there weren’t very many people watching the match.
After Navratilova had won the first set 6–1, one man who had been watching sort of lurched out of his seat and wobbled over in our direction.
“I’m leaving!” he screamed in an English accent thickened by quite a bit of afternoon alcohol. “I’m not going to watch that dyke play for one more second! And you, Tinling, you f—ing homosexual, you should leave too!”
He glared at Ted, who turned in the direction of a nearby usher. When Ted waved at him, the usher instantly rushed to us.
“Please remove this gentleman right away,” Ted said. “He’s far too drunk to be allowed to stay.”
“I was only joking,” the man protested. “I’d like to stay.”
“I’m afraid not,” Ted said as the usher took his arm. “You know if I was a practicing f—ing homosexual and getting something out of it, I really wouldn’t mind. But as I’m not, I rather resent your comment.”
With that, the usher led the man away.
Back then, homosexuality was almost never openly discussed in jockworld. Navratilova was out at that point, and after initially being angry about the story that “revealed” her sexuality, she began to talk willingly and openly about it. Many other female players who everyone in the sport knew to be gay stayed in the closet, at least in part because neither Virginia Slims—the women’s tour sponsor—nor the WTA wanted the game getting a reputation as being full of gays.
That night I had dinner with Navratilova, who told the following joke: “Two lesbians are sitting on the couch. One puts her arm around the other and says, ‘Let me be frank.’ The other says, ‘No, dammit, I want to be Frank!’ ”
If I tell the joke it isn’t that funny. When Martina told it, it was fall-down funny.
I WAS BACK IN London on Friday when Esther called again. “Jeff Neuman is offering fifteen thousand,” she said.
I could no longer pretend to know what she meant when I clearly didn’t know what she meant. So I said, “What exactly does that mean? This is my first book.”
Patiently, Esther explained that the fifteen thousand was what’s called an advance against royalties. As soon as I signed a contract, I would receive a check for half that amount—minus the agent’s 10 percent—and when the book was finished and the manuscript had been accepted by the publisher, I would receive the oth
er half. Later I would learn that larger advances were divided into three payments: one-third on signing, one-third on acceptance, one-third on publication. More recently, some publishers have gone to a four payment system in which the author doesn’t receive the fourth payment until the publication of the paperback. That’s good for the publisher, not so good for the author.
At the moment that wasn’t my concern. I was happy to have an offer, but fifteen thousand, assuming I was going to take a leave of absence of about eight months (I was guessing) from the Post, was going to mean a considerable pay cut during that period. I think my salary at that point was about $65,000 a year, and that was still considerably more than what Neuman was offering to pay for the book.
Timidly, I asked Esther if there was any way to ask for more—anything—maybe another five thousand to help cover my expenses.
“I can ask,” she said. “But you should think about whether you’re willing to do it for this much, because this may be it.”
Fair enough. The next day, Saturday, I went to Wimbledon for the first time. I made the mistake of taking a taxi, not knowing at that point that the subway wasn’t just cheaper, but faster. Still, I was awed walking the empty grounds that day for the first time in my life. There were a few players playing on outside courts and nearby at the practice courts. I walked around with Andrew Sullivan, an Australian colleague of mine who was also making his first trip to Wimbledon. After we’d been just about everywhere, we finally poked our heads into Centre Court and were surprised to find four women playing doubles.
There was no one around, so we sat down about midway up in the stands and took in the place. It reminded me right away of Fenway Park—much smaller than you might imagine it, and all green. The women were playing with an umpire, linesmen, and ballboys, and score was being kept on the board with the umpire calling out the scores as if a real match were taking place.
“Maybe it’s some kind of dry run before Monday,” Andrew said quietly.
That seemed to make sense. We watched a few games—the quality of tennis wasn’t terrible—and then noticed a lone security guard approaching. Uh-oh, we had violated some Wimbledon rule. I would come to learn that at Wimbledon there are rules for everything, including what bathrooms one can use.
He was, of course, polite. “Very sorry, gents,” he said. “Private game.”
“Really?” I asked. “Why?”
“Club rule,” he said, turning and walking away.
We had actually seen enough, and even though I have battled security people on most continents since then, this certainly wasn’t worthy of a battle. We left and I ran into Ted Tinling a few minutes later. He would know what it was we had witnessed on Centre Court.
“Oh yes, it’s tradition,” he said. “Every year after the last match of the tournament, Centre Court is shut down. No one plays on it until today—the Saturday before Wimbledon begins. Then four female members [unlike Augusta National, Wimbledon does have female members] play a doubles match to test the court and make sure it’s broken in just a bit before Monday.”
“And they play in private?” I asked.
Ted looked at me as if I were crazy. “Private? What are you talking about?”
I told him. He shook his head. “That’s appalling,” he said as only he could. “I’m going to find out about this immediately!”
“Ted, it’s no big deal…”
“Yes it is. When are these people going to learn to stop acting like they’re of some higher breed than everyone else? Ridiculous. This is what they hired me for. To tell them why things like this are outrageous.”
I knew there would be no stopping him now. I wondered what, if any, response there would be to Ted’s complaint.
I found out Monday. My first Wimbledon was delayed—naturally—by rain. It was one of those Junes in London where it just rained every single day. In fact, it would take five days to complete the first round. During the delay on Monday, I was walking into the cafeteria when I spotted Ted with an attractive middle-age woman.
