Bleacher Report - Articles by Julian Johnson

An Open Letter to James Blake

Julian Johnson — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 20:35:00 -0400

James,

You have mad talent, son! A fast set of wheels, wrapped around a concussive forehand, a solid, potent backhand, a mighty serve, fundamentally sound volleys. But so far, the parts are far greater than the sum.

Why?!

What component in your makeup causes you to believe that you should be an also-ran, an afterthought, "background," as author Toni Morrison describes it, "to somebody else's foreground?"

Make no mistake: The problem emanates between the earlobes and within that dense muscle in the middle of your chest—as does the solution.

From reading, hearing, or seeing numerous interviews of yours, you made a decision years ago to be...a sidekick, a happy runner-up, a graceful, perfectly charming loser.

The term loser stings, but in this context, it's meant to. The prodigious talent that you possess is being frittered away by what exactly: A misplaced sense of loyalty, honor, both, neither? There are many coaching minds and talents available that could turn your game around; why not avail yourself of them?

Are you really willing to pay the price—in growing pains, in change, and in work? Are you worth it? I think that you are.

Let's take a look at your Davis Cup homie, A-Rod, for example. Here's a player whose game and "personality" I have always despised: the grotesque forehand, the "Tin Man" backhand, the one-note serve, and especially, the slavish media hype and his concomitant arrogance.

He thinks HE'S Roger Federer?!

Here's a guy who, aside from his serve, is your inferior in every other department. Yet today, I must tip my hat to this man and shout out bravos and accolades from the nearest mountaintop. Why?

Because Andy Roddick has left no stone unturned in milking every last drop of talent from his limited gene pool and guess what?! Its worked. Criticized for his "coaching carousel," the discriminating eye sees a willing, desperate student, who has grown from every guide. And was that not the point—to grow?!

A mere glance at your game, at your body, shows stasis, mechanically, tactically, physically, this, as the sands of time are rapidly falling through the hourglass. Standing still while others pass you by is actually regression.

I actually found myself torn, conflicted, actually rooting for Roddick to win Wimbledon, picturing what his celebration would be like, how many tears would flow, how deserving a champion he is. Champion.

I may not like A-Rod, but my respect for him today is immense. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for you...yet.

They say that one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. The great Bill Tilden said "never change a winning game; but always change a losing one." I know from brutal life experience that sometimes change has to be grabbed while plummeting through the floorboards...or else.

Clearly, James, now is the time.

Forgive my harsh tone; it may be tough, but it is love. I've only wanted to emphasize "the fierce urgency of NOW" and the immense talent that you possess. My great hope is that after this weekend's Davis Cup debacle, you will be willing, like Andy Roddick, to do something, extremely, uncomfortably, amazingly, powerfully, different.

As my grandfather liked to say: "It can be done." Because it was. And you can, too.

Tennis Great "Whirlwind" Gets His Due: Inducted Into the Hall of Fame

Julian Johnson — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 04:55:14 -0400

It's 1:30am and I can't sleep. My grandfather, Dr. Robert Walter "Whirlwind" Johnson, is being inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame in Newport, Rhode Island. TOMORROW!

Like I said, I can't sleep. What I can do is put up an article I wrote a couple of years ago for Tennis Magazine's website, "A Whirlwind Event." They just ran it again, so I'm going to run it in honor of Dr. J - right here at the Bleacher Report.

Here's to you, Whirlwind!

Love, the little bastard.

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A Whirlwind Event

By Julian Johnson

Robert W. Johnson Jr. (Left) & Dr. Robert W. Johnson on his court in Lynchburg, VA

Dr. J didn’t like me and looking back, I can’t blame him. He’d begun the American Tennis Association’s Junior Development Program back in the late 1940s to train talented black players. Before Nick Bollettieri and the other tennis academies of our day, there was a small-town doctor with a homemade court who, as a hobby, coached several generations of the best black tennis players this country ever produced. His goal was to create tennis champions who could break down the segregated doors of the country club tennis set. He did just that. I had my own prepubescent plans, which is why Dr. J and I didn’t see eye to eye. My idea of fun didn’t include a pro tennis career or a boot camp training regimen, at least, not as a toddler.

When Dr. J, a.k.a. Robert Walter ‘Whirlwind’ Johnson, began inviting black youth from across the nation to spend summers at his tennis court-equipped house in Lynchburg, Va., who knew that he would change the tennis world? I was only a rumor in the reproductive organs of my parents when Dr. J began rousting kids out of bed at 6:30 a.m. to do sit-ups, push-ups, and crosscourt/down the line drills. The concussive sound of tennis balls striking taut gut strings sometimes woke up the roosters and angry neighbors.

Tennis was Jim Crowed until the 50s, meaning that black athletes from earlier generations were barred from playing in United States Lawn Tennis Association tournaments, including any national championship events. In response to this exclusion, the American Tennis Association was born in 1916, the black equivalent of the USLTA. It provided tennis tournaments and social interaction for black players. The ATA would also provide a political crow bar that would, through the backdoor agitation of its executive officers, eventually help black players gain entry to white tournaments.

My grandfather was a race man, dedicated to social justice. His tennis-related activism came later. At Lincoln University, he became a star running back known for eluding would-be tacklers by spinning and moving like a ‘whirlwind.’ He was a black All-American, but his teams faced ‘colored only’ competition. He was the first in his family to attend college and he wore that distinction with pride, but there was a bitter aftertaste; like most black people with any pride, young Robert wanted the opportunity to play against all comers. That dream would be forever deferred.

Every summer, my dad would drive us from inner city Washington, D.C., to country-fied Lynchburg to stay at Dr. J’s big white wooden house on the corner of 14th and Pierce Streets. My brothers and I would play hide and seek, ripping through the rows of plush rose bushes. We’d play on the jungle gym and toss our kiddie football over and through the lush trees that dotted the yard. We’d stare in awe at the older boys and girls like Robert Binns, Luis Glass, or Bonnie Logan sweating grits and slapping tennis balls hour upon interminable hour. It in no way looked fun.

When my dad started force-feeding us tennis in the mid 1960s, most of us kids fell in line and embraced the family tradition. Not me. I hated tennis, especially the monotony of it. I wanted to run free and play. We had to stand single file on a horrid red clay court on D.C.’s sauna summer days, toting wooden rackets that felt like table legs, while my dad meticulously corrected each of our strokes—that could take a cat’s life because there were five of us. My brains scrambled as I waited impatiently for Jolynn, Eileen, Bobby, and my younger brother, Lange, to hit backhands and forehands to my dad’s exacting specifications. Drowsy and bored, I’d barely listen to the general’s instructions and spray shots all over the court when my turn came. Thank God there were four buffers between his unwanted coaching attentions and me.

Left to right - Robert W. Johnson III, Dr. Johnson, Juan Farrow, National Boy's 12 Championships, Chattanooga, TN

After undergrad, my grandfather worked odd jobs for four years—coaching football and baseball and handling baggage at Grand Central Station in New York—in order to pay for med school. Funds in hand, he enrolled at Meharry Medical School in Nashville, Tenn., and then completed his residency at Prairie View Hospital in Prairie View, Texas. It was there that Dr. J got hooked on tennis.

Concerned about the fatty tissue buildup around his enlarged athlete’s heart, tennis seemed like the perfect marriage of physical exertion and intellectual stimulation. It was also a sport one could play for life. Dr. J’s progress was slow.

Hitting a hole in football was very different than threading a forehand past a net rusher while keeping that little white ball between the lines. Complicating matters at the start, few players at Prairie View would hit with him, but he found a regular pity partner in Agnes Lawson.

He fed his tennis addiction by devouring stacks of tennis manuals and playing when he could. Eventually he became a serviceable doubles player, winning several ATA mixed doubles titles.

Dr. J began inviting folks he met through the ATA tournament circuit to spend weekends at his Lynchburg home. These informal tennis gatherings eventually became an annual tennis tournament. He spent a grand or two each year on the black professionals who’d bunk on Pierce Street and inhale the lavish spread. They’d sip booze, gorge on food, then play cards until the wee hours in his basement lounge with the neon appointed bar. The next day, they’d play ‘rise & fly’ into the night under the ‘lights bound to telephone poles’ Doc had rigged. Dr. J saw his excessive spending on these tournaments as a sidetrack to his budding mission. What he really craved was the opportunity to nurture young black talent that could compete for national or international titles.

Growing up, we grandkids had Dr. J’s legacy ringing in our ears. ‘Althea’ and ‘Arthur,’ were the names of black superheroes; Wimbledon and the U.S. Open were destinations like Oz, and also white dragons that our heroes slayed. Dr. J had plucked and helped ripen black fruit that others thought spoiled. This was our inheritance and our anvil. How could we measure up to that—to him? My response was not to try. I didn’t care. We’d all started playing tournaments before our heads peeked above the net. I was next to the baby, so my older brother and two sisters were ranked players before I’d spun a racket to determine serve. Echoes of Althea or Arthur were never conjured by my play.

During a 10-and-under match at EC Glass High School in Lynchburg, I became confused about playing a let; when my opponent served, I let it bounce by me and glanced over at Dr. J, as if to say, “Is that what I’m supposed to do?” He pursed his lips like a trumpeter and casually turned away from his bad seedling. Soon, he was off to watch more promising charges.

