1973 Redux Archives - Page 3 of 13

November 1, 1973: Cracked Open

*Arthur Ashe on his 1973 South Africa trip*

With the 1973 South African Open just a couple weeks away, the country’s racial policies were back on the sports page. On October 31st, Arthur Ashe learned that he was granted a visa to travel to Johannesburg; the government had said no in 1970 and 1971 because of the player’s “antagonistic attitude” toward the country’s leadership.

The next day, November 1st, an ILTF committee voted to allow South Africa to remain in the Davis Cup competition. Banned in 1971 and 1972, the Springboks returned to action in the 1973 South American zone and sent a second-string squad to Uruguay, where Guillermo Vilas and the Argentinian team ended their bid for the Cup. In 1974–actually, even before the new year–the South Africans would return, this time opening their campaign against Brazil.

The vote was something of a slap in the face to Argentina. The 1973 tie had barely come off: In the run-up to the matches in April, protests at home had driven the government to switch the venue to neighboring Montevideo. Now, Argentina refused to play the apartheid nation anywhere. The committee’s compromise was that it would not penalize nations for defaulting to South Africa. Between the objections of Argentina and Chile, which had said it would not play South Africa in 1973 before the issue was rendered moot, a default seemed likely to occur.

The decision, made at an ILTF meeting in Paris, had repercussions on yet another continent. New Zealand hoped to host the 1974 Federation Cup, the women’s team event. But the Kiwi government wasn’t willing to host a South African team until the pariah nation allowed multiracial competition.

Ashe’s visa was one of many signs that South Africa was willing–if barely–to consider change. The other marquee sporting event on the country’s calendar was a light-heavyweight boxing match between local hero Pierre Fourie and champion Bob Foster, a black American. The bout, scheduled for December 1st in Johannesburg, would have been unthinkable just a few years before. Throughout 1972 and 1973, South African sporting bodies gradually allowed interracial competition and hosted mixed-race teams, such as New Zealand’s All Blacks and a group of British cricketers. A handful of non-white locals were given places in the South African Open draw, as well.

It remained to be seen whether the policy shift represented a new approach, or was merely a sop to international opinion. South Africa had been excluded from the Olympics since 1964, and the country took it hard. Compromise was on the table for international competition if it would get them back in the world’s good graces. But at the local level, sport was still ruled by apartheid. The government supported a massive fund-raising effort to support black athletic development, while simultaneously seeking to broaden the scope of the Group Areas Act–part of the legal basis for racial separation–to make it harder for black teams to compete against white ones.

Ashe assured his hosts that his aims weren’t political. The purpose of his trip, he said, was “solely to play tennis and to do so in a spirit of goodwill and cooperation.” He would discover an enormous amount of goodwill waiting for him in South Africa, but genuine cooperation–especially for the 20 million blacks who would remain in the country long after the tournament was over–was much tougher to find.

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This post is part of my series about the 1973 season, Battles, Boycotts, and Breakouts. Keep up with the project by checking the TennisAbstract.com front page, which shows an up-to-date Table of Contents after I post each installment.

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October 27, 1973: The Whiskey Circuit

Eleven years after her first appearance at Wimbledon, Virginia Wade had settled into a role on the women’s tour as an almost-superstar, a stalwart of Great Britain’s Wightman and Federation Cup teams but a perennial disappointment at the season’s showcase event.

Wade was most at home on fast indoor courts, conditions that supported her big serve and attacking game. That made her a perfect fit for the Dewar Cup circuit, a series of tournaments staged in Britain every fall since the beginning of the Open Era in 1968. In the first five years of the so-called “Whiskey Circuit,” Wade had entered every tournament but one, claiming nine singles titles in that span.

Wade’s nemesis on the Dewar’s swing had been Margaret Court, who defeated her four times–four weeks in succession–in 1972. In 1973, Court wasn’t around, and that left the British star as the favorite each week. Taking over the role of chief challenger was the London-based American veteran, Julie Heldman.

