It began as a bit of a loser. After all, the Rancho Mirage tournament was a little backwater event without distinction, which seemed plagued by Old Testament-like sandstorms and untimely rains. But that was before one of the great visionaries of our game, Charlie Pasarell, stepped in ‘80. Then, oh-so-suddenly, the tournament gained a sparkle.

Sure, the stands at its new home at La Quinta Resort were just temporary, but it quickly became a happening scene. There was some unknown wannabe crushing proud Jimmy Connors. There was the dreamy Yannick Noah, with his leaping overheads, enchanting a packed house as he took down the then dominant Ivan Lendl. There was Mr. Blue Eyes himself presenting the winner’s trophy. Before one could say, “Pass the sunscreen,” Pasarell had created a bright desert bloom with a feel-good charm and unmistakable intimacy.

But more than this, Charlie was blessed with an inspired vision, a grand plan for a grand arena for grand champions. Soon the “patroon” was guiding me on a tour of a vast hole in the dusty earth, which in ‘87 became the new 12,500-seat stadium at the Hyatt Grand Champions Hotel.

Now, more than ever, magic happened. There were Billy Crystal, Eva Gabor and Linda Evans up in the celebrity pavilion, schmoozing with the Secretary of State and the gubernatorial candidate; there was Nancy Sinatra on court, plugging her (“let’s do polo”) charity; CBS’ Mike Wallace was in the west stands, while omnipresent Alan King was sashaying on court to offer one of his saucy intros.

My memories are sweet: interviewing Arthur Ashe in the whirlpool, seeing baby-faced Boris Becker being mobbed by adoring fans, indulging in the hedonistic delights of Charlie’s restaurant and spotting Johnny Carson making his annual stealth (not-as-secretive-as-he’d-like) backdoor entrance. And, oh, was the tennis ever sublime! Edberg’s knifing volley, Chang’s astounding sprints, and Steffi, so stately in the twilight. Some long-haired kid from Vegas - “Agasino” or something like that - got his first wildcard here, and when a skinny qualifier from L.A. they called “Little Petey” reached the third round in ‘88, the “know-it-alls” whispered that the 16-year-old could someday do okay at Wimbledon.

Granted, this wasn’t the U.S. Open, but it sure ‘drew the world’ and was crowded with glittering delights. In fact, it was too crowded. As wide-eyed fans - from Manhattan to Malibu, from Irvine or Illinois - swarmed the place, there were times it was so packed you couldn’t move.

But Pasarell could. And he did, as he again went down the road to create, in 2000, an even bigger treasure palace: the Indian Wells Tennis Garden. Part tennis oasis, part tennis mecca - the 16,100-seat tennis stadium (the world’s second largest) emanated a solitary presence and was graced by stunning light spires rising from the desert floor and yellow-gold hues from distant slopes. People came to embrace and love this place, too, as it became the fifth most popular tournament in the world, right after the four Slams. Just this year, it drew record-setting crowds en route to attracting 280,653 fans.

But it ain’t perfect. Maybe it’s a tad too big, and, yeah, there was the problem with the Williamses, 9/11 and the ISL deal, and (despite making money almost every year), it’s hobbled by a crushing 8 percent debt service.

The USTA’s mission is to grow and promote the game. And - short of the U.S. Open being brought to its knees, a nasty scandal or having to endure a tennis landscape devoid of American stars - I can’t think of anything that would hurt the American game more than having the tennis gathering we love so much snatched away by the deep-pocket Chinese, who already have lured the ATP Masters away from our shores.

To lose the tournament we’ve seen evolve and grow so much would be a deflating mix of humbling implosion and unmitigated disaster. American tennis would lose its greatest event West of the Alleghenies. Our annual spring pilgrimage would be but a bittersweet memory, and tennis in California would be just a shadow of itself. Such a loss would send a simple, wretched message: Tennis is no big deal. Who cares?

So today there must be a firehouse sense of urgency - no excuses. The USTA’s sharpest minds and Fort Knoxian resources MUST be mobilized to invest in an irreplaceable showcase that has given us 1,000 joys and 1,001 delights.

—Bill Simons, Editor and Publisher, Inside Tennis