Left to right - Lange Johnson, Arthur Ashe, the author, Julian Johnson, at the Washington Star Tennis Classic, Washington, DC

Back in 1946, Dr. J and Dr. Hubert Eaton sat in the bleachers watching a young woman playing the finals of the ATA Women’s Championships at Wilberforce, Ohio. She was very fluid, played like a man most folks said. She was as inconsistent as she was physically gifted, but flashed enough potential to intrigue both men. Dr. J turned to his buddy and said, “I wish there was something we could do for that girl.” On the spot, they set about planning Althea Gibson’s next four years and her life’s trajectory.

She slouched off the court that day defeated, but the two men offered her a blueprint for her future. The execution: She lived with Dr. Eaton’s family in Wilmington, N.C., during the school year, resuming the education she’d abandoned after the seventh grade. She practiced with Dr. Eaton and his cronies on his backyard tennis court. Althea had been a pool hall denizen on the streets of Harlem so intensive behavior and character modification was required; Mrs. Eaton spearheaded that effort. During summer break, she left for Lynchburg and Dr. J’s; she played against the college players Doc had begun to surround himself with, a group that would become the junior development team several years later. The two doctors provided an overarching safety net and a foundation for Althea’s metamorphosis.

Monday through Thursday, Doc’s players would drill and play practice sets on his clay court. Then they’d load up the big, silver Olds and hightail it to the ATA tournament in Richmond, Greensboro, Washington, Baltimore, or Philly. They’d arrive in the early morning with just enough time to collapse on the couch of some local black tennis family Dr. J had hustled for a weekend crash pad. Dr. J’s car always brought home trophies; in fact, Althea never lost another ATA singles match, winning thirteen tournaments that first summer of 1947. She also carried Dr. J to several ATA National Mixed doubles titles. In 1956, 10 years after the two doctors had conspired to help Althea reach her potential. She was the number one in the world the next two years (1957-58) and held aloft the champion¹s plate at Wimbledon and the U.S. Nationals at Forest Hills, she’d broken the color barrier in 1950.

I don’t know how much of it was parent-induced paranoia, but everywhere we went in our Lilliputian tennis world, I felt people watching us, talking about us. We’d arrive at a white tournament, grab our rackets and walk towards the tournament desk. Strolling through the maze of tennis players and parents, the feeling was like a hundred little magnifying glasses boring holes into your tennis whites, your skin. I’d feel eyes flashing on me, but I’d try not to look. We were freaks, whether we were at an all-black ATA affair or a USLTA event where the only black people were us and the kitchen staff. I felt black at the white events and white at the black events. “We’re Johnsons,” my Dad would bellow at us; we weren’t like other black folks, we were Black Tennis Royalty. And the undisputed king of the Johnson clan was Dr. J.

Waltee Johnson Moore, Dr. J's daughter & Dr. Johnson

My dad felt tons of pride, but he also had a covert gripe with all the ‘Whirlwind idolatry.’

On those numerous days when Dr. J was tending to patients at his clinic until late afternoon, it was Bobby Jr. on the court working with Ashe and the other six to eight kids who began spending summers at the Pierce Street home.

Dad was often the one drilling kids, altering grips, and demanding perfection. In fact, he was the one who precipitated the second major serendipitous moment in Dr. J’s life.

“Mr. Charity told me to hit it that way.” Young Arthur Ashe was not budging on his old coach’s orders, even as my dad stood threateningly across the net demanding that he change his backhand grip. It was an old-fashioned standoff: the scrawny 10-year-old upstart and the 24-year-old man. He had been at their house for less than a week.

Bobby Jr. left the court in a cloud of dust and called Dr. J. A call was placed to Ashe Sr. to come fetch his boy. Papa Ashe, unhappy and unsmiling, arrived early the next morning for a little backwoods tete a tete. “Son, you’re here because they can do more for you than Mr. Charity could. You can leave if you want to, but if you stay, you have to do everything they tell you.” The intimidated young boy said, “I’ll stay.” Mr. Ashe piled back into his car and headed home alone. Dr. J chuckled years later that Arthur never presented another problem from that day forward. And he ended up staying for nine summers.

Ashe won the first U.S. Open in 1968; the Australian in 1970, and most notably, thrashed the invincible Jimmy Connors in the finals of Wimbledon in 1975. Dr. J died during Wimbledon 1971, but it was another victory in 1960 in Charlottesville, Va., that meant more to Whirlwind than any Grand Slam.

He’d been driving down the road when he observed dozens of boys dressed in white and what appeared to be a tennis tournament. He wheeled his Olds into the parking lot of the venue at the University of Virginia, saw the white man in charge, Mr. Teddy Penzold, and began asking questions. It was the National Interscholastic Tennis Tournament, an event for high school boys that had been held at UVA for several years. “What do I need to do to enter some of my boys in this tournament?” Dr. J asked. Penzold replied, “Just bring your two best players next year. I’ll send you an entry form.”

An entry form duly arrived and Dr. J carried his two best players to Charlottesville for the 1950 tournament. The hour-long drive to Charlottesville, including full green stamp service at the filling station, was longer than both matches. Dr. J’s protégés were “slaughtered.” He and Penzold commiserated, then decided that Dr. J should widen his net and seek the best black players from across the country. For the next 10 years, he would hold an invitational tournament on his home court and take first the two, then four, then six best black players he could find to the Interscholastics. There was an upset of a seed here, a quarter or semi-final there, but no pay dirt until 1960, when Ashe became the first black player to win the Title.

Penzold, by inviting Dr. J’s players to Charlottesville, had spent diminishing sums of personal capital on his social experiment against the ferocious opposition of local whites and alumni. But a black player having the nerve to win their championship was too much for them to take. After a 16-year residency at the University of Virginia, the tournament was banished from campus. The 1961 tourney was held in Williamstown, Mass., minus Dr. J’s cash-strapped contingent.

The white man sidled up to the stern, black man watching matches at the Southern Junior Championships at Davidson College in North Carolina. A small commotion erupted on one of the outer courts. “Dr. Johnson, is that your grandson down there - rolling on the court?” He might have added the one cursing and banging his racket like a deranged coal miner. I didn’t care much for tennis, but I hated losing more. So I acted out like the brat I was. Dr. J was not patient with bad actors and he had much less leash for us. Plus, he had his reputation to protect and I threatened it by my embarrassing behavior.

Dr. Johnson (Left) & Juan Farrow

Black players were lucky to be playing integrated tournaments, thanks to him; at white tournaments, his Junior Development squad was sure to be seen, but never heard. Dr. J taught those first integrationist guinea pigs to show no emotion, never complain or question anything, even to play out balls that were close, to eliminate any question of fairness. White unfairness was expected and was to be ignored. We had to be better.

Dr. J strode out onto my court and curtly instructed me to shake my opponent’s hand and default the match. Then, he led me on my own Bataan Death March back to his dormitory room on the quaint Southern campus. Behind the apparently soundproof door, Dr. J morphed into the evil dentist in the Marathon Man, using cold, medical precision and a skinny black leather belt to skin my legs and bottom to the bone.

Once, my brother Lange and I chased an older player, Michael Ruffin, around Dr. J’s house, through the rose bushes, past the court, along the sidewalk, all for a bite of his ‘Honey Bun.’ When he stepped off the curb, stomped on a broken wine bottle and sliced the bottom of his foot open, we disappeared into a cloud of fear. He limped away and I hid knowing this would go on my growing demerit list. The end was swift. Dr. J had this really nice color television with a brand new remote control. Somehow the remote, which all of kids handled, broke and I got fingered for the crime. (I think I was set up.) I licked my wounds aboard a Greyhound bus, sentenced by Dr. J to ‘exile in disgrace’ back in Washington. God had cast me out of the Garden. Even though I was a tennis rebel, I enjoyed the lush life in Lynchburg and didn’t want to be separated from my brothers and sisters. But Dr. J had reached his limit and I was too much the recidivist handful.

“Dr. J DIED,” I screamed as I raced down the street to my uncle’s apartment to tell him. Whirlwind had been sick for a while, but I never suspected he would die! He was our commander in chief and the catalyst for so many young black players. His last great player, Juan Farrow, who’d been number one in the nation in 12s and 14s, was deprived of Dr. J’s guidance and the void devoured him. Doc’s regard for Juan is reflected in the names that appear on his tombstone: Althea, Arthur, and Juan.

Whirlwind would probably be shocked to know how often I brag about him, telling folks that I was his grandson. Looking back, I’m proudest of the fact that he was no ‘white man’s black man,’ no grinning shuffler. He stood erect and walked with dignity and gravity, but he was no militant fist-thruster, either. He gave white Americans the opportunity to do right by their fellow citizens without rubbing their faces in it. He was a pragmatist who knew the world that he lived in and what it took to get the job done.

Our family often speculates on what might have happened to Althea and Arthur if Dr. J had not been there. If he had never spoken up to Dr. Eaton, would Althea have finished high school, let alone Florida A&M? Would she still have broken the color barrier at Forest Hills in 1950? Would Ashe have left Richmond, gotten his scholarship to UCLA, or played Davis Cup? Who would Venus and Serena, Zina, Juan, Rodney Harmon, Lori McNeil, and all the other black tennis players been inspired by if there were no Althea, Arthur, or Dr. J? One day, my grandfather will exit the shadows and be acknowledged for his selfless commitment that inspires and motivates today’s tennis players of all hues and nationalities.

Originally published on TENNIS.com in 2006.

Roger Federer: Party Of Three?

Julian Johnson — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 04:09:28 -0400

The great NBA center, Moses Malone, when asked about his team's playoff chances back in 1983, coolly predicted: "Fo', fo', fo'," as in three, 4-nothing sweeps of their playoff comp.

The Sixers had to settle for "fo', five, fo'; but what will Rodge settle for in 2009?

