For the past 25 years, I have been blessed that my professional life has been a consuming journey into the heart of tennis. To celebrate, I’ve composed a three-part recollection of my Top 25 most compelling encounters and happenings in this altogether confounding, inspiring and delicious game.

WHAT’S IN A GESTURE?
25 Sometimes a gesture says it all. A dejected Jana Novotna, who had just blown a Wimbledon championship, poignantly dropped her head onto the shoulder of the Duchess of Kent. An elated Pat Cash clamored his way through the Wimbledon stands to spread love in the Friends Box. Other gestures revealed a fond finality: Chris Evert at the U.S. Open or Stefan Edberg at Wimbledon saluting the crowd with long, bittersweet waves of farewell. Some gestures are most diplomatic (Agassi and Paradorn Srichaphan offering us fan-friendly, Buddhist-style bows). Others are ferocious: think Connors’ singular bolo fist-pumps or Hewitt’s insufferable “C’mons.” Of course, many a Davis Cup hero has been tossed high in the air by his ecstatic teammates. Still, my favorite gestures are about love. No, not so much Andy Murray, who planted a kiss on his wide-eyed girlfriend after winning San Jose this February. Instead, I recall an exhausted Gustavo Kuerten, after prevailing in a Roland Garros marathon, drawing a big heart in the clay before collapsing in joy and elation. And then there’s my all-time favorite - Yannick Noah’s dazed dad racing onto Court Centrale in ‘84 to embrace his triumphant son in a hug for the ages.

Susan Mullane/Ron Cioffi

PETE: THE HEART OF A CHAMPION
24 Critics dismissed him as a bore: a dull (“where’s the earring?”), tunnel-visioned, charisma-impaired, expressionless jock. Sure, he could hit a tennis ball good, but to win, they claimed, he called on a soul-deadening tennis-only mindset, a somber “just win, baby” focus and a simplistic game plan: notch a service break and batten down the hatches.

Okay, let’s face it. The guy didn’t exactly sparkle with the twitchy razzmatazz of Robin Williams, and compared to his archrival, Agassi, he lacked that endearing mix of backstory melodrama, vulnerability, and (“someday I’ll overcome my demons”) openness that fans invariably crave.

But boy, did he have game. In fact, in the pre-Federer epoch, no one delivered a more sublime mix: easy, swift movement; lethal power; surgical precision; size and athleticism. His running forehand was a glorious fury. His volleys were lethal knives and that “don’t tread on me” leaping overhead delivered a clear message. But it was his first and second serve that elevated him above the wannabes. Fluid, flawless, free: they flowed with an athletic grace.

Sure, through much of his storied career, Pete’s personality flatlined. Following his great triumphs, he often said, “This is what we all play for.” And after a rare defeat, he usually would just sigh, “I just ran into someone who was too hot today.”

On court, he was the slyest of cobras, lying in wait, ready to pounce when he detected the slightest twitch. He was blessed with an uncanny sense of the moment and ultimately left us with a dizzying collection of irreplaceable moments. When thoughts of the devastating loss of his coach consumed him, he broke down in tears at the Aussie Open. After single-handedly delivering the U.S.’ last Davis Cup triumph in ‘95, he collapsed on a Moscow clay court. He survived his infamous upchucking incident at the U.S. Open to down Alex Corretja in a fifth-set tie-break, broke the record for all-time Grand Slam wins in Wimbledon’s dramatic dusk and his ‘02 U.S. Open final win over Agassi was a poignant farewell: Michael Jordan draining that final jump shot, Ted Williams blasting a homer in his last at bat.

Yes, he tattered the record book and dazzled us with his power and shot-making virtuosity. But, more than anything, the man shared with us his oversized heart — the heart of a champion.

REVEALING LITTLE MISS POKER FACE
23 Long before it was obligatory for stars to sport cat suits or promote their latest reality show, a much more sedate tennis universe was overseen by a handful of reigning monarchs.

Over the years, I was fortunate enough to speak to many. A long, ambling conversation with the singular Jack Kramer proved to be an eye-opening stroll down memory lane. The proud, elegant Don Budge told me tales of his groundbreaking career at the modest Oakland park where he first struck a ball. Plus, there were compelling exchanges with rogue Bobby Riggs, Alice Marble — the blonde serve and volleyer turned spy and Hollywood glamour gal — and Fred Perry, the working class lad who, after 70 years, remains the last British guy to have won Wimbledon.

But in my pantheon of old-school tennis icons, one figure stands alone — the elusive Helen Wills-Moody Roarke.

Tagged with the best nickname in tennis history, Little Miss Poker Face, she won 229 straight matches and eight Wimbledons. She had the star power of Sharapova, the baseline intensity of Evert and a record many contend is the greatest in women’s tennis.