On October 27th, Wade and Heldman met for the title on the first leg of the 1973 circuit, in Aberavon, Wales. The two women had faced off 15 times since 1968, and while the Brit held a comfortable 10-5 edge, Heldman had beaten her twice on the Whiskey Circuit. There was little love lost between the pair, and their styles differed just as widely. Wade was acclaimed for her stylish play, the sort of competitor who might prefer “beautiful tennis” to a victory. Heldman, by contrast, was “winning ugly” when Brad Gilbert was still in primary school. This is the woman who, earlier in 1973, snuck in an underarm serve on set point, and at the US Open, out-gamesmanshipped Billie Jean King to grab a win by retirement.

Wade was lucky to be in the final at all. In the quarters against Jackie Fayter, she had squandered match point in the second set, then lost five points in a row to drop the tiebreak. She advanced only after a 6-3, 6-7, 7-6 nailbiter.

On finals day, Ginny showed no such signs of weakness. She was, in the words of former British standout Shirley Brasher, “at her most competent and confident.” Heldman, by contrast, could’ve used more junk. The American played more aggressively than usual, which is exactly how Wade liked it. The result was never in doubt, and it ended with a 6-3, 6-1 victory for the top-seeded Brit.

The story of the 1973 Dewar Cup, though, was just beginning. There were three more events on the circuit, and the same two women would headline the draws at each one. Wade could count on an advantage in firepower, but she knew that the next time they met, Heldman would surely have a fresh tactical plan. Running the table on the four-week Whiskey Circuit was never going to be easy.

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October 26, 1973: Highs and Lows

By the end of October, Ilie Năstase was ready to get back to sea level.

The top-ranked player in the game, typically an unstoppable force on clay, headed to Tehran’s 1973 Aryamehr Cup on a losing streak. His bête noire, Tom Okker, had beaten him in the semi-finals in Madrid.

Madrid lies about 2,100 feet (650 meters) above sea level, the highest capital in Europe and one of the thinner-air stops of the tennis tour. Despite a slow surface, the altitude causes the ball to move faster and–until players get used to it–sail long. Clay-court standouts have rarely found the Spanish metropolis a comfortable place to play, and the Romanian was no exception.

With several high-stakes events still on the calendar, the sensible thing for Năstase would have been to take a week off before the Paris Indoors. That’s what Okker and the other Madrid finalist, Jaime Fillol, did. But the Romanian had already played 120 singles matches on the season, and he wasn’t about to take a break now.

Instead, he hopped a flight to Tehran, joining John Newcombe, Vijay Amritraj, and Raúl Ramírez on the new Asian tour. Appearance money may have been involved: Stakes were high for the Aryamehr Cup to be a success, as Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi was personally involved and the tournament was a key cog in the country’s gradual westernization. Rod Laver, another marquee name who might have been susceptible to financial inducements, also played the awkward Madrid-Tehran double.

Unfortunately for Năstase, the Iranian capital stood over 3,400 feet (1,040 meters) above sea level, even higher than Madrid.

Ilie adapted well enough in the early going, dispatching Anand Amritraj and Ross Case with the loss of only seven games. That earned him a place in the quarter-finals against Ramírez, the 20-year-old Mexican.

Much had changed since the two men last met, in February 1972. Though Ramírez was overshadowed by other breakout stars, such as Björn Borg, Jimmy Connors, and Vijay Amritraj, he had established himself as one of the best young players in the game. He threatened the United States in Davis Cup play, upset Connors at Roland Garros, beat Borg en route to a title in Kitzbuhel, and knocked out Arthur Ashe at the Pacific Southwest.

On October 26th, the young Mexican added another scalp to that impressive list. Unlike Năstase, he knew how to handle thin air, having developed his game in mile-high Mexico City. The Romanian “could never quite hold his game together in the altitude,” according to reporter Edward Johnson, and that was enough to keep Ramírez in the match. Năstase didn’t clown it away, either: It was one of the hardest-fought contests of the season. The two men traded tiebreaks in the first two sets, and would have played another if the rules had allowed it. Instead, the third set ran to 16 games, with Ramírez claiming victory by the narrowest of margins, 7-6, 6-7, 9-7.

