1973 Redux – Page 6 – Heavy Topspin

August 25, 1973: See and Be Seen

*Bobby Riggs as Little Red Riding Hustler*

There was no better encapsulation of the 1973 tennis season than the Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Pro-Celebrity Tournament, held at Forest Hills on August 25th, a few days before the US Open was set to begin. The field was packed with tennis stars, Hollywood idols, and Kennedys.

And Bobby Riggs stole the show.

Ilie Năstase played doubles alongside Walter Cronkite. Davis Cup captain Dennis Ralston teamed up with NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle. Ethel Kennedy showed off groundstrokes that would have passed muster on tour. Sidney Poitier held a hand-shaking session–“no autographs, just handshakes.”

So many celebrities took part that the most famous tennis players in the world blended into the background. Stan Smith was forgotten next to his doubles partner, Merv Griffin. Björn Borg, who had attracted so much attention at Wimbledon that the groundskeepers feared his teenage fans would destroy the turf, was ignored entirely.

Some of the stars even cared about tennis. Dustin Hoffman won the event in 1972. “This means more to me than my family,” he said as he attempted to defend the title.

But no one could compete with Bobby Riggs. The 55-year-old Happy Hustler was a walking advertisement for his match against Billie Jean King, now 26 days away. Riggs showed up in a red minidress–“Little Red Riding Hood in drag,” according to the Daily News.

Despite the getup, Riggs singlehandedly took on comedians Alan King and Bill Cosby. Bobby won the first point with a trick serve that barely cleared the net. Cosby was realistic about his chances: He kept a cigar in his mouth for the entirety of the three-game “match.” Riggs won it, 3-0.

He agreed to a rematch–another opportunity to show off. The teams bet $100 a man, with numerous handicaps in place to slow down the former Wimbledon champion. Riggs had to carry valise containing a heavy rock and sit in six chairs placed around the court. All while wearing a trenchcoat–but that might have been a courtesy for those fans who had seen the minidress fall down one too many times.

This time, King and Cosby won. “If they were woman comedians,” said Riggs, “I would have bombed them right out of their socks.”

It was never about the tennis, of course. The stated purpose of the event was to raise money for disadvantaged children. Really, it was an opportunity for the “beautiful people” to mingle. Tennis had always been a rich man’s game. Now tradition was turned on its head: 15,000 fans could come out and watch famous faces try to keep the ball in play. At the height of the tennis boom, it didn’t even really matter if the celebrities could play. A movie star holding a racket was enough.

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This post is part of my series about the 1973 season, Battles, Boycotts, and Breakouts. Keep up with the project by checking the TennisAbstract.com front page, which shows an up-to-date Table of Contents after I post each installment.

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August 24, 1973: The Lightest Brigade

*Chris Evert (left) and Virginia Wade ahead of the 1973 Wightman Cup*

The Wightman Cup was a relic of a bygone era, a two-country competition that placed the United States and the United Kingdom atop an international pedestal. It awarded no prize money, and when the Open era first dawned, it excluded professionals outright.

Yet in 1973, the Wightman Cup celebrated a triumphant 50th anniversary. Its founder, 86-year-old Hall of Fame trailblazer Hazel Wightman, attended the matches and collected plaudits from around the world. Queen Elizabeth II named her a Commander of the British Empire.

Interest in the matches was as high as ever. Many tennis fans in Boston had yet to see 18-year-old Chris Evert in person, so they packed the grandstand at the Longwood Cricket Club. Two years earlier, Chrissie had been the youngest competitor in Wightman Cup history. This year, the record would be broken by her younger sister Jeanne.

The only concern was the lack of a strong challenge for the hosts. The visiting Brits would be led by captain Virginia Wade. The rest of the squad was barely known in England, let alone abroad. Boston Globe columnist Bud Collins dubbed the anonymous group of Lindsay Beaven, Veronica Burton, Lesley Charles, and Glynis Coles “the Phantom Fillies,” and in a sharper dig, “the Lightest Brigade.”

