!1245345 by Pete Bodo
Howdy. I just wrote a post for ESPN on the Indianapolis Tennis Championships, and the way the event has lost its way, thanks largely to the fluctuations of the tennis calendar and the turning of the tennis world - code for the decline of U.S. tennis. It' a sad state of affairs, given the fact that the ITC, officially an ATP 250 event, was once a highlight of the tennis year, a good run that began back in the 1920s, when the event from which Indy claims to have descended was known as The Western Tennis Championships. I suppose that to the heavily-populated industrial northeast, towns like Cincinnati and Indianapolis were "western" outposts. Whatever the case, it was a considered a big event for most of its existence.
I haven't been to the Indy event in many years, but went quite often in the late 1970s and early 1980s, by which time it had evolved into the U.S. Clay Court Championships. It was played in a club setting (the Indianapolis Racquet Club), although without all the bells and whistles of your typical powerhouse country club. The club was created with the classic Midwestern (and Protestant) understatement and practicality. The courts were green-clay, and the venue was a spectator's delight, with ample but modest seating, and great access to the outside "field" courts. I wrote a chapter in my first book, Inside Tennis: A Season on the Pro Tour (Delta, 1979), which I researched during the 1978 tournament. I just reviewed the Indianapolis chapter, and marveled some at how different the tour was that summer.
First off, I came across this item - the Western Tennis Championships were originally held in Cincinnati (I had thought as much, but the ITC website and its paternity claim made me think I was mistaken). How Indianapolis claims its origins as the Western, when it would seem that the current Cincy Master 1000 event is the logical heir apparent, is a mystery I'll have to look into in the coming days. All I know is that Indy claims to have descended from the WTC, and it was once important. BTW, the upcoming Los Angeles hard-court event began life as the vaunted Pacific-Southwest Championships, which might strike today's fans as equally quaint.
One thing that was the same in 1978 is that Newport had the same calendar slot, and even back then it was the only grass-court event to be played after Wimbledon. That same Newport week, the Swiss played their nationals at Gstaad, and those who chose to remain in Europe on clay subsequently had Bastad (Swedish Open), which has stubbornly held its ground on the calendar, Stuttgart (ditto) and two events that have bitten the dust - Kitzbuhel and Hilversum (the championships of the Netherlands).
My pal Balazs Taroczy shut that last one down almost single-handedly, having won the danged thing a mind-boggling 6 times (he won "only" 13 titles in his entire career). I used to kid him that he ought to get the promoters to change the name to the Netherlands Open, or even better,the Dutch Open, which technically is accurate. Anybody who could claim to win any "Open" with a nation's name in front of it six times would be perceived as having serious heft.
I observed in the book that the "big" tournaments at that time of year were in the U.S, starting with Washington, and continuing to Louisville (Ky), North Conway (N.H.), and Indianapolis. Where was today's high-octane Cincinnati event? Got me. . . a gleam in Paul Flory's eyes, I imagine.
Anyway, all of those tournaments were on clay (Washington became today's Legg Mason while Louisville and North Conway eventually collapsed), even though the U.S. Open in 1978 was in its new home at the National Tennis Center, on hard-courts.
Connors and McEnroe were among the marquee names who played at the Indianapolis Racquet Club in '78. Connors never did win the French Open; his failure was due to a combination of the usual factors that influenced American performances there, wedded to some serious career miscalculations on Connors' part. He opted to play World Team Tennis or simply skipped Roland Garros through his greatest years, 1974 through 1978 - the years when he still intimidated Bjorn Borg. After that hiatus, he made the semifinals in Paris in two successive years.
Connors is probably the best clay-court player never to have won Roland Garros; he had a big mental edge on Borg early in their rivalry (which Borg came to dominate on all surfaces). At Indianapolis, for example, Connors was in a field that included Guillermo Vilas, Jose Higueras, Corrado Barazzutti, Adriano Panatta, Manuel Orantes and the aforementioned six-time Dutch Open champion, Taroczy. Only Borg was missing. And while the green-clay of Indy is different from Parisian terre battue, the difference is often exaggerated, and conditionally determined (the two surfaces aren't that different on sunny, hot days). If there was a slight advantage to green over red clay, Connors was the one who benefited.
The field in Indianapolis in 1978 was second only to the entry list at Roland Garros, and Connors won the event. He beat the newcomer McEnroe (telling me, "Did you see how red in the face he got sometimes, I thought he was going to drop a load!") and in the final he manhandled Jose Higueras. One of the other men he beat along the way was Heinz Gunthardt, who would become a good friend of mine over the ensuing years, and remains so today. Here's what I wrote about their match in my book:
*As Heinz Gunthardt and Jimmy Connors enter the stadium, the top seed (Connors) asks his opponent how he feels.
"Okay," the young Swiss answers.
"Let's get this over with before the rain comes, okay?" Connors says.
"Sure," Gunthardt replies. He is nervous. Connors seems loose and cocky.
But as the match begins, it is clear that Heinz will not buckle easily. After an exchange of games, Connors backs off the baseline, turns, and wipes his racquet handle on the towel (Lornie) Kuhle is holding for him (I was sitting with Kuhle in the first row behind one baseline; he was a Las Vegas teaching pro and Connors' long-time wing man on the tour).
*
*"Pretty whippy forehand, huh?" Connors asks apprehensively.
"Don't worry, he'll fold just like the rest of them. Don't worry," Kuhle whispers.
The first set remains close. At one point, Connors walks by and asks, "Forehand or backhand?"
"Go for his backhand," Kuhle advises. "Backhand."
Finally, Connors gets a break that gives him the first set, working the backhand. But Gunthardt remains determined. When Connors hits a feeble forehand short, he chides himself. "You changed your mind," he hisses. "You never made a shot in your life when you changed you rmind."
Gunthardt is broken for 1-2, but he breaks right back and then holds service to lead, 3-2. His top-spinning balls fall into the corners of the court; his volleys are clean as pistol shots. Although Connors is playing well, he has his hands full because his deft opponent is running down his best shots and keeping the points alive beyond anyone's expectations. "That son of a bitch can move, can't he?" Connors whispers to Lornie. "He's a lot younger than me."
Despite his advanced age of 25, Connors breaks Gunthardt again, only to have Gunthardt break back. The crunch is approaching - Connors breaks serve again to lead 5-4; Gunthardt presses him to 30-all in the match game, but Connors wins the next two points to end it.
When I saw Heinz after the match, he was shocked by the idea that Connors actually might have been worried about the outcome. He could not believe that his opponent had experienced a single moment of doubt from the moment they strolled onto the court.
Then the rains came.
*
One of the more amusing things about this anecdote is that it shows the extent to which on-court coaching was not only allowed, but accepted as a given. Gunthardt knew what Kuhle was doing there; it was just part of the game. In some ways, I liked it better in those days. And while I hate to see coaches sitting on the court (except in Davis Cup), I've never had a problem with this sort of informal coaching - but that may be because on-court coaching to me seems so unlikely (in most cases) to affect an outcome. Wouldn't a professional, full-time coach (which Kuhle was not) or even a trusted friend or wingman these days tell a player before a match to hit to this or that side, to try this or that strategy anyway?
Instead, tennis has imposed unenforceable rules, and when they're flouted, it's seen as yet another sign that tennis is somehow a disreputable game, played by babies with no sense of fair play. Just another way the game shoots itself in the foot.