The quarter-final defeat was Năstase’s earliest exit on clay in more than 16 months. At least he had plenty of good reasons. The Grand Prix points race was wrapped up, so his results didn’t matter much. The conditions, as we’ve seen, didn’t suit him. And Ramírez really could play at altitude. The Mexican won another three-setter the following day against Željko Franulović, then beat Newcombe in four sets for the title.

The Shah handed the trophy to Ramírez, and players were unanimous in their approval of the crowds and the venue at the Imperial Country Club. Tehran had all the makings of a successful tour stop–provided, wrote Johnson, “that political considerations do not intervene.”

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October 23, 1973: A Sort of an End

*Billie Jean King at the Virginia Slims of Hawaii*

Barely two weeks after winning a title in Phoenix and pronouncing her 1973 season over, just a few days after skipping the Virginia Slims Championships in Boca Raton, Billie Jean King was back on a tennis court. The nine-player Virginia Slims of Hawaii–sponsored by the cigarette makers though not part of the main tour–was little more than an exhibition.

Except, as Billie Jean had recently shown, exhibition tennis could be a big deal. More than 1,600 fans came out to a high school gymnasium in Honolulu to watch King take on Pat Bostrom in her opening match on October 23rd.

Skipping the tour championships in favor of a lesser event smacked of a career in transition, and Madame Superstar didn’t deny it. She called the Battle of the Sexes “sort of an end.”

“I’m going to play less tournament tennis,” she told a newsman in Hawaii. “I’m heavily involved in business now, and I think it’s fascinating.” She had recently launched a new magazine, which would begin publication the following year as womenSports, and she intended to give her all to the new Philadelphia franchise of World Team Tennis.

“The weakness in the women’s movement has been too much intellectualizing, too much talk,” King said, repeating a familiar refrain. “I feel we should concentrate on real issues, get down to practical matters … do things.” No one would ever accuse Billie Jean of failing to walk the walk: Few athletes have ever pursued such a broad set of ambitions.

First, though, she had a tennis match to win. Bostrom was no pushover, on the court or off. At the University of Washington, she had sued for the right to try out for the men’s team–and won. In 1972, playing on the women’s squad, she picked up a conference title. She was still new to the tour, but had picked up wins at both the French and Wimbledon.

King shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when she found herself playing from behind. Bostrom won four games in a row to take a 5-3 lead in the first set, then dissected Billie Jean’s serve to reach 0-40: triple set point. That was as close as she would get.

The veteran won five straight points to avert the crisis and barely put a foot wrong the rest of the way. Bostrom not only failed to convert her set points; she didn’t win another game. A local reporter summarized the King attack: “too many strokes, too much power, too much guile.” The top seed took the match, 7-5, 6-0.

“I didn’t come here to lose,” King said. Her goals had shifted, but some things would never change.

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October 21, 1973: Broken Records

The singles final of the Virginia Slims Championships in Boca Raton, pitting home favorite Chris Evert against hard-hitting veteran Nancy Gunter, was scheduled for 3:00 in the afternoon on October 21st. By 12:30, the grandstand was packed.

The excitement wasn’t all thanks to Evert, Florida’s teen sensation. The circuit-ending Slims event had been on shaky ground just a few days before, with Margaret Court falling ill and Billie Jean King a no-show. But on finals day, there were plenty of reasons to turn out for the tennis instead of staying home to watch the Dolphins on TV.

Court had withdrawn from the singles, but after a brief hospital visit for a stomach ailment, she elected to enter the doubles. A suitable partner was available in Rosie Casals, who would have teamed with Billie Jean had she made the trip. It was quite the scratch duo: Margaret was the game’s dominant force in singles, and Casals was–with the possible exception of King–the circuit’s strongest doubles player. Between them, Court and Casals had won 20 doubles titles in 1973 alone.