In America’s Golden Age of Sport, she was mentioned in the same breath as Ruth, Dempsey and Grange, and her 1926 “Match of the Century” in Cannes, France, with Suzanne Lenglen was called “a cross between the French Revolution and the Battle of Gettysburg.”

With her signature white visor firmly in place, the Berkeley Tennis Club product projected both an intimidating presence and a stylish mystique. Intelligent, stately and feminine — her indrawn (approach-at-your-own-risk) personality had its own enigmatic allure. She hobnobbed with Hollywood stars, fast-lane stockbrokers and English royals. And when Charlie Chaplin was asked what was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, he replied famously, “The movement of Helen Wills playing tennis.”

Her dominance was rooted in three passions: power ball, silence and love of the game. To her, the sport was “a self-sufficient world in which one moves as in a dream...A sunny day, white balls, fresh white tennis clothes, a good-natured opponent and a brisk game — this spells heaven for the one who loves tennis.”
Yet for decades, she seemed invisible as she became (even more than Joe DiMaggio) the greatest recluse in American sports. Once, when the USTA was planning a reunion of past champions, they didn’t bother to contact her. They thought she was dead.

Still, patiently, year-after-dreary year, I tried to get Little Miss Poker Face to reveal her hand. Steadfastly, she remained hidden in Carmel Valley, until finally in ‘94, four years before her death, I was rewarded with the last interview she ever gave. Talking to me from her hospital (which she dismissed as “a kennel”), her voice was scratchy, and she confided she was “feeling kind of cranky. You’re talking to somebody who’s not only old-fashioned, but out-of-date...It makes me mad if people think I know the past back to the year one...I just don’t want any wiseacres spouting facts, because my recollections are no better than anybody else’s.”

Our exchange was a whimsical cross-generational conversation, as she asked me about the latest Wimbledon, the leading journalists of the day, tennis scam artists, God and good ole human nature. Plus, she offered an extraordinary revelation.
HELEN WILLS-MOODY ROARKE: I don’t know anything about the players today. Don’t ask me my opinion because I don’t know. I got bitten in the hand and had my finger bitten off and that ended my tennis. You never knew that.
WILLIAM SIMONS: No. I didn’t...What do you mean?
HWMR: Well, it was during the war and my husband was at Fort Reilly, Kansas...It was the middle of winter, and I was walking my big police dog, Sultan. A little dog came barking wildly out of a house and grabbed my dog by the throat. Those little fox terriers have no sense. They’re just wild. So my poor dog was being chewed to pieces and wasn’t able to respond. But I wasn’t going to have a dogfight under my feet so I let go of his collar. And then Sultan took this little dog and shook him, which he deserved. But in the fight, my index finger on my right hand was bitten...
WS: By the terrier?
HWMR: I don’t know. Fury! Wild, stupid animal! But my poor old finger, the finger next to the thumb. The thumb is very important in tennis. So that was the end of my career. I couldn’t manage. I never mentioned this before to anyone.

afp, roberto schmidt
Richard Williams — the cigar-champing, tale-spinning, larger-than-life lone ranger — flaunted convention and stirred controversy.

WHY RICHARD WILLIAMS?
22 “Come on,” you may shout.

Why in the world would I say that Richard Williams is one of my favorites. Most readers will bristle and ask, “What planet are you on?” After all, this is the man who saw a player win $48,000 on TV and immediately decided to have kids in order to cash in. This is the in-your-face exhibitionist who prances about with goofy signs and tends to steal the hard-earned spotlight from his daughters. This is the callous fellow who not only let loose with anti-Semitic slings; who allegedly abused his wife and disses players for being too big (Irena Spirlea “is a big, white, fat, ugly turkey”) or too small (Hingis just couldn’t keep up because of her small little legs). This is the fast-talking guy who said the U.S. Open should move to Compton and bragged that he’d soon buy Rockefeller Center for $3.9 billion.

Still — somehow, some way — I’ve got a soft spot for the man. It’s not just because he produced two Hall of Famers and that he made the greatest prediction in sports history — that the still totally untested Venus and Serena would become Nos. 1 and 2 in the world and that Serena would end up having a better career than Venus.

Instead, it’s that Williams entered a rather staid, rather white, very settled in its way sport and rather than being a proper, well-scrubbed and essentially deferential African-American (think Jesse Owens, Joe Louis and even Arthur Ashe), played the game in his own singular, let-the-chips-fall-where-they-may way (think Muhammad Ali or Don King).

