History – Page 6 – Heavy Topspin

September 7, 1973: Down to Business

*Margaret Court deploys her famous right arm*

Chrissie Evert was only 18 years old, and she already had sportswriters reaching for their history books. Her matches with Margaret Court had become the most gripping rivalry in women’s tennis. In the final at the French, Court beat her in three bruising sets. At Wimbledon, Evert won a see-saw semi-final. Now they would meet again for a place in the US Open final. The New York Times compared the duel to “Wills–Jacobs” or “King–Richey”–in other words, the stuff of epics.

On September 7th, the ladies did not disappoint. The match showcased both players at their best. It also made a case for the equality–perhaps even the superiority–of women’s tennis. While many of the surviving men griped about the conditions, Court and Evert got down to business and grappled with the heat, the wind, and the divot-marred grass.

Margaret took an early 5-2 lead, then let it go when she abandoned her net attack to “sneak a rest.” A few lucky breaks went her way, and she escaped with the set, 7-5. The second turned into a baseline battle. After a series of long rallies and chalk-raising groundstrokes, Evert evened things up, 6-2.

The Forest Hills crowd hadn’t seen much in the way of outstanding baseline play in 1973. A constant complaint throughout the event was the quality of the turf. Jan Kodeš, slated for a semi-final against Stan Smith the next day, had said, “You got to get to the ball before it bounces.” Other men registered their displeasure with New York’s air pollution. Combine all that with the heat and humidity, and no one was in the mood to slug it out from the backcourt.

Ultimately, Court’s big hitting won the day. She broke for a 3-1 lead early in the third. Chrissie earned two chances at 15-40 in her next return game, but the veteran erased them with a service ace and a line-kissing winner. Evert didn’t give up–three of the final four games went to deuce–but she never found a way back in. Margaret advanced to her 29th career major final, 7-5, 2-6, 6-2.

With Bobby Riggs set to take on Billie Jean King in just two weeks, it was tough to forget Court’s worst result of the year: her 6-2, 6-1 loss to Riggs in May. Four months on, it was tough to imagine such an overpowering yet versatile player losing to the duck-walking senior citizen. Margaret felt that way, too. “He fooled me that time,” she said. “I’d be ready for him now.”

For the Australian, though, the Battle of the Sexes was just a sideshow. Now, only Evonne Goolagong stood in the way of a fifth Forest Hills title, a 24th major overall, and a record-setting $150,000 in single-season prize money. She was more than just half of a great rivalry. Fans and pundits alike couldn’t help but think she might just be the greatest of all time.

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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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September 3, 1973: If You Want It That Badly

*Billie Jean King suffering in the Forest Hills heat*

The 1973 US Open reached the round of 16 without losing a single one of its eight women’s seeds. The big four of Margaret Court, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, and Evonne Goolagong didn’t drop more than three games in a single set.

Tournament organizers expected more of the same on September 3rd. King was drawn against Julie Heldman, a fellow veteran who rarely gave Madame Superstar much of a challenge. In 18 meetings going back to 1960, Heldman had won just two. At the Virginia Slims of Boston in April, King double-bageled her.

With little hope of a close match, the ladies were assigned to the clubhouse court–Court 22–for their third-round match. Neither woman appreciated it. Billie Jean was accustomed to bigger venues, she felt she performed better in front of big crowds, and what’s more, the two-time champion deserved it. Heldman, despite her futility against King, was probably the strongest underdog in the eight ladies matches. Both competitors realized that an equivalent men’s match would’ve been scheduled on a show court.

Billie Jean performed as expected in the first set, coasting to a 6-3 lead. She dominated the net, a necessity on pock-marked Court 22. Bad bounces were frequent, so the first woman to move forward had an advantage. Even in better conditions, that was usually King. Heldman tried to counter the net-rushing with a “chip and dip” strategy of low balls–slice backhands and dipping topspin forehands–that would eat away at her opponent’s energy reserves. It wasn’t enough.

