25 The Gesture: Details reveal and distill. A humbled Wimbledon loser weeps, heaving on a duchess’ shoulder. An elated Aussie frantically scrambles to the Friends’ Box to share his moment of glee. A whimsical Frenchman pauses to safeguard an errant butterfly and the departing diva we loved so much—Chrissie Evert—turns to offer a final wave good-bye. As my daughter Claire recently wrote, "Fragments cohere, blending with imagination. Details are fleeting, the unsettling dust of life which marks our revelations.”

24 Pete’s Heart: Okay, he was a bit charisma-impaired and critics claimed he had a soul-deadening, tennis-only mindset. But, pre-Federer, no one delivered a more potent mix of lethal power and fluid athleticism. Ultimately, not only did Pete Sampras tatter the record books, but his oversized heart left us with a dizzying collection of poignant memories, whether it was his flowing tears in Melbourne, his collapsing after his Davis Cup heroics in Moscow or his final bow in the Wimbledon dusk.

23 Legends: The modern game stands on mighty shoulders. And what a privilege it was to talk with Jack Kramer, Don Budge, Fred Perry, Bobby Riggs, Alice Marble and the foremost recluse in sports history, the delightfully cranky Helen Wills-Moody Roarke, who, 50 years after the fact, fretted over the wild, furious dog that rudely ended her career.

22 Rascal Extraordinaire: It’s easy to dismiss the in-your-face Richard Williams, with all his goofy signs and zany (Is Irena Spirlea really "a big white, fat, ugly turkey”?) zingers. But the cigar-chomping, let-the-chips-fall-where-they-may trickster enlivened tennis’ rather vanilla universe and, despite a hostile crowd or two, changed the game by coming through on the most outrageous, unthinkable prediction in sports history; that his two untested, but fearless kids would become No. 1 and No. 2 in the world.

21 March of the ProtEgEs: From "Little Mo” Connolly to Martina Hingis, tennis reinvents itself with spring-fresh protégés like Jennifer Capriati who stirred up such a frenzy that they called the first tournament she played "The Virginia Slims of Capriati.” Even to this day, the debate continues: just who was a greater kid phenom, Monica Seles—who was said to be "a spooky little kid who turned out to have the game of a rattlesnake” — or Steffi ("Don’t Call Her a Teutonic Terror”) Graf who, thanks to her whiplash forehand, won the Grand Slam at 19?

20 Walk on the Wild Side: Publishing a magazine month after month requires a certain "just another day in the coal mine” solemnity. But a guy can’t simply bottle up his soul. So embrace the moment, dance free atop the beer house table. Spontaneity matters.

19 Glitterati — The Joy of the Chase: Whether it’s saints (Bishop Tutu or Jane Goodall) or singers (McCartney, Streisand, Pavarotti or Diana Ross), I freely concede it’s a hoot to mix with the glitterati. Whether they be royals — Prince Andrew or Fergie — or rascals — Trump, Carson or Jack Nicholson — I’ve been privileged to encounter more than my share, including politicos (three Clintons, two Kennedys, one Carter, a Bush and a Newt), media mavens (Cronkite, Couric and Mike Wallace), beauties (Nicole Kidman) and "beasts” (from real ones like dictator Robert Mugabe to imagined beasts like golfer ‘Tiger’ Woods).

18 Salt of the Earth: All hail the tireless teaching pro feeding balls in the searing sun. Praise be the brick-and-mortar merchants, the selfless tennis parents-turned-chauffeurs, the struggling 3.0 league team, humble ball kids, hard-working association staffers and all those zealous fans up in Row X, hoarse ‘n hearty. All hail the salt of the earth, the heart ‘n soul of the game.

17 Days of Wonder: Singular days resonate: Connors, the cocksure matador, commanding the stage, Sampras’ triumphant finale at the U.S. Open and 27,000 Spanish Davis Cup fans rocking a Seville soccer stadium. And then there was People’s Sunday, that whimsical afternoon when the vicars and viceroys of Wimbledon opened their staid stage to the unwashed mob that "brought a new sort of sunshine...to seats normally filled by the blue rinses and blue chips.”

