Life was, shall we say, the pits.

The snazzy new national sports magazine I was working for in 1980 unquestionably was going to be my fast-lane ticket to journalistic splendor. But after just seven issues, the mighty mag suddenly caught cold. Coughing and wheezing, it stumbled, then staggered. Sadly, an array of remedies failed as the magazine humbly succumbed to a painful, inglorious death.

Nobody came to the funeral.

Gone now was the impressive hillside house I was renting (yeah, the one with the Bay view). And gone were my once-bright hopes for transcendent professional triumph. True, downward mobility has its appeal, a certain pathos: ahhhh, the romance of poverty. Who doesn’t feel for the struggling artist? But this was a bit much. I was reduced to living in a dusty (where’s the window?) attic studio, and I now drove a less-than-imposing Datsun that featured a gash the size of the Grand Canyon.

Okay, I was 35, very unemployed and my inspired idea for America’s next great coffee table book wasn’t exactly lighting up the publishing world. But, not to worry. I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to steer clear of boredom and dreary tedium. After all, a good friend of mine seemed all but imprisoned in her pinched cubby on the 37th floor of a San Francisco bank building. Nice paycheck, but that wasn’t for me.

Plus, as part of my new freelancing gig, I got an editor friend to assign me a story I cooked up: “In Search of California’s Foremost Tennis Courts.” Then, having used my last unemployment check to get to L.A. to research the story, something clicked. I spotted a somewhat wretched local mag — Tennis Talk — and soon there came a moment of celestial awakening: a sweet moment of realization. The angels within me sang, “You could do better than this. You could put together your own magazine that could sizzle as it covers both the regional and international game with a spunky voice.”

“Now that’s an idea,” I thought. “And, most important, I betcha it won’t be boring.”

And, lo and behold, the cosmos soon opened. The tennis gods seemed to say, “Sounds like a decent enough idea to us. Why not?” And so this publication began to unfold.

After putting together a spiffy/semi-corporate (“thank God for Kinkos”) business plan, I knew I had to go out and meet and greet the tennis world. So one Sunday I dragged myself to the final of the USTA Men’s 35s National Hard Courts in Mill Valley, where, amidst a hefty Harbor Point Racquet and Beach Club crowd, tournament director Dick Wright was bitching and moaning about lousy media coverage. “Excuse me,” I interrupted, “but I’m actually planning to launch-would you believe-a new local tennis magazine.”

“Say what?” he countered, in shock. “Well, in that case, be in my office Monday at 10 a.m.”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “I’ll be there by 9.”

Wright soon became IT’s first backer. Still it was clear, if I were to publish this magazine, I’d need some savvy legal advice. So I was steered to a hotshot attorney in a big San Francisco law office. “Sounds like a dandy idea,” the guy said. “But I couldn’t possibly help you. But you’re in luck. There’s a guy just down the hall who’ll answer your every question.”

“Great,” I responded. “What’s his name?”

“You won’t believe this,” he replied, “His name is Steve Tennis.” And so Steve Tennis, no less, became Inside Tennis’ first lawyer, establishing (pro bono, thank you very much) our entire legal framework.

Okay, we had a basic idea for a magazine. We’d rallied ‘round a few brave investors. But we’d need some readers. So we decided to distribute IT to all the clubs and shops in the region. But we’d need some other way to get to the great mass of players. “Why not just mail your new magazine to all members of the tennis association,” suggested my friend, Charlie Hoevler. “Bingo,” I thought. Only problems were: 1.) I was a green-as-can-be outsider without a shred of traction with the Northern California Tennis Association, and 2.) The group had just had a nasty spat with the yearbook publisher they’d been working with, which morphed into a grim lawsuit. But I marshaled my courage and told the 20 strangers on the Board that this new fancy-pants mag would be all but the next coming, the dawning of the Age of Aquarius for tennis hereabouts. They bought it, and we’ve been mailing for 25 years.

So let’s review: Basic Concept — check. Courageous Investors — check. Willing To Go Out On A Limb Tennis Association — check. Now all that was needed were some advertisers to pay for this thing (which, yeah, would help me move out of my air less garret.)

Enter adidas. You see, in that long ago, pre-swoosh era, well before “just-do-it” became a mantra, adidas was king. So off I went on pilgrimage to their Silicon Valley office. Careful to park my clunky car behind an elm in a distant corner of the parking lot, I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence. After all, I’d never been a publisher before, and not a single issue of IT had yet hit the streets. But I was toting my (“What I Didn’t Learn At The Harvard Business School”) business plan, and the adidas exec in charge, Bill Closs Jr., was a sympathetic soul who warmed up to our outlandish notion and eventually mumbled, “Okay, we’ll put a full-page ad on your back cover for two years.”

“Hallelujah!” I screamed inwardly, as I summoned all my willpower not to hug the guy and jump on his desk to do an ecstatic jig. Now, with a hearty bunch of rookie staffers in place, IT at last set sail on a 25-year voyage through tennis’ far-flung, often turbulent seas.

