A watershed for Ashe and society in ’68
“Arthur had an enormous presence about him, in whatever he did.” Steve Flink, sports journalist and historian
Fifty years have passed since Arthur Ashe made history at the U.S. Open tennis tournament, which opens Monday in New York. So much has happened since then, but in terms of historical significance, it’s difficult to surpass Ashe’s accomplishment, as an African American, in 1968.
These were the days of Forest Hills, an upscale suburb in Queens, before the event moved to its expansive current location in Flushing Meadows. And they were times of rampant segregation in America. Ashe was raised in Richmond, Va., where it was common to see “Whites Only, No Colored Allowed,” or “No Negroes” on the signage outside establishments.
He was taught to carry a temperament of dignity and restraint, qualities that served him well as he moved to St. Louis for his final year of high school and then to UCLA, where he led the Bruins to the 1965 NCAA title. His rise through the amateur ranks led him into the major tournaments, in which he carved out a distinguished reputation in a very white world.
And when he strolled through the grounds of Forest Hills, he was venturing into a private tennis club that would not have him as a member.
America’s most prestigious tournament was known as the U.S. National Championships until 1968, when professionals were allowed into the major events for the first time. This was a longoverdue development, bringing the likes of Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall, Lew Hoad and Pancho Gonzales into the mix. Ashe was among those strongly in favor of the change, although his personal status was unchanged: Arthur Ashe, party of one.
The great Althea Gibson had become the first African American woman to win a
major: the 1956 French Championships and the U.S. titles in 1957 and ’58, during the amateurs-only days. Ashe won the first U.S. Open, later to win the Australian in 1970 and Wimbledon in 1975. To this day, he remains the only black man to win any of those events. And when Yannick Noah, whose father was African, won the 1983 French Open, the new champion was quick to point out that he was introduced to the game in Cameroon by an American contingent led by Ashe.
To consider the sport of tennis in this regard is to be depressed and disillusioned. Only a handful of African American men have risen to prominence: James Blake, Malivai Washington, Donald Young and a player currently on the rise, Frances Tiafoe. That’s a terribly short list. Ashe was taken from us much too soon, dying at 49 in 1993. His absence is mourned to this day.
“Arthur had an enormous presence about him, in whatever he did,” said historian Steve Flink in a recent interview. “Had he lived, I think he could have made a difference getting black kids interested in the game. To change the picture entirely, no. Tennis gets to be expensive when you’re moving up the ranks, and it’s natural for kids to turn to other sports. But Arthur would have had an impact.”
Growing up exclusively with members of his race, Ashe had the good fortune of living a few yards from a public tennis court in Richmond. His father was a caretaker of the park by day and a police officer by night. “My father always taught me, ‘Respect everyone, whether they respect you or not,’ ” Ashe said on NBC’s “Speaking Freely,” and he had a worthy mentor in Dr. Walter Johnson, a black physician who took on prospects — among them a young Gibson — in the summer months.
Studious and intellectually inclined by nature, Ashe embraced Johnson’s advice. “He figured that in the segregated South at the time, if any of the tournament directors could figure out any excuse for kicking us black kids out, they would do it,” Ashe said. “So he was looking for kids who could take the mental pressure of not exploding on the court, as well as measuring up to the winning and losing. We were taught to be impeccable in our appearance. We didn’t have linesmen, only an umpire, so you called your own lines, and every close call would go to your opponent, so they could never say you cheated. Just play the points, and keep everything inside.”
Ashe grew into a man many have likened to Jackie Robinson, known for his powerful sense of calm and integrity when he broke baseball’s color barrier with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947. In either case, incendiary words or physical retaliation would be damaging to the cause. Their behavior would be above reproach, allowing for the strict evaluation of talent — and manhood.
It’s important to remember that 1968 was a tempestuous year in American history, marked by nationwide race riots and the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy. It was a time for activists to be angry and conspicuous, personified in the approach taken by Stokely Carmichael, Rap Brown, Harry Edwards and (at the 1968 Olympics) John Carlos and Tommie Smith, among many others. There was ostensibly little to be gained in silence, which at that time characterized Ashe’s demeanor.
“He was criticized as an Uncle Tom in the black community, and white people found him too aggressive,” said Stan Smith, a U.S. Davis Cup teammate in the late ’60s and a cherished friend thereafter. “He was caught in the middle of two extremes. But he was always his own man, respectful, holding his tongue, thinking his way through things.”
