Arnold Palmer

The world is divided into two groups – Golfers and the rest of us.  Within the latter group are those who have of necessity mastered the art of zip-lip.  “Do not talk about this particular sport, especially along the lines of negativism, as in “it's like watching grass grow.”

Arnold Palmer brought a group of non-golfers to appreciation of the sport by mastering a combination of technical skill and likability that no one else could achieve. How could you not like Palmer, whether you were part of his “Army” or just a general sports fan?

There is also the Pennsylvania tie for us. Arnie was proud of his Pennsylvania roots, so we were kinsman from that standpoint. Surrounded by wisecracking New York Giants fans in our retirement world, this more than offsets criticism that our state has little to be proud of beside the Liberty Bell. Aficionados genuflect in the direction of Arnie's hometown of Latrobe (which is, as you probably know, is about 10 miles northwest of Ligonier) home of Rolling Rock beer. A panelist on a beer judging contest once noted that RR had the “distinct aroma of goat urine.” No matter, 19 year old collegians playing shuffleboard at Dave's bar considered RR the nectar of the gods. It was ever so.

Tributes to Arnold Palmer, king of the links, showcase a recurring theme - his personal graciousness to everyone. He was a model for the Golden Rule of “do to others whatever you would like them to do to you.” Golf lessons and endless talk about birdies and bogeys, hooks, shanks and whatever else fascinates golfers will have their moment, but one thing is for sure, the ever-lasting tribute to Arnold Palmer will be our memory of his warm smile, good manners on and off the course and respect for everybody else.

He taught a life lesson not just for golfers, but for all of us.                            

Done In by Dining Out

For many Americans dining out is a pretty big deal.  On paper at least, it holds the promise of something different, a break from the routine. There are the attractions of not having to clean up, wash the dishes, or at least get them into a dishwasher, put away those items that call for putting away.  For sure there are couples among us who welcome a “date” highlighting dinner.  Families find that the kids can frequently put aside their bickering long enough to have the attention given to them by ever-patient servers.  Plus, ordering whatever they want!

Yes, there were positive, bright sides to dining out in the old days. Today, not so much. Time marches on for sure when servers greet diners as if we are all part of one big frat house. The first time one asked “Do you guys want anything to drink?” I felt it insulting to my attractive wife and replied “Does this lady look like a guy to you?” Only that cool Guinness calmed me down.  No sense fighting the inevitable in our constantly dumbed down world.  Roll on.  There are enough hurdles challenging your digestion already. “Tipping” being one.  My wife and I don't go out for dinner all that much, but when we do I don't feel a need for a course in mathematics. Suggesting percentages for gratuities is an invitation to increased blood pressure. Still I don't want to go totally negative by being done in by dining out. There are certainly more reasons to go out once in a while than there are staying home 100% of the time.

Some dining out experiences are burned in my memory.  One such involves the officers club at the old Philadelphia Naval Base where I dined frequently with my good pal, the late Rear Admiral Jack Sweeney. Our friendship was forged in teenage years when he was caddying at the golf club in Somers Point, New Jersey, and I was setting up chairs and umbrellas on the beaches of nearby Ocean City. I respected Jack's rank but our long ago years were by far the strongest tie that bound us.

Most of the servers at the officers club were Irish women. And Sweeney, Irish to the core, loved the club's mashed potatoes that seemed to be part of every menu.  The Irish waitresses hovered around Sweeney like so many mother hens constantly asking him, “Admiral, would you like some more potatoes?” Sweeney never refused.

When my wife and I dine out and mashed potatoes are on the menu, I order them in memory of Admiral Sweeney.

The U.S. Tennis Open

Now that the 2016 Open is in the history books it's a good time to reflect on memories and some of the changes that have taken place over the past half century in the tennis world. 

Philadelphia has always been a great tennis town. In earlier days private clubs dominated the scene ranging from World War One with the immortal R. Norris “Dick” Williams (a survivor of the Lusitania disaster) to the 1950s and Davis Cup stalwart Vic Seixas. Both were Merion Cricket Club members. The tennis legend Bill Tilden played out of the Germantown Cricket Club where he had a private court for play and practice. Nowadays the club's swimming pool marks that site.

My own love of the game started when my tennis-playing Aunt Catherine gifted me with a wooden Bancroft racquet purchased from Mitchell & Ness, the mecca for sporting goods. It was strung in gut, the best possible in the late 1940s.  Aunt Catherine was a take-no-prisoners player due in part to the fact she had to work even as she raised her son. A rarity in those times. That weapon served me well during my collegiate career on the courts.