16 Noah’s Art: Amidst all the puffy vanity of our sport, Yannick Noah emerged with a game brimming with adventure and charm. Part poet, part free spirit, part heartthrob, clown, musician and purveyor of joy, he explained, "Fun, humanity and generosity are the reasons people came to see me.” Noting that so many just want to make money or make tennis bigger, he wondered, "Who’s out there for the love of the game?” and, on a larger scale, asked, "Who’s saying, ‘Let’s make all this 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.”

15 Jimmy’s Joy: It was inspired theater, an over-the-top, operatic triumph, the most captivating run in tennis lore. In ‘91, Jimmy Connors, the shameless, macho, gladiator/showman, clearly was all washed up. But no matter, the irascible, tightly wound rooster from the wrong side of the tracks "used mirrors, night magic and his incredibly mean two-handed backhand to cut a defiant swath into the [U.S. Open] semis.”

14 The Andre Transformation: No one in sport has transformed himself quite like Agassi. Once a self-absorbed, some would say, mean-spirited, "Image-Is-Everything” twit without much of a moral compass, Andre morphed himself into your basic saint ‘n sage jock: the most thoughtful, giving, reflective and accessible player in the tennis galaxy.

13 War: My journeys took me to the sites of war: Hitler’s Bavarian mountain headquarters. Hiroshima, where thousands saw fire and to Omaha Beach in Normandy, where I reflected on ‘Destiny’s Dawn’: "Surly crimson pools are unseen, still the knowing grains harbor a bitter truth, beyond our grasp — a jaded imagination. [Here], the sons of Brooklyn and Burbank huddled in shivering clusters, wide-eyed, bone wet, tossed woozy by an uncaring sea. They puffed their last soggy smokes and whispered muted prayers, their final invocations before destiny’s dawn. What unforgiving, gut-wrenching terror shook their souls as they strode forth, each to meet his fate? Such agony — dreams and destinies ripped asunder. The mourning dove flees a world ablaze. But then, step by terrible step, the unfathomable evil was undone, so now we wake from the twisted dream to again grip that elusive thread, life’s fragile gift.”

12 Peace: Mikhail Gorbachev’s wife, Raisa, told Chris Evert, "Tennis will bring our countries together.” Well, maybe not, but our sport, so rich with diversity, in its measured way helps gain understanding. For example: Pakistani Muslim Asiam Quresh reached the third round of the Wimbledon dubs with Israeli Jew Amir Hadad, who, upon reflecting on our troubled world, noted that "it’s always sad to see people get killed for nothing.”

11 The Meaning of McEnroe: From his Tribeca art gallery to Zimbabwe, from San Francisco’s Cow Palace to London’s Buckingham Palace, I’ve tracked the singular Johnny Mac — the most curious, confounding, multifaceted, in-your-face enigma in American sport.

There’s a certain hush. Just moments before the Wimbledon final, a defining stillness descends. Throughout the intimate cathedral that is Centre Court, dream and senses play, a curious mix. Time pauses, wonder bathes the moment. Now, for me, just one haunting question shouts in the silence: Is this real? For this most imposing of sports stages is set. Tennis’ finest moment has arrived. And, each year, I am there. A generous blessing. Never mind that play is about to begin. My mind drifts as I think of this magazine, which, over 25 years, has given me much: a place in community, a voice, understanding. Of course, it all emerges from the collaborative delight of working with an inspired staff to create a journal that, in its way, tries to tell tennis’ story. For me, Inside Tennis has been about freedom and fulfillment: freedom to draw from qualities within (creativity, imagination, grit and will) and the freedom to grow as I navigated divergent streams, laughing through tears while developing craft, the liquid beauty of language, a nuanced journey. Along the way, I’ve been blessed to see the elfin sparkle in Agassi’s eye, to feel the ferocity of Connors’ laser will and relish the economic wisdom of Ashe’s mind. I’ve driven through torrential torrents down a Bavarian autobahn in Becker’s black Mercedes, climbed velvety Balinese hills and felt the mists of Victoria Falls. Throughout, I’ve embraced friends and shared memory. But today, sitting above Wimbledon’s lawn, I sense the hush and give thanks: Thanks for the unbridled adventure, free and untamed.

