It would be 33 years before Carson (in 1975, during the heart of the tennis boom) would take up tennis. He wasn’t great, and after playing Carson in 1979, 60 Minutes’ Mike Wallace quipped, “He’s been playing for four years and it shows.”

More recently, Wallace told IT, “I don’t know how good he got to be. [But at the time,] I served, he missed. I lobbed over his head [with ease]. Let’s say he was earnest. His best attribute on court was his enthusiasm.” When I asked Wallace whether Carson could’ve beaten Walter Cronkite, he quipped, “Even a cripple could beat Cronkite,” and added, “Johnny was kind to everyone, but never on the court. He didn’t know how to be a good loser.”
Of course, when it came to repartee Carson was a Hall of Famer. During his match with Wallace, a deliberate player, he quipped, “What are you waiting for, for your pacemaker to start? The thing is going to kick in just about when you serve.”

Ever since Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, many a celeb has flaunted their love of golf. But Carson’s embrace of tennis was low-key: daily therapy, a way to reduce stress. The author Laurence Leamer reported, “Tennis was his passion and he played almost every day. When he sold his beach house [in Malibu] to John McEnroe for $1,850,000, he insisted the star give him six lessons. Johnny was so serious that the stipulation was in the sales contract.”

Leamer added, “Though Johnny’s new house stood on two-and-a-half acres of land, there was no place for a court. So he bought the land across the street at a cost of several million dollars and constructed one of the most remarkable private courts in the world. It was not so much a court as a mini-stadium, recessed so that passers-by could not even catch a glimpse of Johnny playing each day.”

Carson, of course, was the first to parade a string of tennis players before a national TV audience: Arthur Ashe, Billie Jean King and a brash, still-rising 18-year-old in outrageous pastels, Andre Agassi. The Las Vegan found himself sandwiched between two of our greatest comic geniuses — Johnny and Jerry Seinfeld. “It was pretty intimidating,” Andre told IT. “Being on the show was a testament to Johnny’s love of tennis, because I certainly didn’t merit it for any other reason.”

Carson, at times, would offer his opinions on the game. When broadcaster Barry Tompkins’ inventive word plays based on the exotic names of players at the French Open rubbed Johnny the wrong way, he mercilessly attacked what he felt were demeaning commentaries.

Johnny never played celebrity tourneys, but every year, en route to the south of France, he would make a pilgrimage to Wimbledon. While other glitterati were easy to spot, Carson hid in an obscure mid-row seat high above the court, behind the Royal Box.

In ‘94, after talking with one notable after another, I gleefully phoned our office. “Hey,” I gloated, “I just got interviews with Charlton Heston, K.D. Lang, [NBA star] Chris Mullin and, can you believe, I roamed all over the grounds with Jack Nicholson, firing questions at him as he bitched and moaned about not being able to find “the goddamned NBC hospitality tent.”

“Big deal,” countered our unimpressed managing editor, “You know, Carson’s there.”

Her barb was more than enough to get my journalistic juices going.

After all, at the time, with the exception of Princess Di, Carson was the most prominent tennis fan in the world. But the man who was a comforting companion to the nation, who each night crafted his user-friendly mix of zingers, verbal muzak and self-deprecating wit for the adoring masses, was painfully shy off camera. Sure, in his early days he had given a few interviews — 60 Minutes, Rolling Stone, Playboy. But more recently he’d become a zealous recluse who made Greta Garbo seem like a Paris Hilton-like publicity hound.

He once noted, “I can’t go anywhere without being bugged. I’d love to wander in the park without collecting a trail of people...I had a guy by a urinal ask me for an autograph...Everybody wants to audition. Everywhere I turn there’s somebody’s niece who plays the kazoo or who does ballet with skin-diving flippers.” Once a woman grabbed him by an alley, turned him around and told him he had to listen to her son sing. Then she barked to her kid, “Sing, Albert,” and he did.

But there is another side to the story. It turns out that Johnny’s trips to Wimbledon were paid for by NBC as business excursions. Carson explained, “It is essential to my career to be seen at such events, and I am customarily shown on international TV as a spectator.”

Of course, all I wanted was to get a passing glimpse into Johnny’s take on tennis. But how could I get my moment? Then it dawned on me. Yesterday, Jack Nicholson had been franticaly searching about for the “God-damned NBC hospitality tent.” Today Johnny Carson —“Mr. NBC” himself — might well be hanging out there. Duh!

But there was a hitch. When I finally navigated my way to the entrance to the hospitality area, behind Court 12, I encountered a seemingly impenetrable gatekeeper, an imposing, no-nonsense, 6-foot-4 Scottish guard in a kilt.
“I’m doomed!” I mumbled.

Then the Red Sea parted. A genteel elderly English couple in tweeds ambled up and began a delightful chat with the guard. The Scot turned. Head up, chest out, gait firm, I sashayed into the promised land of the hospitality suites and just beyond the IBM tent, there it was — the most glorious NBC peacock one could ever sight.

Now it was way too late to be timid, so I just strolled into NBC’s gala midday soiree, a glittery happening complete with champagne, brie and an unmistakable aura of jolly entitlement. On one side, there was the Miami Dolphins’ coach Don Shula — chitchating. On the other, there was the president of NBC Sports — chitchating. In the middle, there he was — black shirt, cool shades — The King of Late Night commanding the room.

Then came the hard part. I had to wait. For an eternity (well, 20 minutes), I tried to blend and be invisible. Finally, as the crowd meandered out to Centre Court, Johnny rose. I followed him onto the terrace. This was my moment. “Heeeeere’s Johnny,” I thought. Vainly attempting not to shake, I simply began.

IT: Excuse me, Mr. Carson. My name is Bill Simons. I’m the publisher of Inside Tennis. Do you think I might ask you a soft question or two?
CARSON: Certainly, go right ahead.
IT: What is it about Wimbledon that keeps you coming back here year after year?
CARSON: The tradition.
IT: It’s an English garden party?
CARSON: Exactly. It’s all tradition. You see all your friends.
IT: Of all the tennis players in the world, if you could have just one on an imaginary last show, who would it be?
CARSON: Well, you know, I’ve had all the great ones on my show: Connors and Mac, all the way back to [Don] Budge.
IT: If you had to pick one?
CARSON: It would be McEnroe.
IT: Why?
CARSON: Because of his intensity. He was a great guest.
IT: How did your tennis lessons with Mac go?
CARSON: They were good. We even played a match.
IT: Who won?
CARSON: Are you kidding [chuckle]?
IT: [Oh my God, I thought, I just made Johnny Carson laugh.] If you could attend any sporting event in the world, what would it be?
CARSON: Well, I’m a tennis fan. So I guess it would be a good match on Wimbledon’s Centre Court.
IT: Thank you, Mr. Carson. I appreciate your time. And with that the icon vanished.

For millions, Johnny was an intimate companion. To me, he was the man who opened up and shared a generous moment, offering a brief, yet memorable, commentary on the game we both embraced with gusto.

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