Much rested, then, on Wade’s performance. The best-of-seven series opened on August 24th with the marquee match: Ginny versus Chrissie. Evert had won their Wightman Cup encounters each of the previous two years, but Wade was riding a two-match winning streak against the youngster. At a Dallas tournament in March, the Brit had held on for a 9-7, third-set victory.

With Mrs. Wighty looking on, Evert was unforgiving. Wade played well, but it wasn’t enough. “Whatever Virginia did sensationally,” wrote Collins, “Chris countered superlatively.” The veteran broke back for 3-all in the first set, but Evert reeled off five straight games to take the set and build a lead in the second. In 64 minutes, it was over: 6-4, 6-2, to the Americans.

The first match was a representative preview of the rest. Wade continued to stand up for the colors, defeating Patti Hogan in her second singles and contributing to a straight-set doubles victory with Coles. Alas, the rest of the Lightest Brigade proved the truth in Collins’s jibe. None of the other Brits won a set in singles. The series concluded when even 15-year-old Jeanne Evert got on the board, partnering Hogan to a 6-3, 4-6, 8-6 victory in the final doubles.

Anachronism that it was, the Wightman Cup continued to engage fans on both sides of the Atlantic. Americans could watch their best prospects debut on a big stage, and Brits could cheer for the occasional upset that kept the series interesting. The 16-nation Federation Cup made more sense, and the weekly smattering of pro events were better suited to the era. But the Wightman Cup retained a certain cachet, and in the tennis world of 1973, that still counted for something.

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August 23, 1973: One Perfect Truth

*Stan Smith, Ilie Năstase, and Tom Okker*

Major tournament committees never had an easy job. Given a pile of national and regional rankings–sometimes many months out of date–and another pile of entry forms, they had to decide who could play their event. Then, with the field in place, they had to decide on the seedings.

It was an art, not a science. Rankings were published just once a year. Beyond the first ten, few lists compared players across national borders. In both ranking lists and entry decisions, there were biases, both acknowledged and obscured. Players complained of a “star system,” in which famous names were given priority over superior players. Insiders, especially members at clubs where tournaments were held, had an edge. Young players benefited from well-connected coaches.

So it had been for half a century. Tournament entries hadn’t always been an issue: There was usually enough room in the bracket for everyone. In the early days, draws were arranged at random. It took a run of disastrous bad luck for officials to decide to keep top players away from each other. At the US National Championships in 1921, the paths of the two best men players–Big Bill Tilden and Little Bill Johnston–intersected in the fourth round. The women’s draw was even worse: Visiting sensation Suzanne Lenglen drew home favorite Molla Mallory in the second round. It is no exaggeration to say that the latter quirk of fate–and Suzanne’s loss by retirement–altered the course of tennis history.

Within six months, USLTA tournament draws were seeded.

In 1973, the system underwent a change almost as significant as the adoption of seeding. On August 23rd, the new men’s players’ union, the ATP, released its first set of rankings.

There was no bias in the ATP’s calculation, aside from the tendencies of an imperfect algorithm. Players were given points for their performance at each tournament, then assigned an overall total based on their average over the past year.

The ATP’s list didn’t immediately rise to the top of the heap. The same week, the US Open announced its seeding lists, based on

the U.S. Lawn Tennis Association rankings, Commercial Union Grand Prix points, World Championship Tennis records, and–for the first time–a statistical approach consisting of a new computerized ranking system developed by the Association of Tennis Professionals.

Information overload, perhaps. Committee members couldn’t decide between Ilie Năstase and Stan Smith, so they awarded the two men co-No. 1 seeds. (The ATP ranked them first and third, respectively.) The committee also acknowledged surface preferences, something that the single-number ATP formula ignored. Dirtballer Manuel Orantes ranked second on the new computer, but he was seeded eighth on the grass at Forest Hills.

Quibbles about the ranking formula are as old as the system itself. The approach of averaging tournament results, in particular, incentivized players to stick to their best surface and skip smaller events; it was possible for someone to sit out a week and see his ranking go up!

