over an impossible clash of schedules. This resulted in the ILTF voting to prohibit WCT players from participating in its events for the following year.
The power struggle was eventually solved by carving up the tennis schedule like a Thanksgiving turkey. The WCT pulled back from staging tournaments in the summer and fall and became the popular circuit for the first four months of the year, before the main Slams in Paris, London, and New York. Just to make things more interesting, Bill Riordan started his own circuit, the Independent Players Association (IPA), which was a direct rival to the WCT and where I played from January through April.
Then, in 1972, to further complicate things, along comes the Association of Tennis Professionals (ATP), headed by Jack Kramer, Donald Dell, Arthur Ashe, and the South African Cliff Drysdale. Even though players had to pay a fee to join the ATP, by the end of 1974 it had 125 members, including 99 of the top 100 players. Guess who the exception was? And the title of this book is?
Tennis became one big bowl of alphabet soup, and, for better and for worse, we were all swimming in it.
Pressure was coming from all sides to declare your allegiance and pick your poison, but as always, the outsider in me dictated my choice. I was open to all events, but I wasn’t under contract to anybody. I just wanted to play tennis. Some people have said I was afraid to play the other circuits, but nothing could be further from the truth. I went with Bill because he had looked after me over the years, inviting me to tournaments and—as I said—slipping me expense money under the table. I also knew that on the IPA tour I could hold my own and still compete against some top players. My choice was not only controversial; it brought criticism from the press and players alike.
In Bill’s camp were guys like Nastase, Ion Tiriac, Jan Kodes, Roger Taylor, and Vitas Gerulaitis, and by playing them on a regular basis I could hone my game and gain more experience. After the Riordan events concluded in the spring, the Grand Prix circuit schedule took over, pitting me against the rest of the world’s best players, like Laver and Ken Rosewall, John Newcombe, Ashe, and Stan Smith. It was no big deal. I’d be ready for them.
A lot of other young guys were getting thrown into the mix straightaway and losing week after week. What good would that do? I wasn’t in a hurry. By biding my time and traveling with Bill to out-of-the-way places, I felt like I could keep an air of mystery around me, just as Two-Mom had advised. The Grand Slam champions—those supposed powerhouses of the sport—were barely aware of my game in the early days, which definitely worked to my advantage.
Bill was taking tennis where it had never been before. While the ILTF and WCT were staging tournaments in major cities, we found ourselves in more intimate venues where we could sell out the stadiums. Initially, Bill faced restrictions in terms of the prize money he could offer, or else he would be in breach of the agreement brokered between the ILTF and the WCT, which had granted Bill limited subsidiary rights. If he ignored these financial limits, his players faced possible exclusion from all the major events in the summer. But Bill, being Bill, always found ways to entice players to his tournaments. He’d invite major corporations to sponsor bonus pools that would go to the winners of the most events. And, let’s face it, who couldn’t use a little extra cash at the end of a long, hard season?
Bill laid out the situation in simple terms. I could join the other bandwagons like the WCT and be one of the herd, or I could go with him. Together we’d make some noise and I’d end up earning a shitload of money and become famous. That doesn’t sound bad. Where do I sign?
Bill used to tell me that just winning wasn’t enough; we had to entertain, to put on a show. It was in his blood. His father had financial interests in several
The power struggle was eventually solved by carving up the tennis schedule like a Thanksgiving turkey. The WCT pulled back from staging tournaments in the summer and fall and became the popular circuit for the first four months of the year, before the main Slams in Paris, London, and New York. Just to make things more interesting, Bill Riordan started his own circuit, the Independent Players Association (IPA), which was a direct rival to the WCT and where I played from January through April.
Then, in 1972, to further complicate things, along comes the Association of Tennis Professionals (ATP), headed by Jack Kramer, Donald Dell, Arthur Ashe, and the South African Cliff Drysdale. Even though players had to pay a fee to join the ATP, by the end of 1974 it had 125 members, including 99 of the top 100 players. Guess who the exception was? And the title of this book is?
Tennis became one big bowl of alphabet soup, and, for better and for worse, we were all swimming in it.
Pressure was coming from all sides to declare your allegiance and pick your poison, but as always, the outsider in me dictated my choice. I was open to all events, but I wasn’t under contract to anybody. I just wanted to play tennis. Some people have said I was afraid to play the other circuits, but nothing could be further from the truth. I went with Bill because he had looked after me over the years, inviting me to tournaments and—as I said—slipping me expense money under the table. I also knew that on the IPA tour I could hold my own and still compete against some top players. My choice was not only controversial; it brought criticism from the press and players alike.
In Bill’s camp were guys like Nastase, Ion Tiriac, Jan Kodes, Roger Taylor, and Vitas Gerulaitis, and by playing them on a regular basis I could hone my game and gain more experience. After the Riordan events concluded in the spring, the Grand Prix circuit schedule took over, pitting me against the rest of the world’s best players, like Laver and Ken Rosewall, John Newcombe, Ashe, and Stan Smith. It was no big deal. I’d be ready for them.
A lot of other young guys were getting thrown into the mix straightaway and losing week after week. What good would that do? I wasn’t in a hurry. By biding my time and traveling with Bill to out-of-the-way places, I felt like I could keep an air of mystery around me, just as Two-Mom had advised. The Grand Slam champions—those supposed powerhouses of the sport—were barely aware of my game in the early days, which definitely worked to my advantage.
Bill was taking tennis where it had never been before. While the ILTF and WCT were staging tournaments in major cities, we found ourselves in more intimate venues where we could sell out the stadiums. Initially, Bill faced restrictions in terms of the prize money he could offer, or else he would be in breach of the agreement brokered between the ILTF and the WCT, which had granted Bill limited subsidiary rights. If he ignored these financial limits, his players faced possible exclusion from all the major events in the summer. But Bill, being Bill, always found ways to entice players to his tournaments. He’d invite major corporations to sponsor bonus pools that would go to the winners of the most events. And, let’s face it, who couldn’t use a little extra cash at the end of a long, hard season?
Bill laid out the situation in simple terms. I could join the other bandwagons like the WCT and be one of the herd, or I could go with him. Together we’d make some noise and I’d end up earning a shitload of money and become famous. That doesn’t sound bad. Where do I sign?
Bill used to tell me that just winning wasn’t enough; we had to entertain, to put on a show. It was in his blood. His father had financial interests in several
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