Its hard to calculate what the French Open title will do for him, but from what he's indicated, the rock has been dropped and the pressure is officially off.

Federer could literally do nothing the rest of the year and know that he had made GOAT history, that he's done the impossible, stolen a treasure that had seemingly passed him by.

Now, that the missing link is his, the sky's the limit. Maybe. He has youth, talent, fitness, motivation and 14 Grand Slams on his side. Quite the psychological treasure trove, no?

Even his main rival has pulled up lame. And with the other pretenders seemingly stalled in their ascent of the twin Mounts, Nadal & Federer, the stage is set for Federer to have another 3 Slam year.

Who would have thunk that "16" could even be a possibility, especially after his dismal performance in the Aussie Open and his losing streak to Murray and Rafa? Yet, snagging the French was like a cortisone shot to his psyche? How long will the affect last??

Will he or won't he? Who can stop his freight train now? Is he over, truly over the Nadal-Boogey Man hump? And will somebody else emerge and "pull a Soderling" in the next three weeks?

If Federer is serious when he claims that for the rest of his career, he will have NO pressure because of this win - heaven help the tour.

Until Murray shows his mettle in a five set event, I ain't buying that sauce. And I don't believe that Rafa's knee is as bad as it sounded initially. Still, he ain't coming to Wimby on a high.

Don't be surprised if this isn't a 3 of Fo' year.

Art vs. the Assembly Line

Julian Johnson — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 17:38:26 -0400

The words of Margaret Smith Court, calendar Grand Slam winner in 1970, struck me recently as I pondered their implications:

Although she no longer played, Smith Court still followed tennis, particularly the Grand Slams. She commented that many women players of the 21st century were "robots," according to John Thirsk in the Surry Hills, Australia Sunday Telegraph.

She said this was the result of rigid coaching schemes, and also noted that the young women "lacked hunger because many were simply content to play for a comfortable living rather than chase major honors," according to Thirsk.

Smith Court told Vivienne Oakley in the Adelaide, Australia Advertiser that she believed Australia could produce more champions by returning to individual coaching:

"I think we put our people into squads too young and champions are very sensitive people. I believe we lose them in the squads at a very early age."

She said she never would have become a champion if she had come through the modern coaching system, noting, "I had good mentors. Sometimes I played and won for them, not myself." And, she told Thirsk, "I've seen what happened with some others way back, who had been promising, winning national junior titles. They had individual coaches and because they were good, went into a squad. You've never heard about them again."

Tennis is ugly, let's face it. Back in the day, players didn't come from warehouses, packaged, stamped and branded, with the same forehand, same two handed backhand, bludgeoning the ball similarly and with identical patterns of play.

There was a time in tennis when players were like jazz musicians: as soon as you saw them, you knew who it was. They had a unique style, cultivated by their coach, but born in the imagination and experience of the player, her or himself.

When you hear one note of Miles you know who it is; when you see one snippet of a film clip of Rocket Rod Laver, you know exactly who he is. Can you tell the difference between Berdych and Querry, Chela and Karlovic and Isner?

I step into my time machine to ponder what has been lost in the transition to a tennis factory mentality:

Frankie Durr and her funky grips, her shoveled backhand...Evonne Goolagong, the ballerina, the fairy floating above the court, scooping graceful forehands and backhands from the backcourt, gliding to the net, tapping passing shots gently into the open court...

Nastase the magician, the profane genius, the Federer of his day, no shot impossible, not an inch of the court unreachable by the mere flick of his fluid wrist...Laver, he of the Popeye forearm, the master of spins, the extreme top and the Thanksgiving carved slice, athletic, powerful, humble...

Rosewall, the greatest slice backhand ever(?), Newcombe's serve, Smith's determination, Vilas the bull from the baseline, Virginia Wade, the serve and volleyer carrying the weight of England, Ashe the cool, bespeckled slasher/tactician, Billie Jean King, the fierce competitor.

I could describe the players I grew up watching for days. And their games were a reflection of their personalities. Today's players have generic games born of the idea that "if it works with widgets, it can work with backhands." We've lost something in tennis, just as we have in music.

Uniformity has brought improvement, a perfection of sorts. Surely, the athlete of 2009 is far superior to his 1960's counterpart, due mainly to improvements in training methodology, diet, etc. And of course, the technology has changed the game dramatically...but is it for the better?!

Who really wants to see all the "Dolly the sheep-clones" clogging the tennis circuit upon graduation from the "high performance" facilities the USTA claims are the answer to the American tennis drought?!

I'd rather a drought than fifteen or twenty more Roddicks.

To be yourself, to survive all of the regimentation and pressure to conform in society and to actually play yourself on the horn or with a tennis racket...this is one of the highest art forms.

Seriously. What a breath of fresh air it is to have a Carla Suarez Navarro among the new breed, with a game that is interesting, creative, different.

I'm with Margaret Court and with Billie Holiday: It ain't real tennis and it ain't real jazz if everybody is doing it the same, warmed over, imitative way. Give me Frankie Durr and her hitch-filled, travesty of a game, over a hundred academy mannequins—any day.

What a Match, What a Man!!

Julian Johnson — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 17:49:35 -0400

Like a prayer, like Jimmy Hendrix kneeling over his instrument with lighter fluid and match, this was no mere Grand Slam final. This was a spectacle, an exorcism, a coronation. Definitely maybe.

Could he, would he? None knew, but all were riveted. When Rafa came undone, the pressure and intensity mounted but so did the hope. It is rare to have an athlete so outstanding and dominant who also engenders such global support.

With others' reigns, the chorus of catcalls for a new leader, for a new flavor have resounded. Not so under King Roger.

When I turned on the TV, Federer was already up a couple of breaks. He was striking the ball with an authority I hadn't seen in the last several matches. It was Fed close to the finish line, Fed unleashed.

It was only a month and some change ago that I was convinced that he was done, toast, that he was too hardheaded to grow, to adapt. How wrong I was and happily.

He really is Ali, after the exile, not the Ali who in his prime pummeled his opponents into submission and rarely went the distance, but the one who, as he aged, was bloodied and had to learn to stand and fight.

Nobody knelt before Federer's image this tournament and genuflected, wilting at the sound of his name. No, Sunday punches were thrown by all and sundry and he was on the ropes. A lot.

And guess what? I and perhaps, we found out that Fed could stand and fight, that he could take a punch, take the extra pressure that Nadal's defeat thrust on him.

This was no mere tennis match but a spiritual experience, one that I imagine many experienced just the same.

Here was grace under fire. Here were severe jitters on the threshold of a great event, a marriage, a birth, a reunion, a graduation. Here was a moment that gave anxiety, joy, and a powerful example of perseverance.

Roger Federer graduated from an enormously talented, record breaking tennis player to something more in my eyes, something more compelling.

Here was a stubborn man, yes, and I criticized him for it harshly. But it was his stubbornness that saw him through, drove him harder, deeper. Higher. I was wrong.

Ali once told Frazier when he invaded his boxing camp that "you'll see all that your eyes will allow you to see." Mine eyes were unable to see all that Federer was made of.

The iron in him that saw him through today is what makes him one of the greatest athletes bar none that I've ever seen along with Jordan and Ali.

What a match, what a man!

Brush With Greatness: Bjorn Borg

Julian Johnson — Tue, 12 May 2009 04:44:20 -0400

Welcome to a new series called "Brush with Greatness." We look forward to your tales of meeting or rubbing elbows with your sporting heroes and sheroes.

Here's my story:

My dad was our coach more than our father. We didn't have what you'd call a warm and fuzzy relationship, but this summer was different. He was taking us to the US Open.

My brother, Lange, and I were the two babies of the family and the closest of buddies. We loved tennis (by this point) and followed it religiously in World Tennis Magazine and in Sports Illustrated. We imitated the pros when we hit, mimicking their distinctive styles and mannerisms.

We loved Ashe, of course, and Laver, Newcombe, Rosewall, and most of the other Aussies. Most of the American men were dull as dirt, except for Connors who we despised. Nastase was my personal favorite.

But there was a new flavor on the scene with a very strange game from a little known country; his name was Bjorn Borg and he was from Sweden. Sweden?

(I had to confer with my little brother on this one) but the facts from the dim mists of time;

Dad bundled us off to New York that US Open year on Labor Day weekend. We got a hotel room somewhere in Manhattan and settled in for a few days of tennis bliss.

We hopped on the subway to the West Side Tennis Club in Forest Hills, New York, and strode the grounds, through rows of hedges, down walkways and past dozens of new clay courts.

1974 had been the end of the line for grass at America's tennis major. Clay, a far more democratic surface, was chosen for the Open in 1975. No one knew it then, but the clay would last only two more years as would the Open at Forest Hills.

We watched the players practicing on the outer courts and playing in the 15,000 seat stadium and intimate outer courts. We also watched the colorful crowd as they sashayed around the grounds like royalty.

Dad told us that he knew Lennart Bergelin. Yeah, right. How would dad know our hero, Bjorn Borg's coach? Sure you do, we sniggered to ourselves. "Okay, you don't believe me—fine."

Later that day, dad told us to follow him, that he wanted to introduce us to someone downstairs. He wouldn't say who. Curious, we followed him out of the hotel room door, down the carpeted hallway to the elevator.

We went down a few flights and ended up in front of a door. Dad knocks and who opens the door? Lennart Bergelin. Our mouths looked like a pair of tire swings, gaping, the lockjaw of shock overwhelming us. "Why hellll-ooo, Mr. Berrrgggeliin..."