While very much enjoying himself, he did stress education and flaunted conventional wisdom as he kept his kids out of junior tournaments. He never bought into the alluring Royal Box perks of the establishment and relished toying with the media.

From when I first met him at Venus’ Oakland coming-out party in ‘94 to last year’s Wimbledon, when he gave me a huge improbable hug just after Venus’ stunning victory, we’ve always connected. In reflective in-depth interviews or spontaneous often-saucy exchanges, he continually opened up to this white reporter, talking of his love of his mother, a Louisiana sharecropper, and his feelings of deep hurt when his kids were hooted at Indian Wells, his seemingly odd affection for English traditions, and his unwavering paternal pride and devotion.

Yeah, Williams is a major rascal with a bit of an outlaw ethos and far more flaws than most. Still, I embrace the cigar-chomping, tale-spinning, larger-than-life lone ranger, who for years has been one of tennis’ liveliest straws stirring a sometimes too settled, too vanilla milkshake.

THE MARCH OF THE PROTEGES
21 The genius of tennis is that right before our eyes, the game quietly re-invents itself just enough to retain our interest. Nowhere do we see this more than in women’s tennis where, generation after generation, gifted proteges, fresh and free, ?storm the bastions, promising triumphant feats and presuming the tennis world is their oyster.

As a fearless kid in the early ‘50s, I remember sneaking under a fence at the Meadow Club in toney South Hampton, New York, to see “Little Mo” Connolly — a petite, apple pie San Diegan with a knockout smile and knockout groundies.

More recently, Monica Seles, who Sports Illustrated said “was a spooky little kid who turned out to have the game of a rattlesnake” threw flowers to the adoring Paris crowds, long before the cruelty of fate crushed her dreams. The much anticipated debut of the giddy Jennifer Capriati caused such a stir that her first tournament was dubbed the Virginia Slims of Capriati. And a skinny, wide-eyed ghetto kid who sported colorful beads and an infectious grin, Venus Williams, drew the international press corps to Oakland to assess her and her already controversial clan.

But the most astonishing protege I’ve ever seen was Graf. Long before Steffi drew attention, Billie Jean King noted, “You may not believe it, but there’s a scrawny little kid in West Germany who I think will be our next number one. Her name is Steffi Graf.” I first saw Steffi at the ‘84 Olympics at UCLA. Fierce, fast, focused — her unsmiling Teutonic intensity already locked in — she rattled off points with a let’s-get-this-thing-over-with speed, while her punishing whiplash forehand announced just one thing: “I shall rule.”

KIND OF WILD, KIND OF WACKY
20 Most of us have a wild remembrance or two hidden away in a closet. I certainly do. I’m not talking so much about quirky exchanges. (Recently, I asked Agassi what was the key reason he’s changed so much over the past 20 years. He responded, “Bill, I’ve known you for 20 years, and you’ve changed a lot too.”)

Rather, I’m thinking more of the time when this mag was just six months old, and my brother convinced me to join him for a little dip at a clothes-optional beach near Santa Cruz. No problem, I thought. There was only one guy in the ocean about 30 yards away.

But little did I know that as soon as I got into the water the fellow would swim right up and say, “Hey, ain’t you the editor of that new tennis magazine I’ve seen around?”

Then there was the time when I was traveling to Vokl’s German factory when our group headed off to Oktoberfest. Packed into a huge Munich beer hall with about 1,500 other free-drinking celebrants, my mind locked into the catastrophic history of the city’s rambunctious beer halls. But, thanks to countless steins of pilsner, my paranoia evolved into a kind of giddy ecstasy and poof, I soon found myself atop a table dancing blissfully to the prevailing rhythms of the polka band. (Nifty PR hey?)

And then there was the time when...Nah, never mind. I’ll tell that tale another time.

THE SALT OF THE EARTH
18 The glitterati have their appeal. But, as they say, all that glitters is not gold. In fact, it’s tennis’ salt of the earth that are the unsung heart and soul of the game.

So I salute all the fans, including that tight-knit cadre of buddies — from Sweden or some nearby suburb — high up in the bleachers, face paint in place, yelling their hearts out.

I salute the “just-around-the-corner” brick-and-mortar merchant selling gear and offering daily advice. I salute the tireless media assistant, pumping out a final stat sheet just before midnight and that oh-so-patient teaching pro, fine tuning your down-the-line backhand in the sweltering sun for only the 43rd time.
I salute the 3.5 ladies team that’s praying to make the district play-offs; the selfless parent who climbs out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to chauffer America’s next great sensation to a junior satellite tournament in a too distant town. And I dig all the wide-eyed ball kids in their baggy shorts trying to get it just right for the game’s elite.