Thanks Inside Tennis’ quarter-century run would not have been possible without the generous backing of our advertisers and supporters, which very much includes the Northern and Southern California Tennis Associations. Special thanks must go to our inspired, tireless crew, who month after month produce IT with a mix of excellence, wisdom, patience and attention to detail. In particular, IT’s longtime Managing Editor, Matthew Cronin, is probably the foremost match analyst in tennis. Associate Editor Richard Osborn is the most versatile journalist you’ll ever encounter, and Art Director Peter Grame makes each of our issues shine with style. Our administrative and marketing staff, headed by Jane Gatto and Chris Rawson, are loyal and hard-working heroes. IT also has been boosted immeasurably by a wide-ranging cadre of eagle-eyed photographers and energetic international and regional writers. Of course, ultimately, we would be nowhere without you, our valued readers, who have remained engaged all these years. Bottom line — a heartfelt thanks to all who’ve helped! It’s been a joy.

Of course at first we were a complete no-name. Some called us Inside Dentist. To others we were Inside Tenants. For many a season we were dismissed as mere provincial wannabes. When we sought to cover the U.S. Open we got a (“You’re a useless rookie”) “B” pass that gave us access to the potato chips and a pile of press releases. At Wimbledon, we had to beg (along with the West Bratislava Daily Inquirer) just to gain access to Centre Court at crunch time. Some-Peter Herb, Barry MacKay, Bud Collins, Ted Tinling-were more than generous. But often we got as many brush-offs as that skinny little kid with glasses and braces by himself over in the corner.

But eventually things turned. Readers began to sense we might be a touch different, that we were not of the same old staid, ho-hum, formulaic fabric. Our voice was direct, often spontaneous. We relished taking chances. Albert Einstein on our cover? Why not? Joke ‘n’ tease about the human foibles that spice up our sport? You betcha: laughter matters. And when the rubber hit the road, we were more than eager to ask the gritty/pull-no-punches questions that reveal or expose.

So over the years our quixotic journey to the heart of tennis took us around the globe. There, on the horizon at the oh-so-chic French Open was the Eiffel Tower. There at Wimbledon, intimate matches on distant backcourts drifted into the English dusk before giving way to the pomp and grandeur of the Centre Court final. And always, there was New York. The U.S. Open-fight ‘n’ fangs and always eager to flex its ferocious muscles with unapologetic Broadway bravado.

All the while, we ventured far beyond the game’s usual watering holes. After scribbling notes atop Alpine summits, in old-world courtyards or on Land Rovers in Africa, stories emerged on Spanish bullfighters and Balinese hermits. We told tales of the heroics of Normandy and the horrors of Hiroshima; we spoke of the sands of Fiji, the fountains of Seville, Victoria Falls and the primordial finality of a ferocious lion kill on a timeless savannah.

Over the years, as the game’s elders receded, phenoms emerged to amaze.

Yes, players became more trim, but prize money, shot-making, entourages and (louder-than-locomotive) grunts all but exploded. And for some 261 issues, we tried to be good soldiers: providing in-depth coverage, saucy tidbits and capture-the-moment photos and covers. And throughout, there was one constant. We continually were in conversation with the game’s most compelling figures. We chatted with the grand old icons: Brit Fred Perry, recluse extraordinaire Helen Wills Moody, sage Jack Kramer. We got the spin from both sides of the greatest rivalries: Evert/Navratilova, Sampras/Agassi. Many invited us to their homes or playgrounds. We survived Ivan Lendl’s German Shepherds at his Connecticut mansion; sat with John McEnroe on his macho BMW cycle in his Tribeca art gallery; ate Wiener schnitzel with Becker at his expansive Bavarian country club; and laughed with Don Budge over a strawberry milkshake near his Oakland home.

It hardly mattered whether we conversed with shy introverts or chatty wonders like Billie Jean King and Nick Bollettieri. From the high and mighty (Clinton, Bush I, Carter, Paul McCartney, Fergie, Johnny Carson, Nicholson, Streisand and “the Donald”) to the humble and sort of meek (Patrick Rafter, Michael Chang, Kim Clijsters); from the “saints” (Bishop Tutu, Arthur Ashe, Jane Goodall, Dick Gould) to the less than saintly (Jimmy Connors, Richard Williams, Bobby Riggs), it’s been our honor to speak with ‘em all, from Centre Court champions to the maintenance man at the All England Lawn Tennis Club, who asserted, “It’s a privilege just to be here at Wimbledon.” Similarly for me, it’s been the privilege of a lifetime to partake of this 25-year odyssey.

Okay, ‘tis true, I no longer live in an attic. These days, the dings on my car are pretty modest. And, praise be, publishing 10 issues a year keeps boredom at bay. But beyond this, we’ve been fortunate to embrace the ever-so-unique tennis community, with its curious band of nomadic pranksters. We’ve been able to fight the good fights (getting the USTA to name its stadium after Ashe) and to learn from life’s many scratchy setbacks (interviews that went south and enough typos to warm the heart of any dictionary salesman). We’ve been able to refine our voice and flow with the singular rhythm of the tennis season. And, more than anything, we’ve been blessed to have met so many, to have journeyed so far and to have told so many a tale as we indulged what’s proven to be a far too delightful dance of the imagination.