Five games into the second set, trailing 1-4, Heldman finally changed her tactics. If she couldn’t beat Billie Jean at the net, she could get there first. She served better, hit her spots with the forehand, and fought her way back into contention. King was visibly tiring, no longer competing for every point.

“Billie Jean can beat anybody when she’s running,” Julie said after the match. “But when she’s not, she’s mortal like the rest of us.”

Heldman ran out the set, 6-4, and took a 3-1 lead in the second. King’s movement kept getting worse. Coming into the tournament, all eyes had been on Billie Jean’s knee, the trouble spot that knocked her out of the Jersey Shore Classic three weeks earlier. She had consulted with famed knee man Dr. James Nicholas, the expert who handled the aching joints of Mickey Mantle and Joe Namath. Nicholas suggested a light weight-lifting regimen. While King felt good entering the tournament, the knee threatened to stop her again at any time.

But it wasn’t the knee. It was the heat. Or as the New York Times put it, it was the “three H’s–heat, humidity, and Heldman.” Doubled over in pain, King elected to keep going.

Billie Jean served the next game, but she wasn’t all there. She missed a low volley on the first point and once again winced in pain. Heldman knew better than to start thinking about a victory speech–she wondered if King was pulling a trick. Neither woman was above a bit of gamesmanship, and they weren’t exactly friends. The Old Lady had feigned illness before.

Heldman broke for 4-1. After a minute on the sidelines, Billie Jean didn’t move. Finally, Heldman asked the umpire if time was up. King answered for him: “If you want it that badly, you can have it.” The top seed retired from the match.

In Heldman’s memory, it was a classless move. “She didn’t look sick when she stormed off the court,” she later wrote of Billie Jean. “And why did she quit at 4-1 down in the third? No one does that. You just stand and take your medicine.”

Tournament physician Daniel Manfredi had a different opinion. King was taking penicillin for a cold, which could be dangerous in such extreme conditions. “She was lucky she decided to stop,” said Manfredi. “She could have collapsed.”

Whatever the truth of the matter, Heldman was quickly reminded that her victory had little meaning except in the context of September 20th. In 17 days, Billie Jean would take on Bobby Riggs. Reporters were more interested in that. With a bum knee and a near-collapse, could King handle the Happy Hustler? For all her protestations to the contrary, had Riggs psyched her out?

Bobby, as he always did, spun the upset in his favor. Not only did the challenger look fragile, King’s loss opened new vistas. “I’m glad the way it has worked out,” he said. “It may just give me another champion to beat.”

So, maybe Julie Heldman?

“Hell, no,” Heldman said. “He’d psych me out of it. Anybody can psych me.”

Well, anybody except for Billie Jean.

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September 1, 1973: Vijay Strikes Again

*Vijay Amritraj at the net, en route to an upset win over Rod Laver*

If you can make it anywhere, you can make it there, right? By September 1973, Vijay Amritraj had proven himself just about everywhere except New York. The 19-year-old from Madras was polite, charming, and absolutely brimming with confidence.

In April, Amritraj had taken on most of the Australian Davis Cup team–and won. In July, he saved three match points at Bretton Woods to upset his hero, the great Rod Laver. He won the title at that event after wriggling out of another two match points to defeat Jimmy Connors.

The young Indian had once scraped together pennies to watch the great Rocket in person. He had scraped together a lot more pennies to fly to Las Vegas and study with long-time pro champion Richard González. Amritraj drew comparisons to both, with a powerful serve, athletic net play, and an uncanny ability to put his half-volleys on the baseline.

After another escape act at Forest Hills–this one in the second round against South African Pat Cramer–Vijay earned a date in the round of 32 against the 35-year-old Laver.

The showdown, on September 1st, was a duel for the ages. At Bretton Woods, Laver had just returned from injury. Now he played like the Rocket of old, having dropped just ten games in six sets. Both men were particularly sharp on the return of serve, delivering a captivating roller-coaster of a match with one service break after another.