The important thing, though, was that the imperfections were the same for everyone. An algorithm could be tweaked; a small group of entrenched bureaucrats could not. Bill Scanlon, then a 16-year-old beginning to gain attention as a promising junior in Texas, later called the ATP rankings “the one perfect truth.” They weren’t perfect, but that wasn’t the point. The formula provided objective targets free of favoritism.

The biggest winners were the deserving players on the fringes. Nastase and Smith would’ve been seeded anywhere regardless of the system. Most people could agree on the top ten, give or take a name or two. But what about an American teen who grew up playing in public parks, as Bobby Riggs had done in the 1930s? Or the rising number of challengers from Eastern Bloc nations without a long history on the international scene? Outsiders could now be judged more on their performance, less on their reputation and connections.

The players, in short, had gained even more control over the game. Within a few years, most tournament committees had given up on the job of determining entries and seeds themselves. Most fans probably didn’t notice the difference. But the rise of computer rankings set the stage for a more meritocratic, more inclusive sport.

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August 20, 1973: Friendly Territory

*Marty Riessen in the 1973 Davis Cup semi-finals*

Davis Cup semi-finals were supposed to be drama-packed clashes of titans. When the United States hosted Romania for a place in the 1973 Cup final, there were titans present, but 6,000 fans waited in vain for the drama.

Stan Smith and Ilie Năstase had already faced off in three late-round Davis Cup ties, not to mention a Wimbledon final. The 1972 Davis Cup final had been one for the ages, with Smith and company venturing into hostile territory in Bucharest. Confronting watered-down clay, biased officials, gun-toting “translators,” and the imposing duo of Năstase and Ion Țiriac, the Americans somehow pulled out a victory.

The United States had spent their entire victorious 1972 campaign on the road, thwarting the hopes of local fans in Jamaica, Mexico, Chile, and Spain before defying the locals in Bucharest. Now they could reap the rewards.

This time, the Romanians trekked to the Round Hill Country Club in Alamo, California, just outside of San Francisco. Canadian referee Fred Bolton would treat both sides fairly. Țiriac, split from Năstase and easing into retirement, was missing. And the matches would be played on cement–a surface that Țiriac’s replacement, Toma Ovici, had encountered only twice before.

Opening day offered few surprises. Smith destroyed Ovici, a result so universally anticipated that the Romanian said that he was proud to have won nine games. Năstase had an equally easy time of it against American veteran Marty Riessen. Riessen mounted a challenge in the second set, but the result was lopsided: Năstase never lost his serve, and he broke five times.

The sellout crowd could do little apart from fidget and engage in idle speculation. Năstase had recently made the news for cursing out an umpire in Cincinnati, but he behaved himself here. When he mildly protested a line call, fans began to ride him–anything to break up the monotony of another lopsided match.

The American faithful also wondered if Riessen was a good choice. He certainly didn’t threaten the Romanian star. The 31-year-old hadn’t played Davis Cup since 1967, ruled out of the competition by his status as a contract pro. Bringing him back meant booting Tom Gorman, a younger player who had won four Cup rubbers in the last two years. Captain Dennis Ralston said he was opting for experience. There was little else to separate the two. When the ATP released its first-ever rankings list later that month, Riessen and Gorman were placed 14th and 15th, respectively. My retrospective Elo ratings have them at 1,967 and 1,964–a virtual tie.

The next day, the doubles continued to follow the script. Smith and Erik van Dillen straight-setted Năstase and newcomer Ionel Sânteiu. The speedy Sânteiu was better than the hosts expected. But he, like Ovici, was unaccustomed to playing on cement, and he had partnered Nastase only twice before.

On August 20th, the Romanians would make one last push to defy the chalk. If Ovici could upset Riessen, a fifth-rubber showdown between Smith and Năstase would determine which side faced Australia or Czechoslovakia (okay, Australia) in December for the championship.