I started officiating matches in the 1950s along with two other guys from suburban Philadelphia, Brooks Keffer and Don Belcher. Our umpiring duties took us to the West Side Tennis Club in the Tudor styled neighborhood of Forest Hills, New York. The U.S. National Championships were held there prior to the opening of the new Billy Jean King tennis complex. You can't compare the two venues. Apples and oranges. The national center is a concrete giant of ever-expanding wonder; The West Side Tennis Club an intimate setting. Keffer and I used to take the train from 30^th Street Station to Forest Hills and the tennis aficionado's paradise. We'd return tired and suntanned at day's end. All the big names played in the championship of course so we had ample opportunity to see the Greats in action. The environment of the West Side Tennis Club setting also gave us easy access to the players in addition to sumptuous luncheons and what amounted to an open bar.  These perks more than offset the meager $8 we were paid for a full day's work calling lines.

Brooks has since departed for the Great Tennis Court in the Sky, but my memories of Mr. Keffer and the championships at Forest Hills are evergreen. Never more so than at this time of year when the U.S. Open is in full swing.

Throwing in the Towel

The 2016 Tennis season is now in the history books.  It was a hot one. Now tennis fans have to wait for The Australian Open in January for things to warm up again. Looking back, how did 2016 go?

For starters, the season was far too long for mortal bodies to survive without injury. Federer and Nadal, both sidelined by hurt, are prominent examples of the wounded in action.

The United States of America, long dominant in the Men's game, is strictly an “also ran” these days. Power lies elsewhere with Novak Djokovic of Serbia in the lead and a pack of contenders led by Andy Murray of Scotland nipping at his heels. 

The women's game is flowering with dozens of hard-hitting newly minted stars from here and abroad, including our own Madison Keys.  I disagree with those who say that women can't attract galleries and provide exciting play. Serena Williams is still the queen of the court. Long may she reign.

Loss of temper dominates the game of the new breed with very talented but immature stars like Nick Kyrgios yelling obscenities on court directed at one and all. Ilie Nastase, Jimmy Connors, John “The Brat” McEnroe and other legends of yesterday seem like choir boys in comparison. Why don't they understand that you can be admired for your talent AND be well-liked at the same time?

As part of the general demise of good sportsmanship, racket-smashing has opened up new frontiers for equipment manufacturers.  John Isner, formerly a poster boy for mothers wishing for an idealized son, recorded one best-be-forgotten rant. 

The habits of players whispering into a couple of tennis balls prior to hitting their serves had me imaging they were munching on yellow colored marshmallows like the treats we have at Easter time.

                   

But the biggest of all nonsense is the almost universal habit of going for a towel wipe down after every shot. Guys, it's time to throw in that towel and just play the game. 

Americans

This week will not be forgotten – certainly not in our lifetime. The horror story of the police being killed in Dallas adds a bloody mark not just on the city or the state of Texas but on the soul of every American. Our great country is dramatically less so because of the murders that happen with such frequency all across our nation. And yet this one cop-killing rampage all by itself shows just how dramatically far we have fallen.

When I was a little boy we were taught that the policeman was our friend – a safe harbor against all that was bad in our world. That feeling has served me well. I passed that philosophy along to my own kids. Then the world turned upside down and that feeling, along with acknowledging the Almighty, allegiance to the Stars and Stripes and respect for just about everyone and everything went out the window. Right up there with the very top sadness is broad brush thinking that all men and women in blue are hell bent on killing young black males. The flip side of the argument is that black youngsters are all paragons of virtue being persecuted by a white society represented by law enforcement.  Have we forgotten that the human race is fraught with imperfection, including both some of those in uniform and those in housing projects?  Still the bad apples in both categories are few in number.

During this terrible week, as in life, there were good days. My wife and I watched the Wimbledon tennis championships, proudly rooting for the Americans.  And that is the real lesson in the midst of all this horrible prejudice, racism and pure hate.  The first step of all is to recognize and herald the fact that we are all Americans - starting with thee and me. Dropping all the labels like Italian/American, African/American, Irish/American. This doesn't mean I have to forgo knocking back a couple pints of Guinness while getting misty-eyed when they sing 'Danny Boy”, nor should you have to give up your own nostalgic background. What it does mean is that our very survival depends on embracing the fact that each of us are first and foremost, now and forever more, Americans.     