That’s why the crowd turned out early: The doubles final made for a particularly appetizing opener. The last-minute pair had scuffled in the early going, but they made it through three tight matches. In the final, against the top-seeded team of Françoise Dürr and Betty Stöve, Court and Casals finally synced up and whipped their fellow veterans, 6-2, 6-4.

Court’s share of the winnings came to “only” $2,000. Her full-season tally amounted to $202,000, a new best for a female athlete in any sport.

Evert set a record that day, too. She came into the final seeking to end the “hex” that Gunter held on her, in the form of a 5-0 head-to-head record. (“It never really was a hex,” said Chrissie.) After 85 minutes of slugging from the baseline and a few wind-aided, spirit-sapping drop shots, Evert broke the spell, 6-3, 6-3. She picked up a check for $25,000, pushing her own total to $123,000, the highest-ever sum for a first-year professional.

It was a sign of just how fast the game had grown. Just two years earlier, Billie Jean had become the first woman athlete to earn $100,000 in a season. King almost reached the mark again in 1973 despite her struggles with injury, and she cleared another $100,000 from the Battle of the Sexes. Evert would finish the year with more than $150,000, and both Casals and Evonne Goolagong would break six figures.

The sums on offer were so mind-boggling–at least compared to the prize money of years past–that the leading women could afford to say no. Billie Jean had been ready to boycott both Wimbledon and the US Open for the cause of equal prize money, and she skipped the Slims Championships despite its own record-breaking $110,000 purse.

Now, Madame Superstar wasn’t the only leading lady with the freedom to choose. Evert merely scoffed when Bobby Riggs, in town for the pro-celebrity event before the Slims Championships began, challenged her to a $100,000 match, winner-take-all. “Let Rosie play him,” she said–she had a reputation to protect. For an 18-year-old superstar at the dawn of the Open era, $123,000 was only the beginning.

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October 20, 1973: Pigeon

No one ever accused Ilie Năstase of being boring. In the course of a single match, he could go from total focus and brilliant play to such extreme grandstanding that he could put a victory in doubt. There was no way of knowing which Ilie would turn up on a particular day. The stakes were irrelevant: He might clown his way through a crucial Davis Cup rubber or buckle down and obliterate an early-round foe.

By October 1973, only two things were certain. The first: Năstase was the best clay-court player in the world. Since the beginning of the year, he had won eight tournaments on dirt against only one loss. Combined with occasional success on other surfaces, he sat atop both the ATP ranking list and the Grand Prix points table.

The other apparent certainty was that he couldn’t beat Tom Okker. Since their first encounter in 1968, Okker had won six of eight. The “Flying Dutchman” held second place in the Grand Prix standings, and his combination of intensity and blistering speed was a puzzle that Năstase couldn’t solve. The Romanian had won a Davis Cup tilt in straight sets back in May, but more recently, it had been all Okker. In the semi-finals at both Los Angeles and Chicago, the fastest man on tour had beaten Năstase–twice in three weeks.

Something had to give. On October 20th, the two men met in yet another semi, this time on the high-altitude clay of the Madrid Open. Năstase had been his usual inscrutable self, meandering through early-round three-setters with no-names Jose Guerrero and Julian Ganzabal, then brushing aside the much stronger Mark Cox and Niki Pilić. Okker hadn’t been much steadier, dropping two sets but turning in a confident win over the fast-rising 21-year-old from Argentina, Guillermo Vilas.

In the semi, Okker took the first set, 6-4, and Năstase stormed back to grab the second, 6-1. The Romanian kept streaking, all the way to 5-2, 40-0 in the decider.

There were no computers in the press boxes of 1973, but it didn’t take statistical proof to know that the match was in the bag. At a rough estimate, Năstase’s chances of winning, at triple match point with a two-break advantage, were 99.8%. Mercurial as he was, even Ilie couldn’t throw this one away.

And then he did.