Amritraj landed the opening salvo, seizing a first-set tiebreak on a pair of Laver errors. The Australian responded quickly, evening the score with a 6-2 second frame. Late in the third, Vijay started to establish an edge in the key moments. He saved two break points to hold for 5-4. A few minutes later, he smashed a return winner to take the set.

“I just get a little tentative on the big points now,” said Laver. Still, he had always played best from behind. He took another 6-2 set to force a decider, then broke to open the fifth.

The crowd, which had supported the underdog early on, divided into even camps. Now that Laver was in a fight, he reminded fans of the thrilling matches that had given him the championships in 1962 and 1969. He was no longer the same man: Three times he fell on the slippery grass, each time looking every day of his 35 years when he got back up. That just made him more likable. Even Amritraj applauded some of Rocket’s best shots.

A light rain, which had accompanied much of the match, started falling harder. Thunder could be heard in the distance. Neither player wanted to stop; after tournament referee Mike Blanchard conferred with them at 2-all in the fifth, the contest continued. Laver merely opted to change into spikes.

Both men stayed aggressive, hoping that luck would lean their way. “It was roulette on that wet grass,” Rocket said. Somehow, the advantage remained with the returners. Each time Laver broke to take the lead, Vijay struck back. The pair combined for only three service holds in the final set.

After three hours of brilliant volleys, the stalemate was broken with a terrible one. At 4-5, 15-all, the Australian kicked a serve into Vijay’s body, earning a weak reply. It was the sort of sitter Laver had put away thousands of times. But for some reason, he couldn’t see it well. Instead of an easy winner, he smacked a line drive to the backstop. What he called “the 101st volley of the day” gave his opponent the edge.

Laver almost salvaged the situation, winning the next two points. But his earlier miscue had left Amritraj an opening, and the Indian took it. From 40-30, Vijay slashed two return winners. He went for broke until the very end, converting his first match point with another unplayable service return. The final score was 7-6(3), 2-6, 6-4, 2-6, 6-4.

“I knew I was lucky to beat him the first time,” Amritraj said. “I just wanted to give him another good match.”

With Laver and Ilie Năstase out of contention, a reporter asked 1967 champion John Newcombe to assess the remaining field. Newk listed some favorites: Tom Okker, Stan Smith, Arthur Ashe, Ken Rosewall, and Wimbledon champion Jan Kodeš.

The top seeds had fallen out of his own half, and Newcombe thought of one other name. “I like myself, too.”

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Happy 100th Birthday, Vic Seixas!

*Vic Seixas doing what he did best, at the net*

One hundred years ago, on August 30th, 1923, the tennis world was preparing for the final round of the Davis Cup. Bill Tilden and Bill Johnston would represent the home side at Forest Hills against a challenge from Australia.

Not far to the southwest, in Tilden’s home town of Philadelphia, Vic Seixas was born. He got a late start on his tennis career, flying planes for the Army Air Corps during World War II and getting his degree from the University of North Carolina. Eventually, though, he played Davis Cup himself, contesting seven consecutive Challenge Rounds between 1951 and 1957 and helping bring the Cup home in 1954.

Seven decades later, remarkably, Vic is still with us. Today he celebrates his 100th birthday.

Seixas (pronounced SAY-shus) was the perpetual underdog. His first serve was erratic, and his groundstrokes were shaky. Jack Kramer never offered him a contract to turn pro because he was “simply not good enough.”

Yet between 1952 and 1957, the Philadelphian won singles titles at Wimbledon and Forest Hills, and he piled up another 13 major doubles championships. What he lacked in technique he made up for with sheer doggedness. He was the fittest American player of his generation. He fought for every point in an era when his rivals would sometimes save energy by tanking games, even entire sets. When he couldn’t create an opportunity to move forward, he hit his best shot and rushed the net anyway.

