Salvaging Black Monday for American Tennis

ROCKY DAY FOR AMERICAN TENNIS DAY 1 AT THE BIG W

June 25, 2012 was referred to as Black Monday for American tennis.  Donald Young struck the first ball of Wimbledon and had as disappointing a loss as you'll ever see, blowing a half dozen points to go up two breaks and a set on the imploding seed Mikhail Youzhny.  In the next few games Young went from a confident player strangling a seed on a Wimbledon showcourt, to a rank amateur, getting whisked away in what Brad Gilbert described as "15 minutes."  The U.S.T.A. will not appreciated this adjective, after all the treasure they have sunk into Young's ill-fated career, but Young's performance was embarrassing. It was his 12th consecutive tour loss.  "Shocking to me and people around me." The guy who used to be the poster child for American tennis development is shattered right now.  And that was only the beginning.

Good guy James Blake, now a brittle 32 year old, lived out the exact same script as Young, only an hour later. Up a set and a break with several chances to lock up the second set with another break. And he, too, failed.  Flip the Direct TV feed over to Court 2, and there was gentle Venus, the flip side of the coin to her intimidating younger sister, falling in straight sets. Her loss, the worst in her Wimbledon career, was caused at least as much by her medical condition as it was by the skills of young Russian Elena Vesnina.  They say that since Court 2 has been remodeled, it isn't necessarily the same ol "Graveyard of Champions."  Watching 5-Time Wimbledon champion Venus Williams--yes 5, the combined totals of Evert and Connors--slog through a straight-set drubbing at the hands of a heretofore unknown player is as big a scalp as the old Graveyard ever had.  It was reminiscent of another Great Champion's final match at Wimbledon.  33 years ago Arthur Ashe, plagued by heart troubles, was ushered out of his Wimbledon playing life here on Court 2. Does anyone think Venus will return to the AELTC after her Olympic obligations are over?  We have all learned a bit about Sjogren's Syndrom thanks to Venus, along with grace and humility in her loss.  And to those who say "good riddance" because of her guilt by sibling association? You are revealing your ignorance.  Venus Williams' was a role model for grace under pressure, exiting Wimbledon with a wake of class and dignity. It bears repeating, a five-time Wimbledon singles champion.

American sports fans who wait until lunch to catch up on their sporting news were in for a shock this Monday.  Three of the biggest names in American tennis, had been vanquished from the All-England club before dessert and coffee.   What about Melanie Oudin, she of the stunning grand slam debut as a 17-year old at the 2009 U.S. Open? Having just turned 20 she is now pulling herself together professionally after the inevitable letdown. Leading up to Wimbledon Melanie did something Americans haven't done in decades, she actually won a tour event on English grass.  The 2012 Birmingham champion was facing an unknown on a court without TV cameras.  Unless you were in Southwest London with a precious ticket, you were forced to watch the drama on a computer screen.  This was a three-set thriller, one in which the eye-witnesses reported that she fought bravely, but even on the small screen the numbers were painful to absorb. Broken in the 8th game of the critical third set, little Melanie's Grand Slam comeback was shut down before it began.

What about Wimbledon Marathon Man John Isner? Involved in a 5-setter on Court Three against a Colombian clay courter? That's gotta be money in the bank.  No dice.  The #11 Seed, USA's best shot to go deep into week 2, dead in the water on Court 3.  Black Monday indeed.

Yet like so many of those lengthy days in London, some light seeped through the wall of dark clouds.  That battlin Cajun Ryan Harrison of Louisiana gutted out a 4-setter.  Another Ryan, 24 year old Ryan Sweeting, a U.S. citizen born in the Bahamas, claimed his match after his opponent retired in the second set. Teenager Sloane Stephens won her match, and suddenly there was restored pride in the Red White and Blue. Young players with shiny futures were replacing the aging champions and contenders from a previous era.  The good news continued to roll in as the Centre Court crowd slipped off for dinner.  22 year-old Jamie Hampton entered Court Three moments after the shattered Isner exited.  She proceeded to grind out a spirited straight-set victory over the seeded Slovak Daniela Hantuchova.

The American tennis equivalent of Rocky Balboa, 34 year old qualifier Michael Russell from Detroit, collected his second Wimbledon match victory of his pock-marked career.  5 shiny pennies from a day that had dealt out 6 numbing losses.  As the longest naturally lit tennis day of the year came to a close, there was that irrepressible Jersey girl, Teaneck's Christina McHale, simply refusing to cave to the Britain's Johanna Konta and all her fans flocking about Court 17.  She stubbornly forced the decisive third set into "overtime," and daylight finally failed, the match to be continued on Day 2.