"How are you, Bobby?" says Mr. Bergelin to our dad (Bobby???), but it might as well have been pig Latin as our ears were full of pool water. Just then, coach Bergelin closes his door and has us follow him to the next room.

Knock, knock, knock. Pause. The door slowly opens. A shaggy haired kid with blond hair, no shirt, and white jeans answers the door. It's Bjorn Borg.

The lights are off so we can barely see Bjorn; the room is entirely dark as if the blinds and curtains are wrapped tight. The natural light from the corridor allows us to see our hero as he extends his hand for a quick shake.

Rigor has set in now as Lange and I are babbling fools. Looking into the eyes and face of this tennis god, we tremble and stammer, surveying the room. 50 rackets, in front of our little kid eyes, are lined up against the wall to the left.

It took all of five minutes and soon we were heading back up to our room pinching ourselves. "Jesus, we just met Bjorn Bjorg...dad was telling the truth, he really did know Lennart Bergelin, can you believe that?"

Bergelin had told us that they were going out for dinner so we camped at our window overlooking the street. Sure enough, we caught sight of Borg and his distinctive gait, plus mentor, striding purposefully down the busy street.

We thought Borg might be headed to Mickey D's but they apparently went into a steak joint just up the block.

When we got home, we sang a chorus to our friends: "We met Bjorn Borg, we met Bjorn Borg."

Excessive Celebration vs. the Spirit-Killers

Julian Johnson — Sun, 10 May 2009 16:49:26 -0400

"When we say it's a game, you say its a business and when we say it's a business, you say it's a game."

- A character in the pro football film, "North Dallas Forty."

Football is a game, but it's a business. It should be fun, but, paradoxically, not too much fun, especially for the players. Some in the know even admit that football and other bigtime sports are mere entertainment, showbiz...

...so, why can't a brother dance?

Why do some people feel that they must "preserve the dignity, sanctity and honor" of a whorehouse sport, by banning cathartic, freewheeling celebrations by its participants?

Have you ever seen what an ex-football player looks like five or ten years after their career? Football is a brutal, monstrous game. It's a game that grinds up and spits out debilitated, fractured men who can barely walk and rarely live beyond their late fifties.

The National Football League hasn't solved that riddle...but they have time to regulate fun?

The "Fun Bunch." What a benign, innocuous name. They were the receiving corps of the Washington Redskins back in 1982. I remember that first celebration in the end zone after Joe Theisman had thrown one of them a touchdown pass.

Four or five players gathered 'round and began swinging their arms in unison and then leaped into a group high five. It was a unity builder, a tension releaser. It was fun...

...and it was banned by the NFL.

Why?

Why can't a brother dance?

The suppression of expression is a war of sorts—the stoic, dominant culture seeking to stifle, trim and contain the brown sub-cultural rabble. It's Puritanism versus Voodoo. It's the sanctified tongue-speakers versus the chastity belt-wearing tight collars.

The sporting press and the slurpees who lap it up seem to despise brown expression and demonstrativeness that does not mimic their stiff, dry, Eastwood-cool/cruel pose...except when they're borrowing the latest lyrical flourish from the underground.

ESPN is the world leader in "unearthing urban hieroglyphics," what with their undercover linguists who siphon the intellectual property via black hipster-isms almost as soon as they're uttered.

Its the contradiction that the comedian Paul Mooney summed up thusly: "Everybody wants to be a N**** and nobody wants to be a N****!"

Why can't a brotha dance?

The National Basketball Association not long ago and in its infinite wisdom, instituted a dress code for players on the bench. The NBA crime wave, of course, had been linked to gold chains, t-shirts and baggy jeans. Three out of four psychologists agree that suits and ties are the clear antidote to innate criminality and rampant lawlessness.

Factoid: You've got a bunch of kids playing a game to the tune of millions, many from the ghetto, a ghetto filled with ignorance and violence and love and support and confusion and neglect and pain and racism and murder.

These kids have hit the lottery, yet are expected to have the poise and refinement of blue bloods—blue bloods, by the way, who profit by mega-millions on the strong, black backs of these young bucks. Sound familiar?

So, why look at root causes (and the rich folks that exploit them), when you can blame the victim-symptom and never have to say you're sorry on the way to the Brinks truck.

Is it any wonder a brotha can't dance?

Though you can score a goal in soccer and roll around on the field like a fool, ripping your shirt off and waving it like nunchucks - without sanction or penalty - try that in the NFL, brotha.

And while you're at it, pull out your check book and prepare to write five figures.

We live in a dark, cruel world, one in which 'play' and 'games' have been perverted, converted into golden geese dropping loads of money. And because these games have become cash cow-conveyor belts of green, the grim ethic of the corporate automaton rules the roost.

Lawd, can a brotha dance?

George Preston Marshall's Strange Fruit

Julian Johnson — Thu, 07 May 2009 15:26:10 -0400

STRANGE FRUIT
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black body swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
And the sudden smell of burning flesh!
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
-- Music and lyrics by Lewis Allan, copyright 1940

Let me establish my bona fides off the top: I had a Washington Redskins trashcan when I was ten years old. You heard me, a bright yellow, knee-high waste can with the team logo at that time—a profile of a reddish, prunish Indian in warpaint and headdress.

I'm sure I wasn't the only kid on the block with one. Later came the Billy Kilmer No. 17 jersey, the Sonny Jurgenson autographed football and the burgundy and gold Redskin helmet stuffed under the trimmed tree on Christmas morn.

Times change. You learn a little history, maybe even become a History major in school. Meanings morph and become pregnant with complexities you'd never dreamed of. Surfing the chocolate milk to brewskie continuum meant never having to reflect on anything beyond box scores.

Like I said, times change.

What's in a name? Redskins. I'd never really thought about what that word meant. It is ugly, yes it is, when you think about it.

A little history then: the Redskins were once the Boston Braves, that is until majority owner George Preston Marshall moved them to good old Washington, DC and changed the team's name to Redskins.

Why change the name from somewhat benign to strongly offensive, at least to Indians? Because, George Preston Marshall was the most notorious racist in the National Football League.

According the Encyclopedia Britannica of the 21st Century, Wikipedia, one year after entering the league as an owner, Marshall engineered the re-segregation of a game that had "had a sprinkling of black players."

Sadly, George Halas of the Chicago Bears and Art Rooney of the Pittsburgh Steelers, among others, were sweet talked by Marshall into going along with the re-segregationist program. And so they did.

From 1934 to 1945, black players who had once played in the NFL were turned into athletic UFO's: there were sightings, in the alleys and junkyards of pro ball, but the evidence was unreliable and unseen.

Most Redskins fans know that once the game became re-re-integrated in 1946 and teams began signing black players again, Massa Marshall did not follow suit. The Washington Redskins have the notorious distinction of being the last National Football League squad to draft and sign a black football player.

Ernie Davis of Syracuse—and The Express movie fame—refused to report to the team and demanded a trade after being drafted in the first round by the "Skins" in 1962. And who could blame him? The only reason that Marshall selected him was due to a threat by the Secretary of the Interior to revoke the team's 30 year lease at DC Stadium. Marshall had not changed.

The question is: when will the name?

In 1996, Abe Pollin, owner of the Washington Capitals hockey team changed the name of his Washington "Bullets" basketball squad to "Wizards." Why? Because, Pollin believed it highly inappropriate to keep a name that tapped into the community's misery: a gun violence and homicide rate that led the nation at the time.

Some thought it was simply good marketing strategy by Pollin for a failing franchise. Perhaps it was, but what's wrong with fusing profit with ethics? Why is the norm - the almighty dollar playing Lone Ranger to issues of conscience - okay?

I've loved the Redskins team, its players and coaches, cheered its NFC East and Super Bowl Championships for 40 years!

But I can't cheer that name. Not anymore. How can any black football fan - any fan period - cheer the Washington Redskins without failing to recognize what that name means? How can I?

How can I support this franchise knowing that the Redskins name itself is the strange fruit and demeaning legacy of a man and his belief system, signifying exclusion and extreme prejudice?

Until the the name of this team changes they won't get a dime out of me, not for a jersey or trash can, or even a dustbin—which is exactly where the Redskin name needs to be firmly placed.

The Only Thing Wrong with B/R Writers' Rankings Is That They Exist

Julian Johnson — Sun, 03 May 2009 03:37:27 -0400

"I AM THE GREATEST!"

—Muhammad Ali

“I say, play your own way. Don’t play what the public want—you play what you want and let the public pick up on what you doing—even if it does take them fifteen, twenty years.”

—Thelonious Monk

Through contests of skill and brawn, Muhammad Ali was the Greatest. Through his conscientious objection to war, he became the People's Champion. He had to whip the pretenders and contenders in head to head competition.

Was he the greatest boxer of all time? Was he the most popular or important because of his activism? Maybe.

How does a writer or artist compete? How do they knock out or, whip, the competition? How do they win?

How do writers compete for polls or popularity and strive to be No. 1—without cheapening their art, or themselves?

Thelonious Monk was a unique a jazz composer/musician. He is considered one of the architects of "Bebop," a revolution that changed jazz from dance music to art.

In his early years, he couldn't get gigs. People ridiculed his "weird" music. Because it was different and though his music expanded the idiom, it wasn't popular. Monk couldn't get in a poll let alone win one.

But Monk's wisdom and confidence—his belief that playing himself counted for more than playing to the peanut gallery—was rewarded when, ten or fifteen years after he'd begun, he was "discovered." Monk hadn't changed; the listening public had caught up.

