pancho gonzalez

It was 41 years ago at Wimbledon in 1969 that Rod Laver won leg No. 3 of his historic second Grand Slam. John Newcombe was his final-round victim in his fourth – and final – Wimbledon singles title. In this excerpt from Laver’s newly re-released and updated memoir THE EDUCATION OF A TENNIS PLAYER ($19.95, New Chapter Press, www.NewChapterMedia.com) written with Bud Collins, Laver discusses his victory in the championship match over Newcombe – and the celebration that followed…

To my mind, the whole match was a backhand I hit past Newcombe in the seventh game of that third set. Even though my mental outlook had been reinforced by the smash and the ace that held my serve, Newcombe still was ahead 4-2 and serving.

After I won the first point for 0-15, we got into an exchange and he belted a forehand crosscourt wide to my right. As I lunged for it he pressed tight to the net ready to cut off anything. He edged a bit to his left, figuring logically that if I got to the ball all I could do was try and slap it down the line. I got there, barely (“Rocket beats you with his bloody legs, that’s what,” said Fred Stolle). Adown-the-line backhand is my favorite in that situation. Everybody knew it, and I made up my mind I had to go the other way. (Pancho Gonzalez once said, “The dangerous thing about Laver is he hits the impossible shot when he’s out of position—the time you least expect it.”)

That was the time. I sliced like a man delivering a karate chop and sent a low under-spinning ball crosscourt. I still don’t believe the angle—and neither did Newcombe. The shot was a clear contradiction of everything we’d seen and done. There was no way it could clear the net and still land inside the court, yet it kept fluttering along somehow almost parallel to the net, eluding Newcombe’s frantic wave and landing just within the far sideline. You don’t plan a shot like that, not unless you’re on marijuana, and the only grass I’m partial to is Wimbledon’s. I had the general direction in mind and the rest just happened. It was nice to watch.

But Newcombe was shocked. I reckon the shot value was worth a lot more points than just that one to 0-30. There was enough of a crack in his morale for me to pour through. Moments later, I had his service game as he double faulted the last point.

Newcombe was faltering and I was doing everything I could to help him. I won my serve quickly, then whacked two good forehands and a backhand to get another break for 5-4.

“Hit the ball,” I kept reminding myself, but it was coming instinctively. On set point, the only bad bounce of the day saved Newcombe for a second. But I followed my next serve with a stiff backhand volley that gave me the set.

Now I was up 2-1 in sets, and I was determined to get him before he could recover.

He came in with the serve and I swatted a backhand down the line. All John could do was hurl himself after the ball, but it was well past him. He picked himself up and smiled despairingly. Everyone laughed good-naturedly, and a laugh is welcome in that place once in a while.

Two more backhands of mine pinched him at 0-40. Somewhere John found his serve for an instant, and he banged three good ones to pull himself to deuce. He was grunting as he served, tiring I could tell. I was peeved at not getting one of those serves back, then relieved when he missed by an inch with a lob that would have been trouble. My ad. He volleyed my return short, to the service line. For a long second it seemed the scene was frozen as we stood still facing each other at the net for this virtual match point. Which way would I hit the ball? He knew it didn’t matter since I almost surely could pass him whichever route I took, but he readied himself for a stab. I waited for the ball to bounce, took it with my backhand, and drove it straight down the line.

One-love for me with serve. I kept right on going to the cup, the check, and the victory party. The score was 6-4, 5-7, 6-4, 6-4. On actual match point, I put away a smash of Newcombe’s final lob. It was a satisfying ending.

They rolled out the green carpet to protect that hallowed sod from the street shoes of the Duke of Kent who came down to make the presentations.

After Newcombe won his Wimbledon in 1967, he told Princess Marina, then presenting the trophy, that he was going to go out and get drunk. Good, straightforward Aussie talk. Also expensive talk. It takes an awful lot of beer to get an Aussie full.

