DR: Talk about money. When you first started playing, as you pointed out, players weren’t paid very much.
BJK: Fourteen dollars [for tournaments]. Expense money.
DR: If I have my numbers right, you won 129 career titles.
BJK: I don’t know. I don’t care about that.
DR: Thirty-nine Grand Slam titles. But the grand total of money that you won, according to the statistics, is about $1.9 million.
BJK: That’s correct.
DR: Today you would probably win almost that much for winning one tournament.
BJK: I would win that for sure, because the winner of the Open got $3.8 million [in 2018]. I know there’s inflation, but still, it’s a lot better.
DR: Did you think this was because women weren’t getting paid as much or just that inflation has made prizes much bigger than they were when you were playing?
BJK: No, but we got equal prize money in 1973. Billy Talbert at the U.S. Tennis Association was a great player in the late ’40s. I went and talked to him at USTA in 1972, one-on-one, quietly, calmly. That’s what you always try—behind the scenes first. When you go to the media, it is a last resort.
Before I went to the meeting, Ceci Martinez [a fellow player] had done a survey she passed to the fans at the U.S. Open in 1972. I said, “I want information. Do they think we should be here? Should we get equal prize money?”
My former husband [attorney and promoter Larry King] and I already owned tournaments by then, so I’m a businesswoman. I understand the sponsor side. I understand the challenges, the risk. I went to Philip Morris, to Bristol Myers, and some others. I said, “If any of you would put up the money to make up the difference between what we’re getting now and if we got equal prize money with the men, would you be willing to do that?”
I don’t want to just go and ask without bringing something to the table. I had two things. The survey came out much more positive than we thought. That was good. But then I said, “And Billy’s a great business guy himself. He married a woman that’s very wealthy, and her dad had been great in business.” I said [to him], “We have Bristol Myers, willing to make up the difference in the prize money.”
Billy got real quiet. He was in shock, because what are you going to say when someone’s willing to bring a sponsor to the table for you? And he’s the one that announced it. I thought the board of directors of the USTA had passed it. I have been looking into it lately because I was working on a book. So now I’m finding out they never voted on it. He just announced it.
This is why when people are in leadership positions, they can change things overnight. He changed it from 60 or 50 percent [of the men’s prize money], or whatever we were getting, overnight. Everyone’s an influencer, and people have to speak up, but people don’t like to give up power. They just need to do this.
DR: You’ve played professional tennis for quite a number of years. Why did you actually decide to retire? Was it your knees or was it just harder to compete?
BJK: I was anxious to go into business and, yes, I wasn’t winning. Bill Bradley, who played [basketball] for the [New York] Knicks, was great about this. He talks about full circle in sports. They always tell you, “Get out on top.”
I did that. It was a mistake. I could have had one more big year, and I didn’t do it because I bought into that. I won Wimbledon in ’75. I go, “Okay. I’ll retire now.”
Should have never done that. I was beating Martina and Chris in practice. Chris says, “Why aren’t you still playing?” I said, “Good question.” So it was a big mistake. I could have won one more year.
DR: Did your parents live to see your great success in tennis?
BJK: Yes, but they only went to Wimbledon once. They did go to the King-Riggs match. I begged them both times.
DR: And did they say, “We always knew you were going to be a champion”?
BJK: No. My parents were really good. My parents were unbelievable, my dad particularly, because he was the jock. My mother’s a jock, but you never knew it because she’s a woman and women of her generation didn’t talk about themselves. She told me when she was eighty, “I just wanted to tell you, I beat the boys running.” I go, “Why didn’t you tell me when you were younger?” She says, “Oh, I like your dad to have all the focus. Let everybody talk about your dad.”
He was a really good basketball player. He was asked to join the NBA when it first started in ’48. I’m named after him because he was in World War II, and in 1943 I was born. My mom didn’t know if he was going to come home.
He was brilliant. He never let me read a press clipping after fifteen years of age because I got upset. The Long Beach Press-Telegram put me on the front page for the first time when I lost a match love and love. I went, “I’ve won tournaments. I finally make the front page—”
He goes, “Stop. What’s that match about?” I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “When did it happen?” I said, “Yesterday.” He says, “Exactly. It was about yesterday. Forget it. It’s what you do with your life today and tomorrow that matters. I don’t want you ever, ever to read your clippings. You’re not allowed to do any of that anymore.”
I stopped that day. He was correct.
Another thing—they never asked Randy [her brother] and me if we won, ever. You know how parents are—your kid walks in, and, “Well, did you win?” Oh my God, it’s the worst. Don’t go there. They’ll tell you how they did.
DR: You’ve won in your career more than 80 percent of your professional matches, which is pretty good. But the one that gets the most attention is not one of the thirty-nine Grand Slams.
BJK: It’s about a guy, baby.
DR: You had a match in 1973 against somebody named Bobby Riggs. Ninety million people watched it. Probably the most-watched tennis match in history, certainly at that time, maybe ever.
BJK: I think it still is probably.