What if Monk had decided to water down his gift in order to win polls? How would that have served the music? Or him?

I was invited here by a senior writer who found me on the 'net. I had never heard word one about this site, but it was cool. B/R's ways and means were foreign to me. All I wanted to do was write.

I've been on B/R for all of three weeks, but I wasn't born yesterday. So allow me to let fly.

If you're caught up in where you fit on the writing ladder, looking in the rear view to keep your "comp" at bay or trying to be the so-called, best, I guarantee you that your art is being sacrificed on a very puny altar.

There's an interview on YouTube where Bryant Gumbel is "trying" to interview Miles Davis. Gumbel asks where Miles thinks he rates in the jazz pantheon, among the Ellingtons and Armstrongs; Miles is dumbfounded. "Where do I rank?! Like, 'whose the best?'" Miles rasps, "There is no best in art."

Writing is art. It is fun. It can be serious, too. It can even pay the bills. But the soul of writing is art. And there is no best in art, even when its writing in the context of sports.

If you're talking about ratings or rankings, then you're probably not talking about art. You may not even be talking about good writing, though you might think you are.

B/R has its reason for rating writers. I'm aware of that fact and I've even rated a few articles myself. Not to give them a leg up on the totem pole mind you, but to acknowledge work that moved me or made me think. Now, I'll think twice.

Hierarchies corrupt. It is not people who are innately selfish; it is the system and its designers with their ladders, slots and ratings. They promote all the jousting and elbowing to get ahead. The natural generosity within people is perverted as they are dragged into a gutter of cliquish pandering and uber competitiveness.

Selfishness, like jealousy, is not nature; it is nurtured. If I stay focused on the crab just ahead, or behind me, how will I ever see the bars, the gatekeeper, or the cage that I am clucking in?

If polls or ratings come, they come. But if you choose to believe that these numbers are a measure of talent or "greatness" worth pursuing...Or if, God forbid, you politic to win these kinds of "elections"...then the termites have already begun whittling away at the foundation of your integrity. Soon, only the facade will remain.

Ratings and rankings are such easy, seductive rat bait. They suck you in and soon you're nibbling the cheese. Its poison, but it sure does taste good.

And your writing can't help but reflect that.

In the "Inner Game of Tennis," Tim Gallwey talks about how winning or losing a match is only one of the games going on when we play. There is the one between the ears, in the heart and in the gut.

Its a quasi-spiritual contest that few know exists and fewer play.

Its the game between you and yourself, between your fear and your faith, between your ego and esteem, between your God-given ability and the cataracts that see only a sliver of the potential you possess. You can win the match and still lose the game.

"I'm a competitor, I'm a winner, dammit! I want to see my name in lights. I'm BETTER than all my competition, because I compare myself to them.

I can feel the tiny feet tapping, feel the termites gnawing at me, trying to get me to surrender the inchworm of integrity that I possess."

I don't want to short circuit the power that comes from playing my way, playing me, whether it takes 15 or 50 years, critics or cretins be damned.

I write for me. And if someone else gets it, I'm a very happy boy. But wary-happy.

I don't want to be anybody's bonsai tree or contortionist. For. Any. Reason. The price, while unseen, is too high.

So don't read or rate me. And if you do, I ain't madatcha.

I'm not politicking for change, either, just recognizing the game. Keep your ratings just the way they are. Or change 'em. Let me play my way.

"One reason I admire Lee today is that he's not jumping on bandwagons. He's sticking to Lee Morgan, and you either accept it or you don't."

—Freddie Hubbard

Giant Killers: The Chip & Charge Artist

Julian Johnson — Fri, 01 May 2009 15:24:41 -0400

"Chip and Charge." You've probably never heard that phrase before if you were born after 1975, not even on the Tennis Channel or ESPN Classic.

Believe it or not, back in the good old days before graphite and hula hoop-sized rackets won the tennis arms race, "chip and charge" was a bread-and-butter tactic for many a great player.

See, a long, long time ago, many tournaments were played on fast, slick grass—including three of the four Grand Slams. Getting to and controlling the net and forcing your opponent to hit lots of passing shots was considered a tactical necessity by many a coaching mind.

As racket technology evolved and murderous serves and baseline power strokes went warp speed, rallies moved from the forecourt, almost exclusively, to the backcourt. The net became a demilitarized zone where players only ventured for the coin toss and the post-match handshake.

The mid 1980s was the tipping point—before technology put a damper on net play altogether—a time when players bred in the chip-and-charge stone age like Stefan Edberg and Hana Mandlikova could still sally forth and attack the net without fear of decapitation.

With its metronomic flow and the ubiquitous two handed backhand, tennis, except at the highest level, has become the aesthetic equivalent of watching a construction backhoe dig up and move dirt.

Dateline August 27, 1986:

"McENROE OUT OF U.S. OPEN

John McEnroe after first-round loss to Paul Annacone. The score was 1-6, 6-1, 6-3, 6-3."

Before he became Pete Sampras' coach, Paul Annacone was a three time All-American at the University of Tennessee. He would reach his highest world ranking of No. 12 in 1984 and reach the quarterfinals of Wimbledon.

Coincidentally, '84 was the year McEnroe captured two of the four Grand Slams and reached the final of the French Open.

The ninth seed in 1986, McEnroe was on the comeback trail when he faced Annacone in the first round of the Open. He'd taken a six-month leave from the sport following the loss of his No. 1 ranking and title to Ivan Lendl in the 1985 US Open final.

Annacone's ranking had dipped slightly (to No. 18), but he was what they call today, "a dangerous floater." Nobody wanted to play him, let alone early in a hard court major.

Paul Annacone was an adherent of the chip and charge, the poster child for the tactic. The only ground stroke that he hit, besides during the warm-up, was the return of serve. First serve...forward, second serve...forward, inside the service box, split step, volley.

His return of serve was blocked or sliced. He'd sprint to the service line, split step, volley. Boom! Annacone's mantra: forward, ever forward, opponent be damned.

If his opponent was a net rusher, HAH! He would knife a backhand slice up the line with pace or dip it slow, low and smooth cross court towards the alley. His scrambling opponent's weak reply would be volleyed while hanging over the net.

To beat Annacone when he was on, you had to be ready for a track meet. You had to take the net from him. And you had to be super sharp off the ground, particularly passing shots.

Things began well for Mac as he parlayed two service breaks into an easy first set romp.

Sometimes a player's rep, especially a player of McEnroe's intimidating stature, can buy the bearer a split second of doubt or hesitation in their opponent that can cost them a point or a service game here or there.

The gap between image, rep, and reality would evaporate between the first and second sets.

The second stanza was a carbon copy of the first, only it was Annacone giving the clinic. Suddenly he had the fresher legs and the livelier serve.

The upstart and not the Hall of Famer was taking his returns early and sending them back faster than they'd come. Annacone was picking off Mac's floating passing shots and rifling them for winners.

Or dropping dimes into the open court.

Playing against a hot chip and charge/serve and volley artist is like catching coins rolling at high speed, down hill, onto a sidewalk grate: you'll catch some coin, but many if not most will disappear into the grate, depending on speed, fitness, and accuracy.

The first two sets had passed: 1-6, 6-1. The match was now a best of three. Something had to give, and it was McEnroe.

He was back, alright, in body. But the hunger, the fire, and the foot-speed had all diminished a hair. Just enough for a talented young clone to out-Mac Mac. The last two sets were routine: 6-3, 6-3.

It was a death knell of sorts.

McEnroe made a couple of major semis following this: the U.S. Open in '90, Wimbledon in '92. But his days as top dog were over. A long, slow goodbye.

The chip and charge artist may have died that day in 1986 as well. Sure, Navratilova, Edberg, Becker, Rafter and Sampras carried on the tradition of the chip and charge for years after.

Kids aren't bred to be Sampras' or Annacones, or even Federer's: 99% of tennis academy kids are being trained for the baseline shuffle.

They've turned the chip and charge artist into a dinosaur, a fossil, one dragged from the mothballs on the odd occasion, but never nurtured, rarely embraced.

Like the knuckleballer in baseball, the likes of Paul Annacone may rarely be seen again. But he had his day.

Two Aspirin For Amelie Mauresmo

Julian Johnson — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 03:04:38 -0400

The California Bear sports bar is on (not so) Grand Avenue in Oakland, CA. A stone's throw from Lake Merritt, the Bear is the place to go if you want to watch your favorite team from the beer drenched bleachers that face a wall lined with booze bottles and seven or eight television sets.

In early 2006, I had bellied up to the bar to watch my s-hero, Amelie Mauresmo of France, take on the evil Belgian villainess, Justine "The Hand" Henin. Years spent hoping and praying my girl would get over the hump culminated in la victoire extraordinaire. L'Equipe crowed, "MAURESMO LÉGENDE LE TENNIS." And so it was, if only for one night, magnifique.

Amelie had used her head-hopping topsin to run the lungs out of the ungracious Henin, who pulled a Sonny Liston and finished seated on her stool, rather than be carried out on her racket bag. Disgraceful.

Several months later at Wimbledon, I cried with Amelie as her rematch with "The Hand" brought her total victory, and a moving post-match celebration. The monkey was now officially off of her back, her nerves had simmered and her talent had been loosed. She had the Australian and Wimbledon: how many majors would fall?

Three years and assorted injuries later, some in the tennis world are crying out, "Amelie, ou etes vous?!" A revival of sorts took place in Paris at the Open GDF Suez this February as she defeated the always rugged Elena Dementieva in the final. But the consistency is lacking as are the results. There are plenty of tennis minds who can help diagnose what's ailing our champion. Is there a doctor in the house?