“Just who I was looking for,” Ted said when he saw me. “Barbara, this is the young man I was telling you about.”
Barbara was quite charming and very apologetic. “I’m so sorry about Saturday,” she said. “Ted’s told me what happened. You know, I saw the security guard walking up there and started to say something, but didn’t. I wish I had.”
By now I realized she had been one of the four women playing.
“I promise you if you want to come in and watch next year, there will be no problem at all. If anyone says anything, you just tell them that I said you were my guests.”
From what I was gathering, dropping her name would probably take care of any problems. I thanked her. As it turned out, she later became someone who would help me with club-related issues on more than one occasion.
That, however, did not solve the issue of what in the world to write on my first day at Wimbledon. “Play was delayed by rain all afternoon” was one solid sentence. The Post, having sent me to London, wanted a lead, a sidebar, and notes on matches that, at the moment, weren’t being played.
I was sitting at my computer, one of the then brand-new Radio Shacks—you could see about eight lines on your screen and it weighed close to nothing—when I heard a commotion coming from the next room. Wimbledon had built new writing rooms that year for the foreign media, and apparently the Duke of Kent, who was bored like everyone else, had requested a tour of the facility. He was being squired around by Barry Weatherill, the chairman of the club’s media committee. Ted (who else?) had introduced me to Weatherill in Paris during the French Open. Weatherill was showing the Duke all the new space and how the walls had been decorated. The Duke didn’t appear interested. He kept peering at the computers, sitting mostly unused at that moment, on people’s desks. No one was speaking to him because protocol dictates you don’t speak to a royal unless he or she speaks to you first.
I had an idea. I grabbed Richard Berens, the club’s press officer, who was trailing the Duke and Weatherill at a polite distance, and said, “Would the Duke like to see how one of these computers works?” Remember, this was 1985. The technology was relatively new.
“He might,” Berens said. “Let me ask.”
A few minutes later, Richard waved me over and I was introduced to the Duke of Kent.
“Your highness,” Weatherill said, “this is Mr. John Feinstein from the Washington Post.”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bow, curtsy, or drop to a knee. I wished Ted was there to tell me what to do. I settled for a handshake, which seemed to be okay with the Duke.
“Aaah yes, the Washington Post,” he said. “Woodward, Bernstein, that crowd.”
“Yes-sir,” I said.
“Are they still employed there?” he asked.
“Woodward is, sir. Bernstein works in television now.”
“Television, eh? Went for the money, I suppose.”
“Yes-sir.”
There was a pregnant pause, everyone looking at me. “I understand you’d like to see how one of these computers works?” I said.
“Oh yes, that would be delightful,” he said.
I walked the little group over to my desk. All activity—not that there was much of it—had stopped. There wasn’t a lot to tell, but I stretched it out, finishing by showing the Duke how to set up a story that’s ready to be sent, then dialing a phone number right there in London, pressing a few buttons, plugging the phone into the computer, and sending.
“And it takes how long for the story to arrive?” the Duke asked.
“If it’s working [always a question mark back then], just a few minutes,” I said.
“And meanwhile, you can put your feet up and smoke a cigarette, I suppose,” the Duke said, clearly amazed by such a thought.
“In theory I could, yes-sir.”
“Why, that’s marvelous,” the Duke marveled. He turned to Weatherill and the others. “Ingenious, isn’t it, Barry?”
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p; “Absolutely,” Weatherill said, just as an announcement came over the PA telling us that officials were hoping to begin play on Centre Court and court number one at 7:30 p.m. Those were the only two courts with tarps—covers as they called them. Play on the outside courts had been called off for the day.
My new best friend the Duke and I shook hands, and he thanked me for the computer lesson. Off he went and I sat down to work. At least I had a sidebar.
JOHN MCENROE AND IVAN Lendl, the top two players in the world, provided me with a lead not long after that—in completely different ways. Sure enough, at 7:30 they were sent out to play their first matches. McEnroe, the defending champion, was on Centre Court as was tradition, playing an oft-injured Aussie named Peter McNamara. Lendl was next door on court one playing American Mel Purcell.
Even after a delay of more than six hours, Centre Court was packed when McEnroe and McNamara walked on court, turned to bow to my pal the Duke in the Royal Box, and began warming up. I was truly thrilled. I had watched Wimbledon on TV from the moment NBC began televising it in the late ’60s (then on tape delay) and had dreamed of someday sitting almost exactly where I was sitting, actually covering it.
McEnroe and McNamara played only six games. The court, even though the covers had been on it, was wet and slippery. McNamara, who wore a bulky knee brace, slipped a couple of times. So did McEnroe. Finally, McEnroe told the chair umpire he wanted to speak to the tournament referee, Alan Mills. Out came Mills while the crowd murmured. McEnroe talked, arms waving, pointing at the court, mimicking McNamara’s near fall. Mills listened and then spoke to the umpire, and the players began gathering their racquets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to wet conditions, play has been called for the day,” the umpire announced. There were some scattered boos, but everyone seemed to understand. It was just too dangerous to play on the wet grass.
We walked inside to the media work area and I noticed on a TV monitor that Lendl and Purcell were still playing. I figured Mills hadn’t gotten over to court one yet to bring them inside. Pete Alfano, my pal from the New York Times, and I lingered by the set for a moment, curious to see if Mills would let them complete the game they were playing or if he would go get them right away.
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