Massacre

Terror was everywhere on a Pacific island during World War II where United States Marines were scattered among small foxholes. To leave those holes in the sand for any reason meant certain death. Fanatic Japanese soldiers were of another mind. They were determined to kill Marines one way or the other. Survivors of one such night were destined to remember forever the plaintive scream of a young Marine who called out repeatedly “Mother...Mother... he's killing me....he's killing me.”

I thought of that Marine's shriek in the night when the massacre in the Orlando gay club took place. How many of the slaughtered in that ballroom were thinking of their own mothers and imminent death? Not the same?  Oh yes, it is. It has to be time in Hell for anybody about to be murdered.

Then I thought of the evolution in my own time concerning homosexuality. It was a narrow perspective, way long before my generation ever heard the words “bisexual”, “transsexual” and other descriptions now part of our common vocabulary. Back then there were “homos,” “fags”, “queers” and “fairies”. Minority, strange people.

The military took a firm posture. From induction to virtually every stage of advancement in that culture, there were questions about participation or feelings about same sex. As a brand new lieutenant taking command of an Army platoon I was informed that a sergeant, highly prized for his proficiency, was going to be discharged from the service. His offense?  During off-duty hours he frequented a homosexual nightclub and danced as part of the entertainment.  Homosexual? Case closed. 

Then followed a period in New York City where my career had me working with gay people in the creative community. There were lots of them.  Many, not all, were brilliant people. Now, some 60 years later, I reflect on all of it. What happened? There are a hundred reasons, I guess.  But does it really matter if it is one, ten or a hundred?  It is what it is.

Seems to me that we don't have to give up anything, except hate. For me, I believe in a man and a woman joined in marriage to bring new lives into this world.  You don't have to agree with me.  I don't have to agree with you if you hold same sex marriage a priority.  But we sure have to respect the view of each other. Otherwise, we are killing ourselves. 

Tennis

If you are not a tennis player, or at least a fan of the game, it's best to work your iPhone rather than reading on. But if you too love tennis, you might enjoy tripping back over the years with me.

Everyone who ever picked up a racquet can recall highlights, or low lights, of his/her time on the courts. An everlasting image for me is the face of a University of Delaware doubles player when my wimpy first serve barely cleared the net. He asked “is that your serve?” to which I replied “15 - love.”

I was blessed in seeing many of the greats in action.  Hoad, Emerson, Laver, Kramer, Schroder, Trabert, Talbert, Gonzales, Segura, Margaret Court, Yvonne Goolagong, you name them.  Then the younger group – McEnroe, Connors, Agassi, Martina N, Martina H, Venus, and Serena came along.  I was lucky enough to watch many of them play too.

To be sure, there are many players I missed seeing in action – either because they were before my time or because of unlucky cards dealt to me by the tennis gods.  Ernest Renshaw and his twin brother, William, Wimbledon champions in the 1890s, are two examples of the former. As for the latter, I missed Bill Tilden when he played an exhibition match at the Cynwyd Club (Pennsylvania) in the late 1940s. Although that was long after his glory years in the Roaring Twenties, Tilden, 7 times World #1 and holder of 10 Grand Slam Singles titles, was then and remains to this day a tennis-world legend. 

Try this. Go to Wikipedia and search The 100 Greatest Tennis Players of all Time. You will be surprised by names temporarily forgotten which will now be happily remembered. Do you recall Roscoe Tanner electrifying the galleries with his rocket of a serve? (In the 1979 U.S. Open, one of his 140 mph left-handed serves misfired and brought down the net.) How about Dick Savitt? Fred Perry? Yannick Noah? Other names jump out of the past – the great Don Budge, modest Ken Rosewall, not-so-modest Bobby Riggs, not-so-nice Ilie Nastase.

Jack Kramer truly deserves special notice for it was he who revolutionized the game of tennis. He took it out of the shadows of sham “amateurism” and into a paying professional sport where it is now enjoyed by millions of fans all around the world.  Gardnar Mulloy has earned a spot on anyone's list.  When a tennis magazine referred to him as“39 year old Gardnar Mulloy”, he took it and ran. Gardnar seemed to stay 39 until the day he was elected to the Tennis Hall of Fame at 100.

A personal favorite?  John Bromwich of Australia. In my mind's eye I can still see him going up against the wall at Forest Hills to return the unreturnable with spectacular lobs. In tribute to Bromwich, I practiced and practiced lob returns.  I fancied myself the “lob king” at our little tennis club. No Bromwich I, but I did prove on more than one occasion that the lob belongs in everyone’s tennis quiver.