What's eating Amelie?

1.She's French. The French have a different mindset and outlook than their American counterparts. That's a good thing in my book. They aren't as ravenous as our top players. She owns a winery. 'Nuff said.

They don't want to win every Grand Slam tournament, even their own. They only want to wet their beak is all.

2.Temperament. See above.

3.Age and Fitness. The end of her break out year was sabotaged by injury. Hasn't been the same since. New coach/team could right the ship.

4.Hunger. See number one.

5a.Conservative counter puncher in an attacking net rusher's body. Not as quick to bolt to the net as in her glory year, Amelie often stays back and trades lollipops with younger, more powerful sluggers.

5b.Inferior weaponry. Her ground strokes, while versatile and deceptive, aren't nearly as heavy as Azarenka or Safina. Amelie can still slice, dice and blast her ill backhand.

Mauresmo volleys well - when she moves forward, but her shot selection can be problematic, as can her full Western forehand. The extreme grip can hamstring her transition game.

Will I get to shed tears for my girl at the French, Wimbledon or the Open this year? Does she have enough good juju to win a Slam this year or next? Will I ever set foot in the California Bear again? Absolument!

For armchair coaches and tennis medics only:

Gimme your diagnosis, treatment and prognosis for my s-hero.

So Long, Roger: My Resignation From The People's Temple Of Roger Federer

Julian Johnson — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 02:19:42 -0400

I was lying in bed having decided that I wanted to learn the outcome of the Federer/Nadal Aussie Open final in the morning. I had to work the next day, Sunday, and the match was on at 3:00am Pacific.

As I tossed and turned, I became curious if I could watch the match online as our household doesn't have cable. I'd been tracking each night's play, listening to the Dokic soap opera and all the usual grunts and groans.

Besides Dokic, I was focused strictly on Roger. I wanted him to get over the hump by any means, be it visualization, mantra or the law of attraction.

And what gift wrapping he'd been offered in the final. Two days rest after the usual straight set pummeling of a revitalized A-Rod, versus one day off for his arch rival-nemesis-pitbull-terrier, Rafa, who'd played a five-hour war against his Spanish compatriot, Fernando Verdasco. Five hours. This wasn't a marathon, this was a caning, a 15-round slugfest in which both pugilists needed hospitalization.

The stage was set for the King to retrieve his throne. It was 'Ali in Zaire' all over again; written off, staggered, jaw broken, huge question marks and now up against Godzilla. Roger was on the ropes, but if the US Open meant anything, it should have meant certain victory.

Wide awake and now sure that I could pull him through, I lucked up on a website with a live stream for free, propped my laptop on a pillow and got ready for homeboy's coronation.

Four hours later...the frustration, oh the frustration. I donated 4+ plus hours of my life to will this fragile, stubborn man through the morass in his own mind, root him beyond his own goblins and shadows it turned out. I'd have shaved my head bald, donned a red robe and gone to the airport for this guy, such was my dedication to him. Doesn't he know that he is Roger Federer?! Oy.

"Rog, when a guys operating on a day of rest following a five hour match, it behooves you to be patient off the ground - but aggressive, work the guy from side to side, up and back - aggressively, but run him into the flower boxes. You gotta be willing to play six hours or more, long enough for cramps to set in and a stretcher to be called. Oh, and carry a silver bullet and be willing to put a stake through Lugosi's heart. You've gotta be Ali in Zaire, in Manila."

By turns passive and anxious, I don't believe for a second that Federer thought he would win. He huffed and he puffed, but he couldn't blow that house down. And the capitulation of the fifth set, especially after the mettle he showed at Wimbledon was shocking. Federer belongs to Rafa now.

A splinter of doubt has entered his mind and its become a forest. Entering that forest will determine where he goes from here. Is Roger willing to level those trees, hell, is he willing to acknowledge they exist and get medieval with his career?! The Career Recovery Two-Step:

1)Get a coach immediately and bow before a wiser head. I don't care how brilliant you are, every great athlete needs a coach.

2)Work harder than Nadal in order to catch up and beat him. He must get mentally and physically stronger faster, fitter and more flexible. ASAP. Gil Reyes knows what it means to go to the mountain top in both physical and spiritual fitness. The Everest that Federer must climb is taller than '03 to '07. Suit up and show up...and leave the cameras for Brad and Angie.

Its pretty simple: when you are Federer or Ali-great, you have to push yourself beyond what you thought necessary or possible. Ali did it. He beat a man-child eight years his junior and twice as strong at 4:00 in the morning. Federer can do it, but does he have the killer in him?! Were those tears the signs of passion or the last drops of resolve draining out of him? With a wife and a baby on the way, can he husband the dwindling energy in his lean frame and make the time, to do "the lonely work" that champion's must do in order to rule the tennis world again?!

My resignation as a charter member of the People's Temple of Roger Federer is my answer. To quote Carly: "I haven't got time for the pain." And while I will always root for this most elegant and talented champion, the closest thing to Ali this side of Sugar Ray, the end is near. No more 3:00am wake up calls for me. I'll read about it in the morning.

So long, Roger!

New BR Feature: The Nutsack Report!

Julian Johnson — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 16:44:03 -0400

In an effort to provide equal time for those who prefer jock straps to g-strings, here is the first installment of a new, ESPN'esque series here at BR, the Nutsack Report.

Our mission at NR is to answer the question: "why should blonde's with breasts have more fun and receive more coverage on BR than jocks with lead socks in their shorts?!" Our audience is real men and the washer-women who walk one step behind them. These men are secure enough to admit that they'd like to be a fly-on-the-wall in the locker room shower after a tough, sweaty game between black behemoths.

We at BR cater far too much to the bitch-made punks who read our incisive, analytical reporting between monkey spanks while gazing at foxy, anorexic cheerleaders. NR is changing the game and WE will set a new standard for sports journalism.

Let's face it: who doesn't want to know what Lebron is packing, or D-Wade, or God forbid, hear how much damage the Diesel can do?! What Answer does Allen offer his legion of Hotel Ho's on the d-low? What are the top ten cities to catch NBA ballers in the grip of 'Jungle Fever?' Where is Pete Vescey when you need him?! Relax, homie, because we at NR will fill that gash with the salami you salivate over.

We find it wholly unnecessary, mind you, to check the teeth of these b-ball dunking draft horses that made Milwaukee and David Stern great. No. We go straight for the holy West African seed, the fount of these dusky freak's genetic makeup. Why should Jack Nicholson and Dyan Cannon and all the other corporate fairies get a bird's eye view of the Terrordome?! Worry no more. NR is here!

Henceforth, our penetration of the nether regions of taste and African American anatomy will be aided by a team of specialists previously employed by TMZ. Sporting the latest, minimalist technology, these stealthy agents will provide you with "the news that you can use" - 82 games per year. Video and photographic imagery with the highest zoom rate possible will take you into the lap of the action. The jungle. You are THERE!

Its all for you, just for you and you're all that matters. And if, by chance, our life-sized/low-angle reporting leaves you feeling a little less, er, um, impressive, there is still plenty of the usual, recurrent, toxic, 24/7 beat down on females - that you love so much and you know who you are, baby bubba. Why it'll have you higher than crack and PBR in no time. A little dab will do ya, Nikkuh!

James Blake: Inside an Enigma

Julian Johnson — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 15:00:55 -0400

Two scenes from a career.

Scene One: US Open 2005. Blake plays Paul Bunyan to Andre Agassi's virgin forest for two and one half sets. Bark and wood shavings litter Agassi's side of the court as Blake fires ground stroke and return winners with impunity.

The superior foot speed, the brutal forehand with its short back swing, and ruthless follow through have Andre's chin on his chest and shoulders sagging.

Up a break in the third, JB gets sloppy with his axe and the resurrection commences. He's in a generous mood, now, and his once tight game sprinkles gifts liberally to all corners of the court. It's Christmas in August.

This generosity allows Andre to oil his creaky groundies and quickly, his pace, depth and accuracy are loosed with winners flowing freely. Blake's game, meanwhile, needs a lube job.

Scoreline: 3-6, 3-6, 6-3, 6-3, 6-6. Is this match scripted or what?! In the end, a tight, taut tiebreaker ends with the right man and sentimental favorite winning. Captivating. Thrilling. Absurd. Everyone's happy, even the defeated. This doesn't sit right. Everyone likes a graceful loser but...The postmatch interview provides an important clue.

Blake says, paraphrasing, that if he has to lose to someone, he's glad its Andre. What?! Who says that? Connors/McEnroe/Borg/Federer?! And the thing is, he meant it.

Scene Two: The following year, US Open 2006, Andre's last. Blake exits the tunnel heading to the stadium court for his first match—dressed in an Andre Agassi tied-dyed, Nike monstrosity, an outdated outfit that the great man wore a decade before. And with a handkerchief tied around his head to boot.

This is Blake's idea of a tribute?! To me, its a nightmare, an embarrassment. What self respecting professional pays that kind of tribute to their "hero" who also happens to be a peer, and an opponent. He might as well have dressed up in drag. Wait a minute...he did.

There are other examples of the same deferential, ingratiating tendencies in Mr. Blake, qualities that are in no champion's makeup. Champions don't smile in defeat or talk about being glad to lose to somebody; they hate losing to anybody. Champions are bitter, petty, nasty in defeat. I love that about them.

And the best tribute you can pay to your hero is to destroy them. That's what all the greats have done to the previous generation. They respect their heroes so much that they butcher them and leave their cadaver in Grand Central Station.

