Arthur Ashe

by Raymond Arsenault

  The soap opera appearance was a one-time thing and a passing fancy. But Durso’s brief profile captured only a fraction of Ashe’s public life. His ongoing commitments ranged from the Aetna board and Le Coq Sportif appearances to the NJTL and TransAfrica, with seemingly every activity receiving conscientious attention. As a member of the NAACP’s Prison Advisory Council he lobbied against misuse of the death penalty, and as part of the National Advisory Council of NIH’s National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute, he tried to apply his hard-earned knowledge of heart disease. In July he traveled to Richmond to accept the “Virginian of the Year Award” given by the Virginia Press Association, and he also found the time to deliver lectures at Princeton, West Point, and several other universities By the end of the year, he had even taken on a semester-long teaching assignment at Florida Memorial College, a century-old black institution in Miami.28

  Following his retirement in 1980, Arthur had reconnected with his old friend and mentor the Reverend Jefferson Rogers, who had recently moved to Miami to become the director of Florida Memorial’s Center for Community Change. The Ashes were now spending more time in Miami as Arthur conducted clinics at Doral during the Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving holidays. In 1981 they had finally put down roots in Florida, buying a house located a short distance from the entrance to Doral. In this large and comfortable second home, he and Jeanne had room to relax and entertain friends such as Rogers and Al and Carol Schragis, the Doral owners to whom they had grown close.

  Spending time with Rogers, in particular, soon led to a host of new activities that transformed Arthur’s life in Florida. From now on he would have a closer connection to the black communities of Dade and nearby Broward County, as well as several other black enclaves located further north along Florida’s Atlantic coast. After enlisting Ashe in an effort to save the historic Daytona Beach home of the noted black theologian Howard Thurman, Rogers arranged for him to become a member of Florida Memorial’s board of trustees. One thing led to another, and Ashe soon found himself in front of a weekly two-hour honors seminar on “The Black Athlete in Contemporary Society.”

  Fitting this commitment into his schedule was no mean feat, but he was determined to teach the course, which had few counterparts in American higher education. “Loving books myself,” he later wrote, “I knew that I would enjoy being a teacher.” Even so, his classroom experience at Florida Memorial failed to meet his expectations as he struggled to motivate students woefully unprepared for serious academic work.29

  In preparing to teach the course, Ashe discovered both his own ignorance of the historical record and the paucity of assignable books and articles dealing with the past and present experiences of black athletes. After an exploratory trip to the New York Public Library uncovered only two book-length studies of African American athletes—Edwin B. Henderson’s The Negro in Sports (1938), and A. S. Young’s Negro Firsts in Sports (1963)—he confessed he “was baffled by this poverty of information.” This lack of published resources stiffened his resolve to recover a lost history essential to any reconsideration of American attitudes toward race and athletic achievement. By November, he was emotionally and intellectually committed to the idea of researching and writing a “handbook on the Black American Athlete,” and on December 8 he completed a four-page proposal that he would later submit to more than twenty publishers.

  The proposal outlined plans for a comprehensive chronicle that would combine a historical narrative covering 350 years divided into seven eras with a reference section listing the names and accomplishments of “all black men and women who distinguished themselves” in athletic competition. All Ashe needed was a skilled staff of collaborators, several hundred thousand dollars of funding, an appropriate publisher, and enough time to bring the project to fruition. Realizing he faced a steep learning curve, he envisioned the handbook as requiring “a minimum of two man-years of constant research, writing, and rewriting,” plus recognition that this was no ordinary book project. “All parties involved,” he insisted, “must be spiritually committed.” As the overall coordinator and primary author, he was a model of intellectual engagement and commitment, and his near obsession with the project would prove essential to its ultimate success. But it would still take six long years to reach the publication stage.