Fred Stolle likes to illustrate that point with a story concerning a national championship he won with Roy Emerson in the U.S. “We were playing the U.S. Doubles in Boston,” said Fred, “and our pattern for that week was alternate sleeping. One of us would party one night while the other stayed home at the hotel. We’d reverse it the next night. One of us rested, we figured, was enough to win the championship.

“It was my night out before the semifinals when we were going to play the top American team, Clark Graebner and Marty Riessen. I was at this bash at a place on Beacon Hill when I got into conversation with a character they called the Baron of Hungary who hung around the tennis.

“The Baron wanted to make a little wager on the match the next day and asked me how much I liked myself and Emmo. Fivers, I said. ‘Baron, I’ll give you five-to-one and you can have Riessen and Graebner.’ The Baron brightened noticeably. We had the icebox well flanked, and he never let me move a step. ‘Have a beer, Fred’ was just about the extent of his conversation as the hours went by. He kept reaching in and opening them for me. I kept drinking.

“As we moved through our second case I looked at my watch and it was about two thirty in the morning. ‘Baron,’ I said, I’ve got to leave, I don’t want to be late for the match. It starts at noon, you know.’

“He wasn’t in very good shape, but he said, ‘Fred, don’t you think you ought to let Emmo know about the bet? He ought to realize how important the match is.’

“‘Right you are, Baron.’ It struck me then as logical and I picked up the phone and rang Emmo, waking him from a sound sleep. He was not pleased. I believe he called me a bloody idiot while I was explaining the bet.

“I nodded to the Baron in the stands before the match. He looked like he might have a headache, but he seemed pleased about what he thought was a sure thing. I never played better and we killed Riessen and Graebner.”

Beer is mother’s milk for an Aussie. I don’t know whether Newcombe could afford enough of it in his finest amateur hour to follow through on his statement to the Duchess of Kent. But I had won $7,200, and that will buy enough lager to do in even an Aussie.

We had some champagne Saturday evening to celebrate in our flat with George MacCall and his wife and my close friends from New Zealand, John McDonald and his wife. I struggled into my dress suit for the Wimbledon ball where I’d have the ceremonial first dance with the women’s champion, Ann Jones. It was the first time two left-handers shared the opening fox trot which was “Fly Me to the Moon.” I can’t remember which of us led, but we didn’t endanger the reputation of Marge and Gower Champion.

The last thing I recall about the evening was sitting in a discotheque called Raffles with the music and the beer flowing nicely. I was grinning a lot, and Aretha Franklin was wailing, “R-e-s-p-e-c-t . . .” Pat Stolle, Fred’s wife, was talking with Mary about naming our baby.

“Well,” Pat was saying, “I think Forest would be quite good if it’s a boy. Since the baby is supposed to be born during Forest Hills, it would be a nice remembrance, wouldn’t it?”

Mary didn’t think so.

Nor did she like the proposal of Slamma for a girl. Or Slammer for a boy. She didn’t seem to care for the tennis motif, and I assured her we wouldn’t name the kid Drop Shot because we already had a dog by that name.

Everything began to run together. I forgot about Newcombe, the Slam, Forest Laver, Aretha Franklin, dancing with Ann Jones . . . and I woke up much later that morning in the bathtub, my tuxedo still on. I’d never been so well dressed for the tub.

At about 7:00 a.m., Mary tells me, the phone rang. It was a call from a newspaperman in Australia who wanted to talk to me about my victory.

“This is Mrs. Laver,” she said.

“Well,” said the reporter, “is your husband available now?”

“Uh,” she mumbled, thinking of the body in the bath, “Rod’s out.” She didn’t want to lie and she didn’t want to tell the truth. I think that was a pretty good answer.

“Gone out at this hour?” the fellow persisted. “When will he be back?”

“In about five hours. Why don’t you try him then.”

The next time he rang I was ready to chat. I’d found my head behind the tub where it had rolled, and screwed it back on.