The greatest form of flattery you can show a champion is murder. You show them how dangerous you think they are by making each point a crime scene.

That's what Ken Norton did to Ali and Monica Seles did to Chrissie and Andre and Pete did to Jimbo and McTantrum; it's what all the other little baby faced assassins do when they crave that mother's milk of being top dog. You don't get there by imitation or flattery or playing small at critical moments in a big match.

I want Blake to win one and believe he can win one, preferably the US Open. Its not likely, but he has the physical tools and the shots. He could train A LOT harder (he looks soft) and he could so use a new coach/tactician/trainer to wring the maximum from him in the next couple of years.

He is loyal to a fault, but if he doesn't become loyal to his gifts, his career will end up being a double fault, foot fault.

James, I believe in you. But you gotta change.

Althea Gibson Vs. Arthur Ashe: A Contrast

Julian Johnson — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 22:57:48 -0400

Saraswathi has asked me to answer a series of questions about the relative contributions of Althea Gibson and Arthur Ashe to the game of tennis. Here goes:

1) In terms of their contributions to changing the tennis map, who is greater?

Althea was the one who Dr. Robert Walter Johnson identified as a player who could potentially integrate the segregated tennis game. It all came together at the 1946 American Tennis Association Championships in Wilberforce, OH.

The ATA was and is the black equivalent of the United States Tennis Association; the ATA was created because "Negroes" could not play white tournaments.

Dr. J (my grandfather) approached Althea after she was beaten in the finals of the women's championship that year, by Ms. Roumania Peters. Dr. J had been speaking to another black doctor in the stands as they watched the frustrated Althea self destruct against her opponent.

The Lynchburg, VA physician leaned over to his buddy and whispered, "I wish there was something we could do for that girl." Over the remainder of the match, they formulated a plan.

Now, Dr. J stood before Althea and asked, "how would you like to play at Forest Hills," which is where the US National Championships, later, the US Open were held. She asked why he was joking with her as no Negro had yet to play the whites-only event. "You could play there," he told her. And in 1950, she did.

She was 19. The two doctors insisted that Althea finish her schooling as she was a seventh grad dropout. She lived with Dr. Hubert Eaton during the school year and summers with Dr. J when she would train on his backyard claycourt.

After a few weeks of practice, they would hit the road and play all of the black tournaments that Dr. J's schedule would allow. Althea never lost a singles match in the ATA again.

She was groomed for greatness and her results became too good to deny. She was accepted at Forest Hills, the first Negro to play there. She would eventually win Forest Hills and Wimbledon twice, as well as the French.

She was the Jackie Robinson of tennis and the game had never seen a woman with her skills and athleticism, so there is no question she was the greatest.

Arthur had a tremendous advantage in being No. 2. Yes, he was the first Negro male, and during that era black males tended to bear the brunt of racist violence. But, Althea had charted a course that Arthur and his mentor—who just happened to be HER mentor as well—could learn from and follow.

Althea's trials and sacrifice made Arthur's life far easier than if he'd had to both lay the track and drag the engine.

Arthur's timing was exquisite: he emerged in the middle of a televised revolution in the United States and much of the globe, with characters as disparate as Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Muhammad Ali, Huey Newton, Bobby Seale and Angela Davis appearing regularly on the evening news or in the daily newspaper.

And here was Arthur, a member of the US Army when many blacks, like Ali, were refusing to fight for Uncle Sam in Vietnam, speaking out in moderation and intelligence.

You had John Carlos and Tommy Smith raising their black gloved fists at the Olympics in Mexico as Arthur was winning the first US Open which joined amateurs and professionals for the first time.

Arthur charted his moderate course through these choppy waters, and became a champion (and an incredibly appealing personality) just as big money and big-time attention and interest were greatest.

So, Arthur's relative greatness must be measured by the serendipitous timing and good fortune of his being born second, and to have shown up when the Tennis Boom was in full bloom.

2) Who has greater shots?

Althea was probably a better athlete, better mover. She served hard and volleyed sharply and beat most of the men she played at my grandfather's house. I would give the edge to Althea only because there were few women who played as physical a game. She changed the game and inspired women like Billie Jean King to attack the net with abandon.

When he was a kid at Dr. J's, Ashe was a pusher, keeping balls in play and outlasting the competition. As he got older, he got bolder and was known for his huge serve and explosive backhand.

Ashe was a little stiff and upright in his bearing and his game could go off the rails, but he matured into an extremely thoughtful and cagey player. Just ask Jimmy Connors.

3) Why the tennis foundation gave Arthur Ashe his due but not Althea Gibson?

Althea didn't really want to be looked at as the first Negro to integrate tennis and be kept in that tiny box;she had larger aspirations. After all, she also became the first Negro to play the LPGA tour; for this amazing double alone, she should be chiseled on somebody's "sports Mt. Rushmore."

She also played the saxophone and appeared in a Hollywood film with John Wayne. But being constantly tagged or ID'd by race seemed a form of diminishment to Althea. Ashe, by contrast,seemed to relish his status far more and embrace the role of racial ambassador.

Ashe wrote a couple of books while he was still playing in which he discussed his life on the road and his upbringing. Kind of like Obama. He positioned himself to be a larger figure. Althea came along before Open tennis, before the big money and big spotlight.

She didn't take the same aggressive tack that Arthur seemed to when it came to putting herself out there.Plus, being a woman, I believe that all of her achievements were downplayed and obscured out of plain sexism.

And with the arrival of the 1960's and the increasing militancy by black male leaders who were handed microphones and expected to speak for all black folks, few women were accorded the honor.

4) What is the current state of affairs, with respect to minorities in sport?

When it comes to the presence of black people in big time tennis, you have to ask yourself: There have been four African American world tennis champions: Althea Gibson, Arthur Ashe, Venus and Serena Williams. Four.

Those four were coached by two black men, Dr. Robert Walter Johnson and Richard Williams. Their achievements were separated by 40 odd years.

How can it be that the ONLY black tennis champions were produced by two black men on minuscule budgets when the USTA takes in MILLIONS and supposedly spends hundreds of thousands if not millions on so-called, "multicultural programs" and "junior development?"

I believe that if the US tennis community was truly interested, they would have found the talent by now—the Jordans, the Iverson—that is laying idle in ghettos and other communities all over this country.

And they would not rest until children that talented were convinced to drop the basketball and grab the tennis racket. But then, those children would likely take over the tennis world.

The tennis community does not want what happened to the NBA to happen to it. All of the negativity that is projected at, dredged up and ladled on the Williams sisters in the tennis media, for "not being this, or being too that," is simply the coded expression of a desire for them to go away.

They are not wanted—except for their ability to generate profit. The hate will never be uttered openly, but it has been said in too many words, by Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Michael Stich and too many others to mention.

4a.) I guess African Americans are not still considered as minorities or are they?

We are considered minorities in tennis at least, which means un-integrated and un-integrate-able, undesirable, unwanted. What sport treats their natives as poorly as the Williams sisters are treated by the tennis community here?

5) What could be done to improve the sport so that minorities are given their due? What can be done at the grass-roots level? What is being done at the grass-roots level?

Black folks and other minorities need to raise cash, by tapping professional athletes, entertainment figures, or independently wealthy folks, in order to nurture our talent. No one else has done it for us but us.

There are some folks doing good work; if we had a consortium of black tennis pros who communicated, who created our own training facility(ies), utilizing the know-how we have gained from playing junior, college or professional tennis...the sky's the limit.

But the solution begins with a vision, a vision to find the talent that we know is there and it ends with the money and resources to get the job done.

The brainpower is there. The coaching acumen is there. The blueprint is there: if Dr. J could do it and if Richard Williams could do it, then so can Leslie Allen,Katrina Adams, MaliVai Washington, Joe Ragland, Willis Thomas, John Wilkerson, Zina Garrison and all the other great black players.

It can be done, because it was!

6) Who are the upcoming stars?

Hmmm. Madison Keys...Danielle Mills...Asia Muhammad.

[End]

Memo to Tennis Officialdom: Need Change

Julian Johnson — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 23:18:34 -0400

Tennis must have a Commissioner/Commission

This one development will determine whether tennis develops a logical, ethical governing body that oversees and guides the sport with wisdom and vision; or whether corporate "Lone Rangers" with no conscience, no vision and dollar signs in their eyes continue to pimp out the game to the highest bidder.

Regulate the Technology

Tennis rackets should be made of identical, standardized materials and there should be one standard racket size: 27" in length with a head size of about 65 square inches...This would encourage the development of intelligent point construction, artfulness, touch, as well as power.

Today's men's game is a game for homely sluggers and 'only mother could love' ball bashers. Thank God for Federer, Nadal, and Murray.

This may be contradictory, but I do believe that the additional power has helped the women's game. I still believe that the equipment must be standardized. They don't use aluminum bats in baseball, do they?!

Tennis must create a true season and off-season

"To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun...

A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted..."

Tennis needs a season. There is a time for playing and planting, a time for resting and regenerating. Nothing helps injure and burn out players faster than chasing ranking points and dollar bills in a never-ending season...All over the world!

Nothing would help a sport in need of "law and order" more than an off-season; it would allow the Commissioner/Commission time to reflect on the year just past and PLAN for the future. Who's handling the visioning of what the sport of tennis should look in five or ten years?

My point exactly!

We Need Some Profit Sharing

In the same way that wealthy NCAA athletic teams share TV revenue, so too should there be some profit sharing from television and the corporate sponsors that trickles down to the players not named Federer, Nadal, or Williams.