I salute all those tireless, low-profile staffers at all the associations and the good-hearted volunteers who use tennis to raise a charity buck or two. I salute all those crazies who’ve camped out and partied on the annual Wimbledon queue.

And, I do thank you, the many loyal readers of this modest publication. I salute the salt of the earth.

DAYS TO REMEMBER
17 Sure there are tennis days when about the most exciting thing to report is a 6-2-, 6-1 Davenport blow out over an over-hyped 15-year-old Bulgarian. Then there are those days which resonate forever: Jimmy Connors — the cocksure, vain matador — commanding the smitten throng; Sampras emerging triumphant in the Wimbledon dusk; a massive Spanish soccer stadium where 27,200 flag-waving patriots sing the anthems of their land; and a leaky hockey arena in Zimbabwe where America narrowly ekes out a Davis Cup win.

And there are so many more. Just last summer, Agassi’s feel-good triumph over James Blake left me glad just to have been there, and the opening of Ashe stadium — a night crowded with icons, sentiment and symbolic justice — was breathtaking. Ultimately, my two favorite days came when the usually stuffy, go strictly by the book Lords of Wimbledon opened wide the doors of their sacred cathedral to the gritty masses. In ‘91, due to incessant rains, officials let ordinary folk in on Middle Sunday. After a spirited day of nonstop chants and goodwill when the crowd actually did the wave, Laure Pignon wrote, “For more than half a century on Wimbledon’s Centre Court, I have had my emotions turned left, right and inside out, but there was never a day like this, a day when joyful youth sat in the seats normally filled by blue rinses and blue chips. Some had slept on the pavements outside, others came on dawn patrol by bus and train, and together they brought a new sort of sunshine to the oldest lawn tennis tournament in the world.”

In ‘91, again due to rains, the vicars and viceroys, the barons and barristers vacated the place as the unwashed mob invaded on People’s Monday. This time, the raw cheers of Aussies and Croats shook the heavens as an angel descended on Goran Ivanisevic and at last relieved him of his unwanted title as the best active player never to have won Wimbledon.

UNIQUE YANNICK: FOR THE LOVE OF THE GAME
16 Amidst all the bloated federations, amidst all the fierce, overprotective agents, amidst all the bad dads and insulated, pampered players, there was a guy who got it — Yannick Noah.

The Frenchman played serious ball. He ended Ivan Lendl’s 44-match winning streak, he won the French Open, and rose to No. 3 in singles and No. 1 in doubles. All the while, he was a man apart.

For starters, he was discovered at age 11 when he used his homemade racket on an insect-infested mud court in a Cameroon rain forest to ace Arthur Ashe. Years later — despite a semi-wretched backhand, suspect mechanics and a whimsical attention span — he emerged onto the scene with a game brimming with adventure and charm, bold net charges, balletic leaps and more-than-inventive strokes.

Part poet, part free-spirit, part philosopher, heartthrob, clown and musician; a practitioner of yoga, a purveyor of joy and entertainment, he combined it all in an exotic package wrapped in a dreamy French accent, topped by Rastafarian locks.

Not exactly a born-again Vince Lombardian, for him, winning was not the only thing. “Fun, humanity and generosity were the reasons people came to see me,” he told IT. “People never came to see my backhand, otherwise the stadium would have been empty...Winning isn’t my main goal. Beauty is.”

Then again, his own life wasn’t always pretty. Depression, thoughts of suicide, family tragedy, failed businesses and messy marriages all intruded. Still, he observed, “I always try to be different in a way of being free. Being myself...I never let the environment affect me...I don’t let ignorance affect me...What’s important is that I’m a decent human being.”

As for tennis, he once told Peter Bodo, “Everybody is busy making money. The motivation for most people is to make tennis bigger, with more sponsors. Who is there for the love of the game...I like being on the fringes...With all this money and all these people admiring you, you can begin to believe you are somebody special, instead of just someone who has been lucky.”

In a world crowded with narcissism, materialism and cynicism, Yannick brought fresh oxygen. “He is so interested in so many parts of the planet, so many different people,” noted Mary Carillo. “He’s one of the great free spirits our game has produced...He makes it look like it’s a lot of fun, and he lets everybody in.”

After his playing days, Noah traversed many a path: inspirational Davis and Fed Cup coach, world traveler, charity fund-raiser and wildly successful Afro-Reggae pop star. This summer, he was inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame, and his son is a rising hoops star at Florida. All the while, his humanism has only deepened. Recently he told me, “Who’s [out there] saying, ‘Let’s make all this [world] a little bit quieter?’ Who’s there to lead us and say, ‘Okay, let’s just have a peace.’ How about enjoying each other’s differences? All I hear is how different we are.”