Looking down from the sky at a set of tennis courts anywhere in the world they all look alike. Except for the color of the court...there are those lines. The lines of demarcation. The metaphysical exactness of which you will not find anywhere in the world. Those lines represent an area...a zone in which a game was invented to be played within the confines of. A great game...a game unequaled in the world of recreation, with perhaps the exception of golf. Golf is another story. The mysterious lines represent the finite of life. The limited possibilities. They are a gift from the Creator in terms of recreation for mankind.
Because of the exactness of those lines...there is no wiggle room for cheating, or lying for that matter. Unlike life, where most everything is eventually exposed as a lie or some variation of the truth, within those lines lie a truth unequaled on the face of the earth. When it comes to calling it close, when it comes down to it, the ball either lands in the confines or outside the boundaries. Within those lines there used to be a code of conduct and it used to be called tennis etiquette.
What a great game it is. Those of us who have played it either recreationally or competitively know that those lines on any given day can certainly bring out the best in us or the worst in us and everything in between. We can get a measurement of ourselves and calibrate where we stand in the food chain of life. Within those mysterious lines, within those finite exact measurements, we find the great irony of life. Within the finite we find the infinite. What a riddle. What an enigma. What a conundrum.
Within those metaphysical boundaries in that area represented by a tennis court a history has been kept by the tennis gods. It is about all the players who have ever played the game. From the greatest to the lousiest. Like a giant volume of cosmic consciousness that may be found in the library of heaven, a story has been told. In that volume of the universal galactic internet there is a chapter devoted to the greatest players who ever played the game...and the one man who stands the tallest in many of opinions of the best tennis historians to know the game is this man. The subject of a series of articles by Doreen Gonzales. The one and only...Richard Gonzales.
Tennis is a game that challenges any human being lucky enough to participate in it on every level of their humanness. Certainly there is a physical challenge as well as an emotional and psychological challenge. It is a pursuit that consistently challenges the participants intellectual acumen as well. Then finally when it is all said and done...perhaps most significantly it challenges one’s soul. It is a game that gives us a perfect balance of technique and tactics.
The Final Chapter...tough to accept that it is over. Oh well...certainly he will live on in our hearts. Once in a lifetime it seems that the Creator makes one who is better than the rest. One who seems to stand head and shoulder over the rest of the pack. The lines in life are not so clearly drawn as they are on a tennis court. For Richard Gonzales, as a Mexican American (read Native American) the lines in life were wiggly and they squiggeled on him in a maddening manner. Inside guys like Jack Kramer were there to make sure that nothing came easy for him...it is the game within the game. For anyone that has been caught outside of those crooked lines knows what I am talking about. It is enough to make you crazy. You never know what it is but something does not seem quite right...quite fair. Sure...life isn’t fair sometimes but this is something of a different matter. Growing up Hispanic...with darker skin than the status quo, darker skin than was acceptable made things difficult for a young guy like Richard with passionate blood running in his veins. He was a smart guy. He knew what the deal was. He decided he didn’t give a flying fuck and ripped right into the system and he decided he was going to do it his way. The dark, swarthy and menacing way.
Yes. The Final Chapter. It would be a great story in itself to detail and document all of the shenanigans and hokey pokey that he had to put up with playing the lily white sport of tennis back in those pre-politically correct days. Trying to get a fair shake from Jack Kramer and his establishment cronies. The crowds had to be difficult too. I can hear the names that they would call him from the safety of their seats in the audience or wherever. No wonder he was scowling a good bit of the time. Pissed off. You would of been too. The game of tennis gives you the illusion that everything is fair and dandy. The lines are the same everywhere...you switch on odd games to even out the sun, wind and background. It’s what is going on “between the lines” that was festering in him to the point that he probably didn’t trust too many people. It is hard to trust when you are being jerked around like everybody’s fool. Thus the reputation of the Lone Wolf.
Much of what is written about him would have you believe that he was strictly a powerful tennis player but the fact of the matter is he was the ultimate tactician. His serve of course was a real weapon and he counted on holding his serve...all of the time. But when he got into a point he was cagey and cunning, using spin, placement and power in equal doses to keep his opponents off balance. Just like a good heavyweight boxer. He jabbed...he sparred...and when it was time he lowered the boom.
I will tell you one more thing about this guy if anyone has any questions about his ability to play todays "modern" game of tennis. With his hunger...with his passion...with his talent...he once again would be at the head of the class. Like Jimmy Connors said...if there was a match that his life depended upon he would want Richard Gonzales playing it for him. Coming from Connors that is a mouthful.
God bless Richard Gonzales...too bad there aren’t more like him. I am sorry to see this wonderful series of articles end. They were really a touch of class. Thank you Doreen and John.
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