Okker easily saved the first two match points, then took the third with a let-cord winner. Năstase had spent most of the third set distracted, griping about the chilly conditions, a less-than-enthusiastic crowd, and the state of the court. The unlucky dribbler pushed him over the edge. Even in such a mood, the Romanian could beat most players, but Okker wouldn’t be denied: He didn’t allow Nastase another game, and the match went to the underdog, 6-4, 1-6, 7-5.

The loss didn’t threaten Ilie’s status as the leader in the Grand Prix race; his lead was effectively insurmountable. Still, who would consider him the best player in the game while he was Okker’s pigeon?

This being Năstase, it wasn’t quite the end of the story in Madrid. He and Okker paired up for the doubles semi-final, facing the oddball duo of Ion Țiriac–Ilie’s former mentor and doubles partner–and Björn Borg. When Okker called Țiriac a cheat and crossed the net to check a ball mark, Țiriac swung a racket at him. The Romanian veteran was immediately disqualified, and the Năstase/Okker duo cruised to the title.

It wasn’t the championship Ilie had hoped for–or expected–when he arrived in Madrid. He managed much better when Okker was playing elsewhere–or, at least, on the same side of the net.

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October 16, 1973: The Boca Vista

It has never been easy to stage a world-class tennis event in October. Players are tired, managing injuries, or simply ready for a break. Fans have lost interest after the climax of the US Open, and Americans would rather watch football. In 1973, the ballyhooed Battle of the Sexes sucked the promotional air out of any tennis match within a thousand miles of the Astrodome.

In Boca Raton, Florida, organizers still thought they could beat the odds. The Virginia Slims Championships was the precursor of today’s tour finals, a one-week event designed to bring together the best of the best. The 1973 edition would feature a record-setting prize pool of $110,000, and it kicked off with a pro-celebrity doubles exhibition featuring none other than Bobby Riggs.

But problems reared up before the tournament even began. Riggs was there, but his vanquisher Billie Jean King–the indefatigable stalwart of the Slims tour–wouldn’t be. King was miffed that the tour championships would be decided on a clay court, since most Slims matches were played on cement and indoor carpet. She also objected to the inclusion of Chris Evert, a guaranteed gate attraction (especially in Florida) who, earlier in 1973, had snubbed the Slims in favor of a weaker circuit sponsored by the national federation.

A less charitable interpretation: Billie Jean didn’t want to go all the way to Florida just to lose to Chrissie on clay.

The tournament could live without one star. But another blow fell on October 16th. Top seed Margaret Court was hospitalized with stomach pains and had to withdraw. Would fans show up just to watch Evert’s unimpeded march to the title?

One woman, at least, could make things interesting. The same day that Court pulled out, fourth-seeded veteran Nancy Gunter played what she called “nearly perfect tennis” to knock out Chris’s little sister Jeanne, 6-0, 6-2.

She wasn’t afraid of the big sister, either. “I enjoy playing the Everts,” she said. “It’s a fun kind of tennis. Win or lose, it’s enjoyable.”

There hadn’t been much losing to test that hypothesis. Gunter had been the premier American clay-courter for nearly a decade, and she wasn’t giving up her claim without a fight. She had faced Chris five times already–three times on dirt–and dropped only a single set.

Evert and Gunter sat on opposite sides of the draw. Especially after the veteran’s opening performance, it was hard to imagine anyone displacing either of them on the road to the final. It wasn’t quite what the promoters had hoped, and it would hardly settle any questions about the best player on the women’s circuit. But the championship match had the potential to deliver a barnburner between the two strongest baseliners in the game.

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October 14, 1973: Fresh Motivation

The two-week Japanese swing of 1973 ended with an Australian sweep. A week after taking the title in Osaka, Ken Rosewall defended his Tokyo trophy as well. Evonne Goolagong cruised through the women’s round-robin event. Rosewall and Mal Anderson combined to win the doubles, while another Aussie, Kim Warwick, partnered Goolagong to the mixed title.