DR: Margaret Court had played him earlier and lost. Why did you agree to play him? Were you ever worried you could lose? And what kind of person was he?
BJK: He kept asking me to play for two years and I turned him down. Then he got Margaret to play. And when I saw her, I went, “Margaret, you have to win.”
Now, you have to remember, she’s Australian, and she’s—well, we’re different. I said, “You have to win. This has much more meaning than a tennis match.”
I don’t think she prepared herself for the circus that was going to happen and the way he is. I knew all about Bobby. He was one of my heroes. I thought he got a bad deal in not getting the attention he deserved, because right in the sweet spot of his career was the Second World War.
I felt bad for him, but I respected him because I love my history. I knew every champion. I’d watched everything. I’d read everything I could on him, but when Margaret lost, I had to play him. I didn’t want to play him. I had to play him.
DR: So you did play him. And was a lot of what he was doing trying to get you riled up?
BJK: Oh, yes. That’s good, though. I love him for that.
DR: Did you practice against men when you were practicing for this, or you practiced against women? How did you practice?
BJK: I just practiced. I had Pete Collins, who was a tennis director at Hilton Head [South Carolina]. I went to Hilton Head for two weeks because we still had the Virginia Slims tour. In fact, during the week that I played Bobby, I had to play in the Virginia Slims of Houston. It’s two matches on Monday. We played the match on Thursday.
DR: Did you ever have any doubt you were going to win?
BJK: I didn’t know. Two months out or six weeks out, whenever we announced it, I’m very anxious, not happy. Start visualizing, start thinking about it. I think about anything that could go wrong, how I would stay calm and focused.
I have to visualize everything. I just love visualization. I would think about getting a bad line call. I went out to the Astrodome the day before the match. I went up in the stands and looked at it. I looked at how the court was structured. I kn
ew there would be no wall behind the court, so the depth perception was going to be shocking, but I knew whatever it was for me it was going to be for him as well.
We’d never played against each other. So I knew I’d never hit a ball against him, but neither had he hit a ball against me. So I’m like, “You know what? Okay.”
One thing you don’t want to do is get lost in an arena, because that can get you crazy. So I wanted to make sure I was very clear on all that. I went and met every security guard. I like to meet everybody, like the administration, people, everybody that runs the arena.
DR: At what point in the match did you realize you were better than him and you were going to win?
BJK: I never think like that when I’m in a match. It’s one ball at a time. Anything can happen.
DR: When you won, you got an enormous amount of attention.
BJK: When he jumped over the net, he said, “I underestimated you,” and we put our arms around each other.
DR: Did he want a rematch?
BJK: Oh yes, but I told him before the match, I said, “I’m only going to play this once because this is about history. It’s about equality.” I’m explaining these things to him. “We’re going to make lots of money. It’s not about the money.” And he finally understood that.
DR: That’s a good segue into equality and the other part of your life. Many professional athletes are great at their sport, but they say, “I don’t want to get involved in social issues.”
BJK: They want to sell things.
DR: How did you decide you wanted to make more than an athletic career out of your life?
BJK: When I was twelve.
DR: So you always knew this.
BJK: No, when I had my epiphany about white people only. Where is everybody else? I promised myself that day at the Los Angeles Tennis Club—then I saw Althea a year later—I promised myself if I was number one, if I was ever good enough—and I knew tennis was played all over the world—I thought, “This is an amazing opportunity.”
I wouldn’t have used the word platform then, but that’s what I was really thinking as a child. I was thinking, “I can do something greater than just winning tennis matches if I’m fortunate enough, but I’ve got to become number one,” particularly as a woman. As a girl I knew I probably had no chance for people to listen to me because people usually talk about boys.
DR: The U.S. Tennis Association named their stadium after you. You must be very proud of that.
BJK: I think it’s amazing. Arthur Ashe and I are really fortunate. It’s his stadium—that was 1997. We had the parade of champions out on that court.
DR: In your career as a pioneer for inclusion, equality, and social justice, what would you say you’re most proud of having achieved to date, and what is your next objective or goal?
BJK: I don’t really think like that at all. I think about, “I’m not done yet.” I always think about the people that got me there. Talk about it takes a village. Just think about what that took to get me just to be standing there, winning at Wimbledon. I was really lucky.
DR: The Equal Rights Amendment has never been ratified.
BJK: I think we’re one state short, aren’t we?
DR: Is that something you’re focused on or not?
BJK: I’d like to see the word woman in the Constitution someplace. That would be nice.
DR: You have been a fighter for AIDS issues and the prevention of AIDS, and that’s been a major push.
BJK: Yes. Ilana [Kloss] and I are founding members of the Elton John AIDS Foundation. I founded the Women’s Sports Foundation in ’74. We’ve invested $80 million. We are the one women’s sport that does research. There’s no research on us, and we are the first ones to start doing that. We’re also the guardian angels of Title IX for the sports part.
DR: With your partner, you’ve started the Leadership Initiative.
BJK: Yes, we did, Ilana and I and probably eight others.