While Riessen wasn’t a unanimous choice, he was more than adequate to finish the job. His big serve was more appropriate for the cement than Ovici’s clay-tuned game, and he turned up the pressure from the start. The veteran won 16 of the first 18 points of the match, as well as the opening point in 19 of the first 24 games. The Romanian fought out a triple-deuce game to sneak off with the second set, but Riessen always seemed to have the matter in hand. He secured the victory for the Americans, 6-1, 4-6, 6-1, 7-5.

The fans, finally, had something to get excited about. Yes, they could celebrate, but more importantly, Smith and Năstase would finally line up in singles. In the 1970s, as long as the schedule allowed, dead rubbers were played. They even counted for Grand Prix points. Năstase had won the lucrative 1972 Grand Prix and was slogging out a punishing 1973 schedule in an effort to defend the crown. Even though Romania’s Cup campaign was done, Nasty had good reason to take this one seriously.

For the fourth time in their long rivalry, the two stars went five sets. Năstase broke at 6-5 to take the first. From there, Smith’s serve allowed the American to take control. The surface, once again, worked in the home team’s favor. Big Stan claimed the Grand Prix points, 5-7, 6-2, 6-3, 4-6, 6-3.

The 1973 final would be held in Cleveland, once again on a surface chosen to suit the home team. All the Americans could do now was wait: Australia and Czechoslovakia wouldn’t settle the other semi-final until November. With Rod Laver, John Newcombe, and Ken Rosewall suiting up for the Aussies, Smith and the gang would take any edge they could get.

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August 19, 1973: Sometimes on Sunday

Reverend Bob Hetherington had a busy week. Top seeded at the 1973 National Public Parks tournament in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the 32-year-old left-hander found himself running around both on and off the court. After advancing to the second round on Monday, he flew home to Buffalo to officiate a funeral. He raced back to Pittsburgh on Tuesday, only to discover that his second-rounder was delayed by rain.

What would he do, local reporters asked, if he made it to Sunday’s final? Some athletes of a religious bent would never play on Sunday. “The Rev”–as he was known in Buffalo tennis circles–wasn’t so devout as that. He’d find a substitute for the morning service and chalk it up as a vacation day.

Hetherington had reached the final of the Public Parks event in 1971, so it wasn’t just idle speculation. He had been a well-regarded junior, earning invitations to play the US National Championships at Forest Hills in 1960 and 1961. The Reverend kept up his game through the years, winning local events in both Pittsburgh and Buffalo. Tennis wasn’t even his best sport: He was nationally ranked in squash rackets, with multiple victories to his credit over all-time great Hashim Khan.

The Public Parks event was well-suited to a man of Hetherington’s skill level and full-time employment. For 47 years, the tournament had invited qualifiers from regional playoffs to compete for national titles. It attracted many strong players over the years, especially Midwesterners who couldn’t quite cut the mustard among elite competition. Even when many of the world’s best tennis players remained amateurs, there was demand for lower-stakes events that showcased the abilities of outstanding recreational players.

Hetherington had maintained that level for more than a decade, and he possessed the easy confidence of a veteran. In the third round, a Washington, D.C. law student named Pierce Kelly pushed him to 10-all in the deciding set before he finally pulled away.

“Never in doubt,” laughed the Reverend.

“You don’t defeat a clergyman in tennis,” wrote Jeff Samuels in the Pittsburgh Press. “He’s got too many forces on his side.”

He would need all the help he could get. As he advanced through the bracket, Hetherington lined up a replacement pastor for Sunday’s service. Then, at the last minute, he learned that his sub couldn’t make it, either. After winning Saturday’s semi-final, he once again dashed home.

On August 19th, the Reverend began his day by delivering a sermon to his Episcopalian flock in Buffalo. Another run to the airport, another short hop to Pittsburgh, and he arrived only an hour late for the final. This was the Public Parks tournament, not Wimbledon, and no one was about to default a man of the cloth on Sunday.

If Hetherington was exhausted by his outrageous commute, there was no sign of it. He made quick work of his opponent, a 19-year-old University of San Diego student named Russell Watts. The Reverend won the championship, 6-3, 6-2. He stayed on court to win the doubles title with buddy Charlie Garfinkel by nearly the same score, 6-2 6-3.