Finals day, October 14th, was a lucrative one all around: Rosewall took home $12,000 for his singles triumph and Goolagong earned $5,000 for hers. As pleasant as those paydays were–and for Evonne, there was likely an appearance fee involved as well–cash wasn’t the only reason that these particular superstars made the trip.

Rosewall, a few weeks away from his 39th birthday, had very little left to prove. He still craved a Wimbledon title, though he suspected the boycott had stripped him of his final shot. He was mulling a rich offer from the Pittsburgh Triangles of World Team Tennis, even though the players’ union still hadn’t come to terms with the league. It was possible that WTT signees would end up suspended by their own union. Viewed in that light, the Japanese junket–ultimately worth nearly $20,000 for two weeks’ work–may have just been an attempt by the one-time accounting student to pad his retirement fund.

But Muscles, the five-foot, seven-inch magician of the backhand, had another goal in mind. Australia’s Davis Cup semi-final tie against Czechoslovakia was just a month away, with the final round to follow shortly thereafter. Rosewall had a spot on the roster, but he needed to convince captain Neale Fraser that he–instead of Rod Laver or John Newcombe–deserved to suit up for the singles.

Newk showed up in Tokyo, only to struggle through three-setters in the second and third rounds. Rosewall had no such hiccups, losing just two games in his first two matches. Newcombe had disposed of the older man at the US Open in a routine three-set semi-final. But here, on clay, Muscles was imperious. He won 6-1, 6-4, his tenth straight victory, and his 19th and 20th consecutive sets won on Japanese soil.

While the remaining Davis Cup ties would be played on faster surfaces, Rosewall had succeeded in giving Fraser a bit more to think about.

Goolagong had her mind on a different target. The result of the women’s Japan Open didn’t count toward anything except bragging rights and bank balances. The nascent WTA didn’t yet have its own ranking system, and the Tokyo event didn’t count toward the standings in the Commercial Union Grand Prix.

Still, the Grand Prix race was still alive, and Goolagong had every reason to keep herself sharp. She trailed only Chris Evert on the points table, and the winner would collect a bonus of more than $23,000, half-again as large as the second-place prize. (Margaret Court was undoubtedly the season’s best player, but the Grand Prix was unaffiliated with the Virginia Slims circuit, where Court and Billie Jean King amassed most of their hardware.) Evert could have clinched the crown a month earlier in Charlotte, but illness forced her to withdraw. Goolagong waltzed past the weakened field and remained in the hunt.

Unlike the men’s Grand Prix, with ten events in October alone, the women’s schedule was spotty. After Charlotte, there was a nearly two-month gap before the South African Open, the last stop that counted toward the standings. Evert wasn’t planning to make the trip, and if Goolagong finished first there, the Australian would end the season as the Grand Prix champ.

Judging from Goolagong’s straight-set romp in Japan, Evert must have been thinking about calling her travel agent. She needed to check on flights to Johannesburg.

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October 9, 1973: Floating

Three weeks after the Battle of the Sexes at the Astrodome, newspaper readers could have been forgiven for thinking that a rematch was right around the corner. Even though Billie Jean King had said no to a sequel, coverage of the protagonists had continued unabated.

October 9th found both King and Bobby Riggs in the news. Billie Jean was in Oakland, throwing out the ceremonial first pitch of a baseball playoff game between the Athletics and the Baltimore Orioles. The most remarkable thing about the appearance was that it was the first time King (or Riggs) crossed paths with A’s owner Charlie O. Finley, a huckster on a scale that Bobby could only dream of.

Finley had bought the team in 1960 when it was still the Kansas City Athletics; he moved the franchise in 1968. Stopping at nothing to promote the team, he replaced the mascot with a live mule and paid bonuses to players on his 1972 squad for growing mustaches. He supported the new designated hitter rule, and a couple of years later tried to convince his fellow owners to use orange baseballs. Yellow balls had made tennis more watchable on television, but Finley’s innovation was a non-starter.

In any case, Billie Jean proved to be a good luck charm. Behind 11 innings of one-run ball from Ken Holtzman, the A’s won a nailbiter, then went on to win the World Series two weeks later.