DR: And what is that designed to do?
BJK: That is to help with equality in the workplace—not just by money. It means by culture, by color, by race. It means by just everyone being able to be their authentic self to go to work.
Deloitte did this research with us about being your authentic self when you go to work. So if you grow up poor and you’re ashamed of it and you can’t talk about it, like this one guy had all these university diplomas up and he’s talking about this and that. He never would talk about his beginnings. You’ve got to be your authentic self.
DR: What do you do to stay in shape now? You don’t play tennis as much.
BJK: The doctors are great about this. They always say, “Whatever you can do, just do it. Don’t worry about it’s the newest thing, greatest thing.”
I like to do the bike because I’ve had eight knee operations. I try to do at least two to three minutes of sprints in intervals, because you want to get that difference of heartbeat. Lifting weights, or weight resistance, is hugely important as you get older, especially for women with osteoporosis. I think yoga is great, but I can’t stand to get on my knees.
I think whatever works for you. For me, it’s the bike and weights, and I like to stretch after.
DR: So today, when you look back on your life, what are you most proud of? Your tennis career, your career as a social pioneer?
BJK: They go hand in hand, but probably the off-the-court stuff is more important to me. It’s always been more important to me. From that time I was twelve, I was pretty clear on that as a kid.
You listen to young people, and they’ve done research on this too, that anywhere from, like, nine to twelve, kids really do know what they want to do. They have these dreams, and they think anything is possible at that age, and it’s true.
One thing my dad and my parents and other people have taught me is never take anything personally. That’s one of the greatest things you can teach somebody.
I’m very big on forgiveness, because that allows you to move on. If you take things personally, it just hinders your life.
DR: That perspective is one you should bring to Washington.
BJK: Would you explain to me why we cannot care about the people anymore and why we have these two sports teams trying to win? Are the American people winning? That’s all I want to know. What is wrong with us?
DR: Have you thought of ever running for office?
BJK: I thought about it in the ’70s. Because of my sexuality challenges, I did not, because you have to tell the truth if you’re going to run in politics, and if you don’t tell the truth, you’re toast.
DR: I bet today that wouldn’t be a challenge.
BJK: I didn’t know that then. I wouldn’t want to be that kind of candidate. I want to be honest with my constituents and the people of America, because having democracy, it’s a huge responsibility. I know I probably could have won, but I was going through such turmoil with my sexuality in the ’70s, and that’s when I should have run if I was going to run.
DR: Well, if you ever change your mind, I know you have a lot of supporters.
CAL RIPKEN JR. on Baseball
Baseball Hall of Famer
“The real key is to push yourself through. The only time you’re a hundred percent for a season is the first day of spring training.”
For at least a hundred years, since its emergence in the late 1800s, baseball was widely considered America’s pastime—its most popular spectator sport, the subject of endless discussions about team rivalries and player abilities, the game supposedly invented in Cooperstown, New York—later the site of baseball’s legendary Hall of Fame—but perfected and loved in all parts of the country.
In recent years, professional football and professional basketball, among other activities, have made their own claims to being the country’s favorite spectator sport. But there is no doubt that the country’s long history is more intertwined with baseball, or that the stars of the sport have been the idols of youth and much of the country’s population for generati
ons. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Sandy Koufax—all names known well beyond those who paid attention to the daily box scores and other essential data of a sport seemingly created for statistics.
Over the past few decades, with baseball attendance and TV audiences declining, and with some of the leading players caught up in performance-enhancing drug scandals, baseball has produced fewer national heroes and idols for the country’s youth, as well as for the sports-rabid, ESPN-dependent adult population. Perhaps the most admired, untarnished baseball hero to emerge in recent decades—a person who was known as much for his unrivaled skills as for his humble, team-first approach to the sport—was Cal Ripken Jr., the unquestioned star of the 1980s and 1990s Baltimore Orioles.
Like the very few others who made it to the Hall of Fame with near-unanimous support, Cal Ripken had the credentials of a natural—a player with achievements that seem hard to fathom: more than 3,000 hits, 400 home runs, 1,600 runs batted in, two-time American League Most Valuable Player and nineteen-time All-Star, and a shortstop on the Major League Baseball All-Century Team.
But Cal Ripken had one other credential—one that has separated him from everyone else. In 1939, Lou Gehrig, the New York Yankees’ “Iron Horse,” finished his streak of 2,130 consecutive games played over a fourteen-year period. (Gehrig’s ability to continue playing at that pace was undermined by the onset of ALS, the disease from which he died two years later at age thirty-seven.) That record, which stood for fifty-six years, was considered by many the least likely baseball record to ever be broken.
But Cal Ripken broke it. He played 2,632 consecutive games over a seventeen-year period, spanning a record 8,243 consecutive innings played, to great national acclaim and adulation.
If any baseball record is likely to endure for the ages, surely it is this one. And if any baseball personality is to be remembered for his steady, low-key, and team-oriented play, it is Cal Ripken.
The American Experiment Page 33