Travel is expensive; could there be a travel pool set up for the top 150? 200? Can hotel rooms and food be subsidized by the tour, through corporate relationships with a chain or two?

How would all this be accomplished? I don't know, ask the Commissioner?!

And on the fifth day, I rested...but there will be more.

Why I Would Never Join the United States Professional Tennis Association

Julian Johnson — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 18:44:40 -0400

Zina Garrison sues the United States Tennis Association (USTA) after being dismissed as Federation Cup Captain.

Two referees of color sue the International Tennis Federation for alleged discrimination in assignments and opportunities.

Former touring pro and ESPN tennis commentator MaliVai Washington disappears into the black broadcast media Bermuda Triangle.

Meanwhile, ubiquitous former player and broadcaster, Justin Gimelstob receives mere fist bumps from both the Tennis Channel and World Team Tennis for publicly discussing his desire to have Anna Kournikova—a former top ten player—sexually assaulted by his brother. Or, short of that, smashing her with an overhead at close range.

Gimelstob's other true confessions included his pulchritudinous assessments of several other female pro players over an open mic. He apologized—for getting caught—but tennis could hardly sanction him. After all, the Women's Tennis Association (WTA)—which was headed until recently by a white man—markets female players like baby back ribs at the butcher shop.

Something is wrong in the tennis world, but don’t expect an incisive critique or expose to be forthcoming from its ex-champions or the game's PR apparatus, AKA, “the tennis press.”

The incestuous bed that the tennis bigwigs, movers and shakers and “stars” lie in is stuffed with corporate greenbacks that will go BYE-BYE if a peep is heard about small matters like discrimination, fairness, equality or justice.

The next best thing to being a DNA-certified white man in the melanin-deficient tennis world is becoming a member of the United States Professional Tennis Association (USPTA). Why you may ask??

Because the USPTA happens to be the premiere training institute for white male teaching pros and the women and people of color who can survive the hazing process. Why shouldn’t I bow down and kiss the ring of tennis’ teaching Don’s and become certified as a "real" tennis pro?

Call it partly ego. I've been playing tennis since 1965—the year Malcolm X was assassinated. The men who fed me and my sibling’s bacon and backhands—Dr. Robert Walter "Whirlwind" Johnson aka "Dr. J" and his son Bobby Jr.—coached Althea Gibson, Arthur Ashe and dozens of other black players.

Tennis was played with wooden rackets back then; strings were made of nylon but just as often some poor animal’s intestines. The balls were white and so were most sanctioned events; a “whites only" policy was mandated by the United States Lawn Tennis Association (USLTA), the Po-Po of the tennis set. If you were black, you simply could not play big time tennis.

The USLTA which was the precursor to the United States Tennis Association (USTA), made sure that colored folks entered their tournament grounds by the back door only. We didn't carry rackets; we carried brooms or serving trays.

The phony superiority and the showy, discriminatory beatdowns of yesteryear are passé in 2009. But don’t be fooled: today’s tennis racism has seeped into the groundwater and morphed into a more sophisticated, subtle, occasionally undetectable, but still toxic brew.

In order to become a tennis instructor at a club, you need the seal of approval of the USPTA or one of its alphabet brethren. Though I’d been a ranked junior and adult, played college tennis and taught for years, none of that experience mattered. Get certified, or else! How did they get between me and a potential employer in a free market economy? How do they get to test me on what I know; who tests them?

Its monopolistic, I tell you, that an organization can coerce tennis facilities across the country to buy tennis widgets off of their assembly line. Lord knows though, that a little bit of fear peddling goes a long way in expanding profit margins. The real bottom line for me: I don’t trust “Institutional Tennis” to have my interests or the best interests of people like me at heart. I have seen far too much.

These thoughts were from my mind that day I received a message in my junk mail folder. It was a curious email from a USPTA member unknown to me, asking for advice. Seems she'd attended a "USPTA World Conference" event.

At the welcoming party was a well-known, self-promoting tennis blowhard who happens to be a musician to boot. He had been hired to "entertain" the tennis professionals in attendance and boy, did he ever. On this night, the email recounted, no minorities were spared his bigoted wit: Jews, blacks, women and even children were all equal opportunity victims of his verbal cyanide.

His collection of punch lines were funny to the crude, the cruel or the silenced. Offended attendees, she reported, slunk out of the crime scene, appalled and unseen,invisible to the testosterone-drunk, hairy honchos running the show.

Doing some research, I found out that the same man had put on other stellar performances across the country: he giddily told one assembled group how one of his favorite teaching pros—a black man—had been in jail most of his life and had to be bailed out to make that particular workshop. Hilarious!

At another of his party events, two black women became his "soul hooker sisters," and he called one of their children "Seal," the black singer. What a minx! At the club where I work, he called a pair of underage girls, "vestal virgins," whereupon several club members angrily stormed out.

My new email acquaintance was not about to let her experience at the “welcoming” party pass without documenting every derogatory adjective that she heard, making an initial complaint to her superiors in the USPTA, the sponsors of the event, and the corporate sponsor of the coach.

As the Women's Committee Chair of the USPTA, she was not unfamiliar with sexism and racism within the tennis community. After all, the USPTA is an organization that in 80 years has never had a minority serve on the National Board, has never had a woman win the Pro of the Year award, and repeatedly excludes women and minorities from media opportunities.

Her male superior with the USPTA asked her to document her observations in a written report. She complied with his request to the letter. But she did more: she was moved to object to sexism and racism within her professional community—in real time and with great courage.

Nobody had to tell her what she heard was wrong. She spoke with attendees to see how they felt. She spoke with sponsors to register her objections and demanded to know what they planned to do about it. She acted in the face of profound ugliness, while others shrank, or shrugged their shoulders, or laughed at the jokes. She did the right thing.

You'd have thought they would have given her a medal. But, the USPTA, which “actively promotes new membership and programs for minorities and women” and which “supports equal access,” did not support her.

They did not support their Women’s Committee chair who believed all of the equality, fairness pabulum put out by the National USPTA office. No. Though some of the racist, sexist rhetoric was spoken in the presence of her USPTA superior, it was she who was chastised and it was she who was “voted out" of her position.

Here’s a case study in bureaucratic sexism at work: after my friend files her formal complaint with the head honcho, the Blowhard miraculously finds out details of the exclusive USPTA report as well as the name, phone number, and email address of our hero, probably through a member of the USPTA testicular brain trust.

He immediately begins a full-court press, complete with unsolicited and increasingly urgent phone calls demanding that she get back in touch ASAP, and an email punctuated by an image of two hands gently touching. How heartwarming! He attempted to justify and explain away his "jokes" to this highly skeptical adult.

Bulldozing women who don’t appreciate his hubris is apparently Step Two in his manly-man playbook, for he began to accuse his accuser of not appreciating his comedic timing. She was being too sensitive, too politically correct, too girly.

Finally, she responded to him with a request that any future communication between them be conducted with a third party present. Faster than you could say, “Wam, bam, thank you Ma’am”—out came the law code book and the threats to go straight Johnny Cochran on her feminazi ass.

At this point, the USPTA national office stepped in and did what all courageous, patriarchal organizations do under duress—covered their own ass and supported continued white male dominance! They distanced themselves from their "Women's Committee Chair and member in good standing by nit picking her every move and playing psychological warfare.

"Did you make your complaints to the sponsors of the coach using your official organizational title or did you make it clear that this was your own personal beef?! NO?!
Oh, well now, YOU have made a TERRIBLE error.

This is an outrage, you have dragged all of us into the mud… now he is threatening to sue, steps may need to be taken as you can well imagine, but we must insist that in the future, please do not use our name in any of your future correspondence..."

The dizzying tsunami of microscopic missteps and punctuation errors by this "mischievous" woman dwarfed the pile of sputum that the respected, big-time Coach had lathered on his audience.

In fact, the USPTA indicated that the ONLY actions that were out of line were those of their Women's Committee chair. Taking a stand against racist, sexist speech at company welcoming parties is not only contrary to the USPTA's mission, it is a threat to its "hairy back" way of life and must be squelched by the surest possible means: a one way ticket to Siberia.

How else to understand the removal of this woman—without a blemish on her resume - from her post as Chair of the USPTA Women's Committee, without reason or explanation?! All for challenging racism, sexism and stupidity by one of its Neanderthal mouthpieces.

Women and minorities were served notice that they can have access to the benefits of the USPTA as long as they understand their position within the organization: second class.

Second-class citizenship for women and minorities is the clear dictum of the head honchos and suckas in charge of this tennis frat house. The mouthy, rebellious ones who seek to improve "access" or challenge the Good Ole Boy mentality need not apply.

My grandfather fought against these kinds of attitudes and shenanigans forty years ago. He knew that racism and other Isms were endemic, that the heart is slow to change, but that the rules and laws must reflect equality and justice.

It took Dr. J thirty-eight long years to finally be elected to the International Tennis Hall of Fame. And it looks like its going to take the USPTA and tennis in general far longer before they understand what it means to actually welcome, encourage, respect and support all members of this society who participate in this great sport.

Until then: “don’t mourn, organize.” Organize something new, something better! Women and people of color can and should fill the void created by the major league cowardice of tennis officialdom and the tennis stenographers who parrot what they are paid to say.

We need to tell our stories in our own press organs and let these ugly experiences be known for the world to hear. We need to create our own organizations that address the particular experiences that we confront in this game. We need to be the model of equality, transparency and fair dealing in the tennis community that we desire to see.

I know one thing for sure: I will never join the USPTA.