Riggs was every bit as effective in keeping his name in front of the public. He was so certain of victory in the Battle of the Sexes, he had said, that if he lost, he would jump off a bridge. A couple of King’s pals suggested the Colorado Street Bridge in Pasadena, better known as the “suicide bridge.”

Bobby had other ideas. It’s tempting to suspect that the Happy Hustler earned a few bucks by talking up his plans to leap from London Bridge in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. The relocated London Bridge was a marketing ploy that Riggs–or Finley–might have dreamt up himself. It had stood over the Thames since 1831, but when London needed a replacement, the city dismantled and shipped the old structure to an unlikely buyer, a land speculator in Arizona. The oddball tourist attraction opened in late 1971 and helped the remote, arid locale turn a profit.

Alas, Riggs couldn’t jump–or maybe he already knew that. The local sheriff said that the lake was too shallow for a safe dive, and anyone who tried it would be arrested. Still undeterred, he went out on an inflatable raft. Unable to fulfill his end of the bargain, he could at least get his picture in the paper.

Bobby’s loss had barely slowed him down. When he wasn’t floating in Lake Havasu, he put out a challenge to top women golfers, and he was signed up for a pro-celebrity tennis exhibition later that week. Rematch or no, there was always something new to promote.

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October 7, 1973: Land of the Rising Tennis Boom

The first week of October 1973 found elite players spread across the world. Billie Jean King wrapped up a title in Phoenix, while Eddie Dibbs scored a victory in Fort Worth and Jimmy Connors added to his title haul in Quebec. Half a world away, a new regional circuit was getting underway, with both men and women competing in Japan.

The first stop of the men’s Asian swing took place in Osaka. At the same venue, a group of women–headlined by Evonne Goolagong–played a round-robin event that would extend over two weeks. 1973 would see more top-flight tennis in Asia than ever before: After Osaka, the men would head to Tokyo, Manila, New Delhi, Tehran, Hong Kong, and Jakarta.

On October 7th, 38-year-old Ken Rosewall secured the first leg of the Asian jaunt, defeating home hope Toshiro Sakai, 6-2, 6-4. Since dropping a first-set tiebreak to fellow Aussie Ian Fletcher in the first round, Rosewall had been impeccable, losing just 21 games in 10 sets.

“Kenny Losewall” was a hero to the growing legions of tennis players in Japan. He had won a title in Tokyo the previous year, as well. His small stature and graceful game appealed to developing players who realized they would never be able to smoke the ball like John Newcombe or the six-foot, two-inch Cliff Drysdale–Rosewall’s victim in the Osaka semis.

Cliff’s wife, Jean, went along for this trip and wrote about the growth of the game in Japan for World Tennis. There were already one million tennis players in “The Land of the Rising Tennis Boom,” and many more were poised to join their ranks. Three million Japanese played a traditional variant called “soft tennis” that used old-fashioned rackets and (you guessed it) a softer ball. Coaches could spot soft-tennis players in an instant: They swung so hard that they sent groundstroke after groundstroke sailing over the fence.

Japan’s crop of internationalists was the strongest since the 1920s, when Zenzo Shimizu reached the all-comer’s final at Wimbledon. Sakai, the Osaka runner-up, was just the tip of the arrow. He had excelled when the Australians visited for their Davis Cup tie in April, taking a set from Mal Anderson and then beating Newcombe in a dead rubber. Five local players had reached the Osaka round of 16, and one of them, Jun Kuki, had beaten American Jeff Borowiak to reach the quarters. Another Davis Cupper, Jun Kamiwazumi, would become the first Japanese player on the World Championship Tennis circuit in 1974.

The country still had some ground to cover: For all the aspiring players, there were only eight registered teaching pros. No wonder Rosewall, Newcombe, and the Drysdales were so popular when they gave clinics. The boom arrived a bit later than it did in the West, but judging from the enthusiasm on display in 1973, the tennis scene in Japan was going to be a big one.

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