For the American players, 6 ushered out and 6 survive to fight another day. For the fans, it's time to learn some new story lines.  There is talent is out there wearing red, white and blue, and best of all, there is hope.

Barry MacKay R.I.P.

The incredible BEAR


It's 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday, but 5 of the HBO Wimbledon "idiots" are in the dark in a West London squash court. Desperate to live out our grass court fantasies, we have crashed the uber-exclusive Hurlingham Club pre-Wimbledon party. Barry was our ringleader, and at 25 years older, he was the perfect "Uncle" Barry to help us pull this off.  "Bring your kits with your gear," he told us the night before. So we're all giggling and dropping trow in this unlit squash court, hopping around looking for that missing sneaker.
Moments later we emerge, all white-skinned with no professional sponsor patches, with the Armitraj brothers holding exhibitions on the courts we are so eager to trespass. One of Rafter's girlfriends is in attendance, along with all of the tennis aristocracy in Britain.  We idiots are nervous as cats. Not Bear.

"Man oh man," he says loudly for all the passerby's as we stride to an open court, "The Club's never looked better," he says with that magic midwestern honest charm.  The rest was easy.  Next thing we know we're all out on the court with Barry channeling Harry Hopman, barking orders as we do our jumping jacks on the manicured laws, getting warmed up for the greatest afternoon of our lives.  A couple of sets of tennis, several trips to the Pimms bar, a garden party on the back 40, essentially, business as usual for Bear, getting every possible drop of joy from each scenario he encounters.

Pro Tennis is probably the most selfish pro sport imaginable. Everyone is a rock-star wannabe. And here is this former #1 player in the U.S. who stands like a beacon because of his full-smile generosity. Like that rent-a-car he gave to Patrick McEnroe for playing doubles at the TransAmerica while he was still a student at Stanford. I think they were still waiting for the car's return when Hertz closed that branch.

The HBO Wimbledon "Idiots" of the 90's, TV freelance production's answer to the Buffalo Heads of Red Sox 70's, wised up and pooled our hotel money for the first Wimbledon village rental in the final years of HBO's contract with Wimbledon.  It took us a decade to figure out the math, but essentially when it comes to living the free lance dream, our ship had come in. And Barry was our honored guest. He loved everything about the house--full fridge, access to the betting parlors, minutes away from the courts--what's not to like?  And Hell, the owners happened to be named MacKay, this beautiful villa was known then and forever as the Mackay house.  A famous torch passing between the Bear and Johnny Mac on a glorious June afternoon in our garden will never be forgotten. I think they discovered the cure for glaucoma.

Everyone has stories of Barry's love and generosity, and I'll try not to bore you with mine, but the guy was a MENSCH.  Put me up on first day of my honeymoon, found me a freelance job at the Open 21 years after being persona non grata, treating my college roommate like his new best friend, taking me to the Ascot for turf racing and teaching me to bet, finding me the cheapest hotel in San Francisco, treating me to classic Tea in London's quaintest hotel. Sharing his tip of Stich over Becker in straight sets in the 1991 final at the Cathedral...bust out the champagne boys. Oh, Idiots delight.

It was incredible sad to discover the passing of Barry, but with his passion for desserts and California Chardonnay, we were lucky to have his joy as long as we did. He lived with pathos: the death of a son, an elusive Wimbledon title, (oh that muffed backhand volley against Laver with the match on his racket) and having never scored the pay day that would have put him in the comfort zone. A Bay Area sportswriter did the math in a column, Projecting Barry's potential earnings from his 1960 season in 21st Century dollars.  Enough to allow Barry to leave tennis and hang out with his beloved ponies.

But we all got the benefits from Barry's near misses, our favorite Uncle with the best jokes and the best smile and the best wines. The Joy from that man is impossible to describe, fortunately anyone connected to tennis has experienced it firsthand.

Oh, a final note. Barry was a hell of a pro in the booth. He transformed himself from a whispering sideline reporter to a play-by-play host. And until the very end, he was sharp. He ALWAYS pre-read the stage manager cards before reading them live on the air. and he caught plenty of production mistakes and NEVER held a grudge.

A life lived that we should all emulate, joyous expression from wire to wire. Saying you will be missed BEAR is the grandest understatement of them all.