Seixas’s unlikely success added up to an outstanding career. Last year, I rated him the 66th best player–man or woman–of the last hundred years. The International Tennis Hall of Fame inducted him in 1971.

How hard was Vic willing to work? The scores tell the story. At Roland Garros in 1950, his first major abroad, he never gave an inch to Jaroslav Drobný, losing 7-5, 17-15, 5-7, 6-4. At Wimbledon a month later, he won his first grand slam quarter-final over South African Eric Sturgess, 9-7, 6-8, 3-6, 6-2, 7-5.

In 1953, the Wimbledon draw opened up for him, but that didn’t mean it would be easy. He advanced past Australian Mervyn Rose in the semis, but only after a battle: 6-4, 10-12, 9-11, 6-4, 6-3. He went to the brink to beat another Aussie, Rex Hartwig, at the French the next year. The final score on that one was 8-6, 3-6, 6-3, 5-7, 10-8.

Vic’s nemesis was Ken Rosewall, who beat him nine of the ten times they met at majors or in Davis Cup play. But the American never quit fighting. He lost only two of the decisions in straight sets. And the one victory was a particularly consequential one. In the 1954 Davis Cup Challenge Round, Tony Trabert scored an opening rubber win against the Australian hosts. Seixas came through with a four-set upset of Rosewall. He then secured the Cup title the next day, partnering Trabert to beat Rosewall and Lew Hoad in the doubles.

After losing the 1957 Challenge Round, Seixas–then 34 years of age–announced that he was finished with international tennis. He never made any money from the amateur game, and he went to work for Goldman Sachs.

But he never really called it quits. The year after his “retirement,” he played six tournaments, winning one of them. For another decade, the marathon man kept threatening to go five sets. In 1960, he won his third-rounder at Forest Hills despite losing the fourth set, 13-15. In 1963, he lost at the same stage, trading a 13-11 frame for a 14-12 before falling in five to Larry Nagler, a man 17 years his junior.

He saved the most outrageous set for his friends in Philadelphia. In 1966, he played some of his best tennis in years, picking up titles in Tulsa and Detroit. He won his first two matches easily at the Pennsylvania Lawn Tennis Championships in Haverford, earning a place in the round of 16 against an Australian up-and-comer named Bill Bowrey.

The match began on July 20th, at 4:15 in the afternoon. At 6:30, they still hadn’t decided the first set. Seixas saved set point at 15-16. He saved another one at 17-18. Then another at 29-30, and one more at 32-33 before finally giving way. Bowrey took the opener, 34-32.

In the time it took to play that one set, three matches were completed on the next court. Rosie Casals lost, then Tony Roche and Stan Smith scored singles victories. It was quite the contrast of generations: None of those players were even born when Seixas turned 21.

Somehow, the veteran shook off the loss of a 66-game set. “There was fire to Vic’s service, brilliance to his volley and his driving as he fought for every point,” wrote the Philadelphia Inquirer. He didn’t lose serve again. In three hours and 35 minutes, he defeated Bowrey, 32-34, 6-4, 10-8.

Tennis players are a long-lived lot. Rosewall is still going strong at 88, and Trabert died in 2021, at age 90, to take just two examples. Seixas was the stubbornest fighter of his generation, battling his fellow champions to the last point. He didn’t always beat them, but he may yet outlast them all.

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August 30, 1973: Think Cool

*Chris Evert catches her breath on a hot day at Forest Hills*

For the best players, an early round at a major was supposed to be easy. A light workout, a pigeon across the net, and a victory. No need to break a sweat.

On August 30th, the second day of the 1973 US Open, everybody broke a sweat.

The mercury touched 98 degrees Fahrenheit. Combined with humidity typical of the New York City summer, the heat had stars racing to get off court. 30-year-old Frenchwoman Françoise Dürr was one of those who didn’t make it. Up a set and down 3-4 in the second, she retired with heat prostration against an unknown American named Sally Greer.