Victory complete, Garfinkel joked, “I guess it’s back to oblivion for me.”

The Rev would step away from the national scene, as well, but he was hardly taking a break. The next weekend, he led the field at the Kronman Memorial tournament in Buffalo. The final was scheduled for 1 P.M. on Sunday–perfect for a player who had a few things to take care of in the morning.

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August 18, 1973: The ATA at MIT

In the six years since big-time tennis went “Open,” the line between professionals and amateurs had blurred. No longer were pros relegated to one-night stands in high school gymnasiums; no longer was amateurism a byword for athletic integrity.

Civic groups were, to varying degrees, caught in the middle. The American Tennis Association, an organization for Black players that dated back to 1916, had come of age in the amateur era. It offered playing opportunities for middle-class Blacks who were excluded from the country clubs that dominated American tennis. The ATA also provided a training ground for stars. Althea Gibson first proved her mettle at ATA events. A decade later, Arthur Ashe did the same.

One man hoped that the 1973 ATA Championships would offer a similar springboard. On August 18th, Art Carrington, a 26-year-old from New Jersey, won his first title at the national event. Carrington worked with Sid Llewellyn, the flashy Jamaican who had once coached Gibson, and he had given up his job as a schoolteacher in May to focus solely on tennis.

The ATA tournament, held at the MIT courts in Cambridge, Massachusetts, was a confidence-builder for Carrington, especially after he squandered eleven match points in the previous year’s final. But it was unclear how much the result meant. Amateurs made up most of the field. The runner-up, Doug Sykes, was a 30-year-old tax attorney from San Francisco.

Llewellyn was optimistic about his student’s chances among the pros. “Oh, he’ll make it, all right,” said the coach. “If they don’t break his spirit, he’ll make it.” Gibson and Ashe had opened the door for Black players, but no one had yet followed them. Breaking into the sport wasn’t cheap, and the establishment still had ways of throwing obstacles in the path of aspiring Black players. Carrington preferred not to talk about that. He focused on just one thing: Playing a little better when a big opportunity finally came along.

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The women’s competition revealed even more contrasts in the ATA’s ranks. The runner-up was Jean Burnett, a 33-year-old housewife from New Jersey who had taken up the game because her husband wanted a hitting partner.

The champion, though, was a teaching pro and occasional circuit player named Mimi Kanarek. Kanarek, who had grown up in Nicaragua with Polish parents, wasn’t even Black. The ATA had always welcomed all comers, especially those who didn’t fit in at tennis’s traditional upper-crust venues.

Kanarek made her first appearance at an ATA event back in 1960, when she won a title in Hampton, Virginia. At the time, she was a secretary and translator in Brooklyn, a latecomer to tennis. She steadily climbed the ranks in New York-area tennis, rising as high as the number two ranking in the USLTA’s Eastern region. She won a regional title in 1967 and began running a tennis club in Manhattan.

In 1965, Kanarek’s career took the oddest twist of all: She played a match as part of an art installation conceived by the painter Robert Rauschenberg:

The game pitted the tennis pro Mimi Kanarek against Frank Stella, already one of America’s most radical and celebrated painters. Surrounded by some 1,200 viewers on bleachers, the two strode into the drill hall of the 69th Regiment Armory in New York and faced off across the net. Each time one of them hit the ball, a miniature radio transmitter inside the racket broadcast a loud “bong” and sent a signal extinguishing one of the hall’s 48 overhead lights.

By 1973, she was the assistant pro at a club in Hastings-on-Hudson. Ironically, the one-time outsider now counted New York City mayor John Lindsay among her clients. Now 40 years old, she found that feeding balls to students didn’t help her game: She had never had the “killer instinct,” and she got out of the habit of trying to put balls away.

Kanarek, like Carrington, found herself in the awkward middle ground between amateur and pro. She could beat most amateurs but few professionals. With her ATA trophy in hand, she headed back to New York, where she entered the qualifying draw for the US Open. One second-round loss later, it was back to the club. She had a full slate of lessons ahead of her.