  Amazingly, all of this activity—learning and teaching about a neglected subject, and writing a work eventually encompassing three volumes and more than a thousand pages—took place while he was attending to an array of business and philanthropic interests and guiding the U.S. Davis Cup team. When asked how Ashe managed to accomplish so much in his later years, his friend and boss at HBO, Seth Abraham, commented: “I think he lived every day as though it could be his last.” Other friends and colleagues agreed, marveling at his determination to take advantage of every meaningful opportunity that came his way—to do it all and to do it well.30

  Like most busy people, Ashe had a clear set of priorities. Most obviously, he took a special interest in anything associated with the Davis Cup. Genuine patriotism explained part of his deep commitment to the American team, but his attachment was also elemental and visceral. As captain he was able to recapture much of the spirit and excitement of his playing days; nothing else in his public life stimulated him in quite the same way. The thrill of competition was like an addictive drug, one that hadn’t lost its allure since his retirement from the tour. Perhaps that is why he was so determined to stick it out as captain regardless of how many uncomfortable moments McEnroe and Fleming put him through. He felt the vibrant heat of life when he was with his players, and despite his cool exterior, he wanted to win the Cup every bit as much as they did.

  Ashe was a keen student of Davis Cup history, and he knew that winning consecutive victories in his first two tries would place him in rare company. Dell had coached the victorious U.S. team in 1968 and 1969, his first two years as captain, and Ashe was on the verge of matching this feat. The only remaining obstacle was a French team representing a nation that had not won the Cup since 1932.

  On paper the 1982 American squad appeared to be a heavy favorite. But Ashe feared it was not going to be easy to beat the French in Grenoble. With some justification, he worried that McEnroe and his teammates would be handicapped by the special indoor clay surface the host country had chosen for the final tie. Fifty years earlier, in an infamous Roland Garros final known as “The Great Cup Robbery,” the French had defeated a superior American team by tampering with the court, deadening the tennis balls by cooling them in a freezer, and resorting to creative officiating.

  The venue in Grenoble had served as an ice rink during the 1968 Winter Olympics, and to get the site ready for Davis Cup competition the French Tennis Federation “trucked in about three tons of rock, soil, and crushed brick to simulate the clay at Roland Garros stadium in Paris.” The clear intention was to create a slow surface that would neutralize the Americans’ power game, but as late as ten days before the tie one observer claimed the court was so moist that walking on it “was like walking on mashed potatoes.” By the time the Americans arrived, the surface had hardened, and a relieved Ashe announced: “The court is fabulous.” But he remained concerned about the speed of the court and playing indoors where “the applause will be deafening,” a likely boost for the host country.31

  None of this would matter, of course, if the Americans played up to their potential. Whatever the conditions, the young French team appeared to be overmatched, despite the formidable presence of their rising star, twenty-two-year-old Yannick Noah. It had been eleven years since Ashe had chanced upon Noah in Cameroon, and the young man had blossomed into one of the world’s best players. Ranked ninth in the world, he had twice made it to the quarterfinals of the French Open and seemed on the verge of joining the top echelon of Connors, McEnroe, Borg, and Lendl. An imposing figure at six-foot-four, he had recently gone through a dramatic physical transformation after putting his hair in dreadlocks to honor his sister’s wedding. “The classicall
y featured Yannick now looked like a Rastafarian, rather fierce,” Ashe observed, adding that McEnroe, Noah’s opening match opponent, “was not about to be intimidated by anyone.” When asked if he was “afraid of Noah and his home court,” McEnroe replied, “I’m more afraid of his new hairstyle.”