On a Tennis Channel “Signature Series” tribute to Ashe, longtime friend and agent Donald Dell tells a story about a 1968 meeting at the home of Andrew Young, a politician and diplomat who became a leading activist in the civil-rights movement. “Some 35 young black leaders were there, and at one point, Jesse Jackson said, ‘Arthur, you’ve got to be much more outspoken, a bigger leader. You’re too quiet.’ And from the back of the room, Arthur said, ‘Jesse, I’m just not arrogant like you.’ ”
This was the man — quiet, supremely self-confident, at ease in any setting — who won that first U.S. Open at Forest Hills.
His tennis game was at odds with his personality. Though Ashe employed the serve-and-volley style that was predominant in his time — backed by a punishing first serve — he also had a go-forit attitude once the rally got started. In his book “Days of Grace,” Ashe wrote, “That’s the only time I was reckless, on the court. Fans deserve to see a player with flair, and sometimes I would try the difficult shot, or even the impossible shot, just for the hell of it. My mind wandered at times on the court, but I was entertaining, and I liked that.”
Smith, widely considered the world’s No. 1 player in 1972 (before the official computer rankings), said Ashe decorated his game with “one of the most beautiful backhands you ever saw.” Fellow top player Charlie Pasarell called it “one of the best backhands of all time, any era, and he had one of the best serves into the deuce court of anybody who ever played. He’d serve you wide, really open up the court, and that was especially effective on grass.”
Yes, there was grass at Forest Hills, dating back to 1915, and it remained that way until 1975. (The move to Flushing Meadows took place in ’78.) So much was different then. There were no chairs on court, players simply standing during the changeovers — Ashe cleaning his spectacles with a towel — and walking to the other side. The main court was a horseshoeshaped, concrete bowl holding around 14,000 fans. On the two side courts adjacent to the clubhouse and dining patio, players tried to ignore the sounds of tinkling glasses, rattling plates and loud conversation among high-society folks only marginally interested in the tennis.
Ashe, who entered the tournament as the No. 5 seed, dreaded the prospect of playing Laver in the quarterfinals. He had not beaten the man who won the Grand Slam (all four majors) in 1962 and would repeat in ’69. But Cliff Drysdale upset Laver along the way, and Ashe didn’t have a problem solving Drysdale or Clark Graebner, his semifinal opponent. It came down to Ashe against Tom Okker, the fastest man in tennis — they called him “The Flying Dutchman” — and an artist, never comfortable with Ashe’s slambang approach.
Ashe prevailed, by scores of 14-12, 5-7, 6-3, 3-6, 6-3 (no tiebreakers in those days), becoming the first American man to win the tournament since Tony Trabert in 1955. After the handshake, wrote Dave Anderson in the New York Times, Ashe “clasped his hands and held them high in the traditional gesture of a victorious boxer. Moments later, he cupped his hands behind his head and walked around, staring at the turf.”
With no prize money available to amateurs, Ashe’s $14,000 purse went to Okker. Ashe was allowed to keep only his $28 per diem, amounting to $280 for the tournament. But it wasn’t about the money for Ashe, or for the pages of history.
“There was no guarantee we would have professionals in that tournament,” Pasarell recalled. “They played at Wimbledon, but Robert Kelleher, the president of the USTA at that time, knew there was a lot of opposition. It was no slam-dunk. He came to me and Arthur — we were ranked No. 1 and 2 in the U.S. for 1967 — and without question, we said yes. It showed Arthur’s courage; he wanted to play the best. Said we have to do this. And lo and behold, Arthur wins the tournament. Considering everything that was happening at that time, in tennis and in the country, if you had to write a script, that was the perfect result of the first U.S. Open.”
Even greater moments were to come. Radically shifting his strategy to fit the occasion, Ashe confounded the heavily favored Jimmy Connors with dinks, chips, drop shots and slices to win Wimbledon in 1975, the greatest triumph of his tennis career. Ashe made several lengthy trips to South Africa, after being denied entry for three years, and according to Drysdale, a native South African, “Arthur was the biggest steppingstone in the destruction of apartheid in sport.”
So much lay ahead — some thought he was destined for the world of politics — until tragedy struck, without mercy. Just three weeks into his 37th year, he suffered a heart attack in 1979. There were complications, and he required a second bypass surgery in 1983. Five years later, having lost all motor function in his right hand, he underwent brain surgery, at which time it was discovered he had AIDS — the result of a blood transfusion from the second heart procedure. He died Feb. 6, 1993, leaving behind his wife, Jeanne Moutoussamy, daughter Camera and a legacy of goodwill.
“I think people now realize what a tremendous effect he had on the civil-rights movement, and in so many other ways,” Pasarell said. “Everything he did was so exemplary. There wasn’t a thing you could say against him. He changed people. He changed the ways of society. He changed the world.”
“He was always his own man, respectful, holding his tongue, thinking his way through things.” Stan Smith, U.S. Davis Cup teammate, on Arthur Ashe