A Handful of Summers by Gordon Forbes

Author:Gordon Forbes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookstorm
Published: 2017-10-09T13:53:28+00:00

Eight

My only reservation about envying the lives of the rich, young tennis professionals of today is the fact that very few of them will ever know what it is like to be locked into an eight-to-five desk job. Very few of them, therefore, will ever realise how extraordinarily fortunate they are to be able to follow the lifestyle allotted to them by the destiny gods. Like being the son of someone very rich, and then trying to imagine what it is like to feel the shock of realising that there is not enough money to pay the rent!

In 1962, there was still no real money to be made out of tennis. Nonetheless, I returned to the freedom of the circuits with utmost eagerness. With a selection of well-timed sideways movements, a few dollars could be squeezed out of the amateur officials, and the summer sunlight was available to everyone.

To add to the excitement, Abie and I were back on the Davis Cup team. The third member was a young newcomer, Cliff Drysdale. For some time he had been alarming us with some very mature tennis; then he suddenly accepted a scholarship to Lamar Tech in Texas, where he studied for about a year. We met him at Geneva airport, as our first match that year was against the Swiss team, to be played in Lausanne.

Diary Notes: 1962

At Geneva airport, we wait for Drysdale, whose plane gets in two hours after ours. Abie is on the move again and very excited. Beers are ordered while we wait.

‘And thank Christ we’re playin’ the Swiss,’ he is saying to me. ‘Even you’re not goin’ to get nervous playin’ the Swiss. Glorious bloody holiday. Those Swiss can’t play for sour nuts. Too many mountains. They’re so used to slopes that when you give them a flat surface they can’t stand up straight. Come in to net leanin’ over to the side! All you have to do is pass them down the side they’re leanin’ away from!’

Abie hasn’t changed. If anything, he’s got worse. At his insistence, we are both wearing jackets and ties.

‘You dress like a peasant, you get treated like a peasant,’ he says. Looks in the mirror, straightens his tie, gives himself a smile and says: ‘Jesus! I wonder what the poor people are doin’ today?’

Cliff ’s plane eventually arrives. The swing doors open, and there he is.

‘Holy Hell,’ says Abie, ‘look at Drysdale!’

There’s no doubt about it. To put it very mildly, he looks dishevelled. Lamar Tech T-shirt, crumpled mackintosh, cotton slacks soiled with several layers of aircraft cooking. Two rackets, wrapped in a towel; a split-open suitcase out of which more towels are oozing.

‘All he’s got is towels and a raincoat,’ Abie mutters.

Cliffie approaches with a wide smile. He has extraordinarily good looks.

‘You gentlemen look eminently affluent,’ he says. ‘I assume that we’re on the same team!’

‘He assumes we’re on the same team,’ says Abie. ‘Idiot! Let’s get out of here before they stick you in quarantine!’

The drive to Lausanne is superb – a soft, brilliant spring afternoon.

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