  A consummate gentleman who patterned his court manners after Ashe’s, Noah presented a sharp contrast to McEnroe’s bluster. After the draw determined that Noah would play McEnroe in the opening match, the Frenchman seemed unnerved. The only French player to skip the post-draw news conference, he returned to his hotel room, either to rest up for the match or to prepare for the worst. Sensing that Noah, who had never played McEnroe before, was intimidated by the American star’s dual reputation as a gritty competitor and a masterful shotmaker, Ashe was pleased with the matchup. His prediction that McEnroe would win no matter how well Noah played proved correct, though Noah was both brilliant and tenacious in losing the first set 12–10 and then winning the next two. With the American down two sets to one, the French crowd roared its approval, urging Noah to finish him off. But he couldn’t pull it off. During the fourth and fifth sets, it was all McEnroe, and when Gene Mayer defeated Henri Leconte in the second opening day singles match, the Americans had a comfortable 2–0 advantage. The next day, McEnroe and Fleming won in straight sets over Noah and Leconte, capturing their ninth consecutive Davis Cup doubles match and clinching an American victory.

  With the overall result settled, the Americans began to celebrate, even though they would return to the court the next day to play two inconsequential singles matches. After McEnroe defeated Leconte, Mayer barely went through the motions in losing to Noah 6–1, 6–0. The final match score was 4–1, good enough to inspire a beaming Ashe to address the presentation ceremony crowd in French. He knew the French would appreciate the effort no matter how many mistakes he made, and he wanted to show Jeanne, who was in the crowd, that three years of language lessons had not been wasted. “The crowd loved it,” he recalled years later, “and even laughed at my jokes.”

  In victory Ashe was almost giddy. Leading the U.S. team to a second consecutive Davis Cup triumph was, to him, one of the high points of his career, ranking with his 1968 U.S. Open and 1975 Wimbledon titles. It was not just that the Americans had won but how they had won, overcoming adversity with grit and class. The team chemistry and camaraderie were exemplary, and they behaved themselves on and off the court. It was just what he had hoped for, a classic team victory with each individual making a difference and contributing to the result. He was especially pleased with Gene Mayer, who seemed to have forgotten his grievances against the Davis Cup selection process, and who not only played well when it counted but also assumed the role of a “happy chatterer, who lifted his teammates’ spirits with his endless stream of talk.” Mayer was all smiles in the locker room after the match as he and his father, Alex Mayer Sr., a Davis Cup veteran who had played for Hungary in the 1960s, toasted the victory with French champagne.

  Ashe saved his greatest praise for McEnroe. When asked about his star’s surprisingly strong performance on slow clay, he responded: “This is normal. The guy’s the most talented player ever to play the game.” Unaccustomed to hearing such an expansive superlative from Ashe, the reporters immediately asked him to elaborate, which he was happy to do. “He’s the best doubles player I’ve ever seen,” he declared. “He has more shots than anybody, he has more control over his body physically. His hand-eye coordination is probably the best of anybody except Rosewall. He also has great foot-eye coordination, and he can do anything with the ball. . . . He can hit with topspin. He can hit it flat. He can hit a drop volley. He can put the serve any place. And he has that intangible—true self-confidence. He genuinely believes that he can always raise his game if he has to.”

  Watching McEnroe at his best, keeping the Cup, enjoying an emotional reunion with Noah and Chatrier, temporarily abandoning his heart-healthy diet and eating elegant French food—what else could he have wished for, other than grabbing a racket and returning to the court as a rejuvenated thirty-nine-year-old ready to play. He knew the euphoria wouldn’t last, and he wasn’t one to expect miracles. Yet after three years of putting his life back together—of overcoming illness and learning the value of patience, he wasn’t about to rest on his laurels. He was still in the game, thankful for what he had accomplished but always looking forward to the next win.

  When Ashe flew back to New York in late November for an extended holiday vacation, he had no way of knowing that Grenoble would be the high point of his tenure as Davis Cup captain. While he would continue to lead the U.S. team for three more years, there would be no third victory and few moments of celebration. Most distressingly, the Davis Cup reverses would soon become the least of his problems. As 1982 drew to a close, he entered a new phase of his life—a testing time fraught with challenges both frightening and mysterious.32