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August 16, 1973: Stretched Thin

*Newspaper ad for the 1973 Jersey Shore Tennis Classic*

Billie Jean King just couldn’t stay away. After losing the Nashville final to Margaret Court, she told Margaret that she would sit out the next two weeks. A couple days later, there she was, prepping for another tournament, another first-round match.

King was the face of the Virginia Slims tour, now more than ever. She was both the reigning Wimbledon champ and the next woman to challenge 55-year-old Bobby Riggs. What was she going to do, stay home and do interviews? She could leave that to Bobby, and after all, the press would come to her.

Fatigued or not, Billie Jean breezed through the start of a new week, disposing of French veteran Françoise Dürr in her opening match. Dürr could be dangerous on clay–the pair had gone three sets on dirt in Nashville–but indoors at the Allaire Racquet Club in Wall Township, New Jersey, King had the edge. She lost just five games.

But on August 16th, warming up for her second-rounder against Joy Schwikert, King slipped as she chased down a ball. The verdict: a strained ligament. She was out of the tournament.

“It’s a shame for the tournament and the spectators that Billie Jean and Kerry [Melville] are out,” said Court. Melville had taken a spill, as well. Margaret didn’t seem to mind too much on her own account: She had won 11 of 14 Slims trophies in 1973, and King’s exit made it a near-certainty she’d pick up a 12th.

Kerry Harris, who reached the quarter-finals by outlasting sixth-seeded Val Ziegenfuss, took a different view. “It’s always great seeing new people getting opportunities,” she said, “and that’s what happening here.”

Most fans didn’t care about the Jersey Shore Classic. But King’s injury didn’t bode well for the September 20th Battle of the Sexes match, an event that loomed even larger than the upcoming US Open. Millions of dollars were now riding–indirectly, anyway–on Billie Jean’s knee.

As if King didn’t already know how much was at stake, another story ran the morning after her injury. Ticket prices were set for the Riggs match. The best seats at the Houston Astrodome would cost a cool $100–the equivalent of $700 today. Penny-pinchers could get in for six bucks, but from the upper tier of a 40,000-seat stadium, they might wonder why they hadn’t stayed home and watched the match on TV.

Billie Jean left the worrying to the promoters. She wasn’t one to rest and recuperate one minute more than necessary. There was a tournament next week in Newport, and Madame Superstar planned to be there.

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August 13, 1973: Dream Team, Assemble

The 1973 Davis Cup was down to four nations. In early August, the United States beat Chile to advance through the Americas zone. Romania held off the Soviet Union, and Czechoslovakia cruised past a suspension-addled Italian side to take the two European places in the final four. Back in May, Australia had secured its spot in the semis by defeating India.

The lads from Down Under hadn’t won the tournament since 1967. Their five years in the wilderness were the longest gap the country had suffered since the 1930s. In part, they were a victim of their own success. Aussies won 11 of 13 trophies between 1955 and 1967 on the back of such stars as Lew Hoad, Ken Rosewall, Ashley Cooper, Mal Anderson, Neale Fraser, Roy Emerson, Rod Laver, John Newcombe, and Tony Roche. Throughout the 1950s and ’60s, many of those heroes turned professional, rendering them ineligible.

While team captain Harry Hopman had a knack for finding replacements, his job got harder every year. The final twist of the knife came in 1968. The Open era began, and nearly every veteran player of note signed a contract with a professional tournament promoter. The Davis Cup, however, didn’t allow “contract” pros. While “independent” pros like Romania’s Ilie Năstase and the USA’s Arthur Ashe and Stan Smith could enter, the Australian team was gutted.

All that changed–finally–before the 1973 campaign. Anybody, regardless of their contract status, could play.

The new rule boded well for the Aussies, though it didn’t solve all of their problems. The Eastern Zone draw required that they travel to Japan in April and, as it turned out, India in May. Laver, Rosewall, and others were permitted to compete, but that didn’t make it convenient. They were committed to World Championship Tennis in the US and Europe, so Captain Fraser managed without them. A makeshift squad of Newcombe–playing a more limited tournament schedule to make a Cup campaign possible–and the 38-year-old Anderson got the job done.