10 A Transcendent Duo: Two figures — Arthur Ashe and Billie Jean King—have transcended tennis. Gifted with a renaissance sensibility, Ashe had a wise, sober presence. A quiet man of conscience who was at home in Harlem or at Harvard, in the inner city or the inner sanctum of the corporate boardroom, he worked tirelessly for justice and wisdom from Soweto to the American ghetto. As for BJK, for decades tennis’ Joan of Arc has been brimming with energy and get-up-and-go ideas that have inspired underdogs and tweaked the establishment. As Bobby Riggs learned all too well, don’t mess with this little lady.

9 The Cycle: Tennis is a mesmerizing cycle that kick starts in the jolly, g’dday mate optimism of the Aussie sunshine, then embraces the American spring before crossing over to the slow, high-bouncing clay of old Europe and tennis’ sliver of a grass-court season. Then, at its peak, tennis returns to "summer-in-the-city” America to rumble to the blazing U.S. Open before enduring a scattered (more fizzle than sizzle) denouement.

8 The Fragile Dreams of Paris: Each year, tennis "does” Paris where, as ever, "the river runs murky green... [and] a thousand wine-stained cafes await the pilgrim.” Here, thick walls implore: "tell me your tale of tattered dreams. Unmask your sadness, wander free, fear but a rowdy intruder. Paris’ odd mystery remains. Glittering bride, weary mistress. For this City, ancient and true, knows. Here, paths unfold: quiet journeys going nowhere and everywhere our fragile dreams can imagine.”

7 The Lawns of Wimbledon: The points are short, the lines are long. There are too many rules and too few rallies. But in this American Idol world of surface glitter, Wimbledon (where the power of heritage meets the hunger for achievement) has an enduring allure. Infused with a quiet passion, the lawns of this place will always appeal.

6 Pressroom Passion: They are the wordsmiths and storytellers, the purveyors of truths and weavers of fables who gather in steamy claustrophobic tents or palatial halls jammed with techno marvels where one hears a cacophony of cell phone rings, salty expletives and withering wit. Never mind the draining 14-hour days and the grumpy, back-noise, the pressroom is an inspired haven for that ever-changing tribe of nomads who compose 1,001 stories that capture the pulse of the game.

5 Surprising Slams: There’s delight in the unpredictable. And the joy of the Slams is that each one of them inevitably reveals its own unique tale, from the emergence of a bright phenom to the last hurrah of a washed-up warhorse.

4 The Interview: It’s a craft, an art form like no other. The interview — whether spontaneous and free or deliberate and studied — is a twisting portal, a road — sometimes bumpy — that reveals wit and wisdom, nuance and meaning, a dance I adore, an exercise I honor.

3 Family: Ours is a multilayered community, rich with varied veins. Lively and endearing, it suggests a rollicking, dysfunctional family. And, on Sunday, September 3, 2006, at 2:29 p.m., the spiritual godfather of the clan — Andre Agassi — played his last point and then wept as he gave us his unforgettable "You’ve given me your shoulders to stand on” farewell address. The throng was numb, eyes were moist, spirits moved.

2 The Time of My Life: It’s a mystery. Its presence so immediate: a constant companion shared by all, inescapable, yet beyond our grasp. Time is our prime way of measuring existence, our most precious gift. Some would say we are but time travelers. My 25 years of publishing this magazine have been a meditation on time, a medley of moments. Game, set and match flow into season, trend and era. A curious unfolding. Put simply, it’s been — it is — the time of my life.

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