  TWENTY-THREE

  BLOOD LINES

  JEANNE’S OLDER BROTHER, John Moutoussamy Jr., was just a few months older than Arthur. A successful lawyer employed by the Chicago district attorney’s office, Johnny was one of Arthur’s favorite in-laws. Happily married and the father of two small children, David and Jay, he seemed to have it all. But on Friday evening, December 17, 1982, he suffered a massive heart attack while attending a benefit dinner. The Ashes, who had just arrived in Chicago, were staying with Jeanne’s mother and father. After they heard the news, Jeanne accompanied her parents and Johnny’s wife, Penny, to the emergency room while Arthur stayed behind to take care of the children. Hours later Jeanne called Arthur from the hospital with the bad news: “Arthur, Johnny didn’t make it.” The next morning, with Jeanne and her family “almost overcome with shock and grief,” part of the sad task of telling the boys about their father’s death fell to Arthur. He had rarely experienced a more trying and difficult moment than when he sat down with David, the younger boy, and when the older boy, Jay, went into hysterics it brought back “my father’s tearful reaction to my mother’s death in 1950.”1

  Following the funeral, the Ashes flew to Miami. Jeanne hated to leave her grieving family, but Arthur had commitments at Doral. In addition to the Christmas season clinics, his honors course at Florida Memorial College (FMC) was scheduled to begin in less than a month. On New Year’s Day, he spent three hours with Jeff Rogers, who briefed him on what to expect from the dozen students enrolled in the course. As he put the finishing touches on his teaching plan and syllabus, he felt eager and ready for the semester to begin, but he had to interrupt his preparation in mid-January with a whirlwind trip to New York, where he attended an array of board meetings and social functions, including a banquet honoring the legendary sportswriter Red Smith.2

  By the time he returned to Miami for the first day of class, he was grateful for the relatively slow pace and orderly decorum of a college classroom. He soon found he enjoyed lecturing and, even more, the seminar-style back-and-forth with students during the course’s weekly two-hour meetings. Unfortunately, the situation soon soured. “For the first two or three meetings, my dozen students seemed bright and alert enough,” he recalled a decade later. “Then I received their first papers, and the first shock. Three students, all women, handed in well-researched, finely written papers. Almost all of the others, in varying degrees, upset me so profoundly that my hands shook with disbelief and anger the first time I read their prose. Their command of English was so abysmal, their sense of organization so weak, their mastery of logic and argumentation so pathetic that I could not believe that these young students would ever graduate from college.”

  After sharing several of the most garbled passages with Jeanne, he knew the students’ problems were serious. Still, he worried about overreacting. “The last thing I wanted,” he later confessed, “was to be perceived as a snob come down from New York City eager to heap scorn on the students, or for blacks to think that I had been socializing with rich white people for so long that I had lost touch with realit
y. Maybe I have, I told myself.” A few days later an awkward conversation with Rogers left him chastened. “Arthur, I know what you are saying is true,” Rogers conceded. “I’ve seen some of those papers, too. But you have to understand what these kids have been through, what their families have been through, just for them to get to this point. This is not UCLA.” When Arthur reminded Rogers he had done well at UCLA after attending all-black schools, his friend countered with a plea for empathy and patience: “All I know, Arthur, is that we at this college . . . have to look out for all the young men and women out there. . . . Sure, we give the benefit of the doubt to some of the kids we admit. But somebody has to give them the benefit of the doubt, after what they have been through in this country. You know the white man isn’t going to do that.”

  Arthur promised Rogers he would do his best to embrace the spirit of “remedial instruction.” But it wasn’t long before his commitment to high standards and personal responsibility got in the way. “When some of the students drifted in late to class,” he recalled, “or stayed away altogether without an excuse, or made feeble, trifling excuses to explain why they hadn’t read this book or finished that paper, I felt my indignation rise again.” “At some point,” he insisted, “each individual is responsible for his or her fate. At some point, one cannot blame history. Does the legacy of slavery explain why Mr. Jones eased into class ten minutes late this morning? Why Mr. Smith yawned in my face and claimed that he had not known about the assignment?”