Against the Czechs in the semis, and particularly against the United States in a potential final, Fraser would need a stronger side.

Rosewall was in. And on August 13th, Laver gave the captain a call. “Rod wanted to know if he’d be good enough to make the team,” Fraser said. Rocket wasn’t sure if he would be available for the November tie in Melbourne against Czechoslovakia, but he was definitely ready to suit up for the final in December.

The dream team was complete. Laver, Newcombe, and Rosewall owned 24 singles majors between them. All three were outstanding doubles players, too. Emerson, holder of 12 singles slams and another all-time great on the doubles court, didn’t even make the squad.

With Laver on board, the Australians went from underdog to shoo-in. The American side, which had held the Cup since 1968, suddenly looked shabby in comparison. Assuming they got past Năstase’s lopsided Romanian squad, they’d need Stan Smith to deliver a three-match performance of a lifetime in the final.

Captain Fraser surely liked his odds. No longer concerned about recruiting the best talent in the name of national pride, he had a new problem to solve. There were only two singles slots on a Davis Cup lineup card. In a few months time, he’d have to tell one of the best players on earth–Rosewall, Newk, or the Rocket himself–that they’d be sitting on the bench.

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August 12, 1973: No Middle Ground

*Finals day at the 1973 Virginia Slims of Nashville: Some fans spent more time waiting in the rain than watching tennis.*

For the top two stars on what many pundits considered a top-heavy circuit, Billie Jean King and Margaret Court did a remarkable job of keeping out of each others’ way. In the first seven months of 1973, they met only three times, none at majors.

It hadn’t always been that way. In 1962, King–then 18-year-old Billie Jean Moffitt–spoiled Margaret Smith’s first Wimbledon as a top seed with a shock second-round upset. They had played at least once every year since then, with the exception of 1967, when Court took her first break from the tour. They met five times for grand slam titles. One of them was the hard-fought 1970 Wimbledon final, when Court triumphed in a 14-12, 11-9 decision.

Both living legends won matches in the forecourt, attacking to come forward and swatting away anything that came back. But their personalities couldn’t have stood in greater contrast. Court was bland: friendly but standoffish, even verging on boring. There was no sign of the outspoken fundamentalist she’d become in retirement. Reporter Grace Lichtenstein noted that Margaret, unlike most of her opponents, never talked to herself while she was playing. One insider responded with the ultimate dig: “What could she possibly think of to say?”

King never lacked for words. She had opinions on everything, and she rarely held them back. She openly sought prize money records, disdaining the usual patter from players (such as Court) who claimed they played for the love of the game. Billie Jean knew that her every achievement could stand as a symbol, while Margaret shrugged that sort of thing off. “People love her,” Nashville columnist Jeff Hanna wrote about King. “Or they hate her. There is no middle ground.”

After Wimbledon–and the lingering sting of her lopsided loss to Bobby Riggs in May–Court took a three-week break. While King announced her own Battle of the Sexes and won a tournament in Denver, Margaret spent time with her husband and 17-month-old son. She had established such a high standard that the Riggs defeat and a semi-final exit at Wimbledon somehow amounted to a slump, never mind the fact that she had won the Australian, the French, and 10 of 13 events on the Slims circuit.

Court rejoined the tour in Nashville. The Australian was a bit rusty, needing to save two match points in her opening-round tilt against the brainy Julie Anthony. She was soon back in championship form, losing a total of seven games in the quarters and semis against Kathy Kuykendall and Rosie Casals.

King advanced through the other side of the draw. Both women anxiously waited for the rain to clear on finals day, August 12th. Billie Jean had sponsor commitments; she could only stick around so long, and she would end up forfeiting a doubles semi-final. Court, for her part, found that her motivation continued to lag. “At one stage,” she said, “I sort of thought I was going to pass on my match.”

