High life
Heavy hitting
Taki
he Meadow Club is probably one of the most beautiful tennis clubs in America, a Stanford White-designed structure that is as close as one can get to living in the past. By this I mean that manners count more than money among its members, whites are required at all times, and if people were to imitate one of our present tennis champs on court they would most likely find themselves being ejected from the place quicker than they can say John McEnroe.
I first visited it in 1957, when I was playing the American grass-court circuit, and getting the kind of results that would have got me executed had I been repre-
senting Bulgaria. Back in those halcyon days players were not exactly looked upon as gentlemen, or ladies for that matter, but we were nevertheless made to feel at home for one week in July, during the interna- tional tennis tournament.
Needless to say, I managed to get myself into a mess'on the first day of competition. I was playing someone by the name of Wallraven, who had an identical twin, also competing, and who rumour had it would substitute his brother during the 2-1 break in sets. It was a joke, of course, but one that didn't help matters when my first- round opponent gave me the kind of call Italians and Rumanians are known to give on their home turf when playing fore- igners. As we had no referee and were in a back court, I realised it might become a habit and decided to put a stop to it tout de suite. So on the very next point, I let one of his drop shots land flush in the middle of the court, and called it out. What I was trying to do was obvious, but not to a club member having a hit in the next court. He gave me the kind of look people reserve for those who pass wind in crowded lifts, and made some remarks about fair play having been invented in the land of Onassis. I may be many things, but a cheater I ain't, and I worried about it throughout the match, which unfortunately was soon over, Wall- raven having won it, but without giving me any more bad calls.
Now, 32 years later, I'm back playing in the Meadow Club, trying to get into shape for the veterans tournaments I will be playing this summer in Europe. I can think of worse places to be. There are endless rows of grass courts, 36 to be exact, all impeccably kept, thus preserving tennis as a game, rather than the lottery it turns into when played at Queen's. There is a great verandah where people sit and watch the courts, and on windy days one can hear the nearby surf of the Atlantic.
The grass-court circuit is no longer, which isn't a disaster in view of the turn the game has taken. Not even the Meadow Club could survive McEnroe, or the man who started the rot, Connors. Next month is the member-guest tournament, which brings out some pretty heavy hitters, and is the occasion for a few four-letter words to be heard around the club. The last time I played it was soon after I had come out of prison. Chuck Pfeifer was the member and I the guest. The night before we were to play he pulled his back out trying some new position with a girl. So another mem- ber grabbed me and we ended up losing every match we played. But we did have an excuse. He had decided to take up the game that very day.
This year I may be a member. My brother, who has been one for 30 years, has put me up, but when I asked him what were the chances of a jailbird making it, he answered me with a question of his own. `Do you know what caviar looks like?' he said rather rudely.
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