“I was hotter than I have ever been before,” said Dürr. Quite a statement from someone born in Algeria.

The Australians, no strangers to demanding weather conditions, fared better. Margaret Court advanced in 40 minutes. Evonne Goolagong dropped just one game. Rod Laver lost only six. Ken Rosewall and John Newcombe–allowed to compete by the ILTF after all–progressed as well.

Sweating the most was defending champion Ilie Năstase, and not just because of the sun. The unpredictable Romanian shared the top seed with Stan Smith, and fans expected a routine second-round victory when he played 24-year-old Andrew Pattison of Rhodesia. Pattison probably didn’t hope for much more, either. His career highlight to date was a run to the final at the 1972 Canadian Open in Toronto. Playing for the championship, Năstase shut him down, 6-4, 6-3.

The Romanian came out cocky, joking around as he won the first two sets. Suddenly, though, the serve-and-volleying Rhodesian began playing like a world-beater. Năstase could no longer do anything with his serve, and Pattison was responding to Nasty’s deliveries with a new confidence. The underdog evened the match and broke for a 3-2 advantage in the fifth. With Năstase to serve at 3-5, tournament referee Mike Blanchard called the match for darkness. They’d pick up again in the morning.

The resumption took barely ten minutes. The top seed held, and he nearly broke for a tie. Serving for the match, Pattison earned a 30-love lead behind two big serves. He then fell to deuce before finishing the upset with two big serves and a forehand drop volley. It was a huge win for the Rhodesian, and a helpful one for Newcombe, whose draw would have pitted him against Năstase in the fourth round.

The Romanian was gone, but the heat lingered. Of all the contenders who survived, Goolagong seemed the least bothered by the conditions. Her advice: “Think cool.”

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August 27, 1973: The Controversial Sport

*Lee Meade, the World Team Tennis owner who triggered the latest kerfuffle*

Yep, they were going to do this again.

Two days away from the start of the 1973 US Open, the International Lawn Tennis Federation was threatening a ban. Or the possibility of a ban, or something. The ILTF’s member federations were worried about World Team Tennis and the increasing number of star players the league was hoovering up.

In response, the ILTF would leave no threat unlevied.

It had been weeks since the Team Tennis draft and the announcement that Billie Jean King and John Newcombe would take part in the league’s 1974 summer season. Minnesota Buckskins owner Lee Meade tried to capitalize on the excitement surrounding the US Open by announcing, on August 27th, his signing of Linda Tuero. Compared to King, Newk, and other WTT signees such as Rosie Casals, Tuero was small fry.

Then again, Niki Pilić wasn’t a contender either. And he brought down Wimbledon.

Linda never made it to the press conference. According to her lawyer (and former top ten player) Gene Scott, USLTA president Walter Elcock “told Linda that if she played WTT or or did anything to indicate that she played WTT, the International Lawn Tennis Federation would ban her.”

Though Scott rightly called the threat “ill-conceived and ill-timed,” it didn’t come out of nowhere. A few days earlier, the ILTF had sent a letter to the American federation with a reminder that the international body had the power to ban players who signed contracts with unsanctioned organizations that interfered with ILTF events.

The appetite for self-destruction was astonishing. The decision to ban players was in the ILTF’s hands, and a US Open official admitted that stars might be ruled out of competition “one minute before they step on the court for their first match.” Perhaps not coincidentally, King and Newcombe weren’t on the schedule for the first day of play.

Most galling of all, all the Americans could do was wait. Would the showcase event of the season be compromised by yet another ban- or boycott-riddled field? Long-time tournament director Bill Talbert didn’t know. “I wouldn’t doubt it,” he said.

The New York Daily News summed up the state of the game: It was the “controversial sport of tennis.” Dissension was no longer occasional: It was endemic. For all of the so-called “peace agreements” of the last twelve months, major conflict still loomed. The Forest Hills faithful could only hope it would leave the Open unscathed.

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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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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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