Two thousand supporters braved the rain and urged the Aussie to stick it out. Nashville got behind the 23-time major singles champion, backing the inoffensive Court over the divisive King. Margaret opted for a different kind of pass: Throughout the first set, she repeatedly won points when her opponent rushed the net. She broke twice for a 6-3 advantage.

Both players knew it was far from over. Three of their last four encounters had gone the distance. In the second set, both women struggled for traction, losing serve a total of seven times. Serving at 5-4, Billie Jean narrowly escaped making it eight, saving four break points to take the set.

Court struggled with a sore stomach muscle, and she found herself coping with King’s usual gamesmanship in the third. They traded more breaks, but Margaret ultimately pulled ahead. Billie Jean, perhaps a bit worried about the clock, couldn’t keep up the pressure. Court took the final set, 6-2.

It was the 34th career meeting between the two superstars. Court had won 21 of them. Neither woman had any way of knowing, but they would never play another one.

With her opponent racing for the exit, Margaret handled the post-match press herself. The assembled reporters probably would’ve preferred to talk to the runner-up. Gripping as today’s action had been, everyone still had one eye on the Riggs match in September.

Margaret probably wouldn’t have said that she loved–or hated–Billie Jean. But even she couldn’t retreat to a middle ground when someone lobbed her the obvious question about King’s chances against the Happy Hustler. “I don’t think this match is any kind of indication.” she said, “I still think Billie Jean will beat him.”

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August 10, 1973: The Little Sister

*Chris Evert (left), Jimmy Connors, and Jeanne Evert at the 1973 Western Championships*

The Evert family didn’t have a long-term plan to take over the tennis world, but it was beginning to feel that way.

18-year-old Chrissie showed no signs of slowing down. In two tournaments after Wimbledon, she had won all nine matches she played. Only Marita Redonda managed to win more than three games in a set against her. 11-year-old John Evert was making noise, too, finishing runner-up at the 12-and-under nationals.

In between, 15-year-old Jeanne Evert was also making progress. With the cream of American tennis away in Europe, she won titles at the Tulsa Invitation in May and the Southern Championships, in Raleigh, a month later. She came in second to Betsy Nagelsen at the national tournament for 16-and-unders.

This week, at the Western Championships in Cincinnati, it was Jeanne’s turn in the spotlight. She had just announced that she would turn professional on her 16th birthday in October. She was already proving that she could handle adult competition.

After an easy first-round defeat of British teen Glynis Coles, Jeanne settled in for a slugfest with a familiar foe, Laurie Tenney. Tenney was only 17 years old herself, and the two girls had faced off at junior events. Both were adept with the lob–something Jeanne was particularly susceptible to, standing just five-feet, one-inch tall. Neither was willing to test the other. After two hours and 46 minutes, their match was called for darkness, Evert leading 5-4 in the deciding set. The next day, Jeanne finished the job, 6-2, 4-6, 7-5. She added another victory in straight sets over Sharon Walsh.

This was heady territory for the 15-year-old. Jeanne had a semi-final berth alongside both her older sister and Evonne Goolagong. The men’s draw was equally star-studded, led by Ilie Năstase and Chrissie’s boyfriend, Jimmy Connors.

On August 10th, Jeanne took on the biggest test of her young career. She faced Goolagong for a place in the Western final. The younger Evert liked her new role as an underdog, but she was realistic about her chances for an upset. When she played Evonne in April, she won only three games. “She just killed me,” said Jeanne.

Chrissie wasn’t much of a cheerleader either. “I really don’t think Jeanne expects to have a very good chance against Evonne,” she said. “Evonne’s so much stronger.”

So it proved. Jeanne fared better this time, breaking back midway through the first set to keep it close. “But she didn’t let up any,” Evert said of her opponent. “She doesn’t let it bother her; she just keeps playing. She wasn’t really in trouble.” Final score: 6-3, 6-2 to the Australian.

The pint-sized semi-finalist knew that success would take time. She told one reporter what she needed to do to beat Goolagong next time: “Grow.”

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