Whitney Part 5

C. F. Stewart

In Whitney Reed's time, most of the elite players in the world were quasi-professionals, meaning professionals in attitude and lifestyle, without cell phones, iPods, and Blackberries.

They lived better than most rock stars--when they finally made it to a tournament. They traveled more than any jet setter on the planet--most of the time in beat up jalopies.

Their list of acquaintances was spotted with the rich and famous, since the rich and famous love to be near elite athletes. The only dissimilarities between the players of today and the players of Whitney's time was the size of their bank accounts and the size of their entourages.

Most of Whitney's contemporaries dreaded the day when the ride would end, but not Whitney, because for Whitney the ride would never end. Only the grim reaper would keep Whitney off of a tennis court.

Couldn’t Remember

Whitney said he could never remember when he was not playing on a tennis court, or leaving to go play on a tennis court, or just coming off of a tennis court. His life was a collage of green and red concrete, various shades of red to green clay, and dark green closely cropped grass. In between one tournament or another, there were a few card games, a few beers, and a few women.

For a little beer money, he would pursue an occasional gig as a paperboy, taxi driver, and car attendant. But nothing even remotely compared with tennis as source of fulfillment. When I asked him how he survived all those years, he would mumble, clear his throat a few times, and acknowledge that he had no clue.

Contemporary thought dictates that professional tennis players aren't supposed to play cards all night, professional tennis players aren't supposed to have hangovers, and professional tennis players aren't supposed to considered beer, bourbon, and a pack of Marlboros as integral parts of pre-match preparations.

Whitney Reed considered all the above as life's essentials. Whitney could party all night and compete with the best tennis players in the world all day. His closest friends maintained that he was at his best when he was playing in the gray area between inebriation and hangover.

A standing bit of levity that later became an urban legend was that after winning the State Fair tournament in Sacramento in 1962, Whitney discovered the results of the match when he called a friend to ask about a trophy he found in the front seat of his car.

Frightful Competitor

But Whitney was, in his playing days, much more than the beer guzzling, cigarette smoking comic of American tennis. He was an individualist, a gentleman, and a frightful competitor. Whitney believed that tournament tennis was no different than an actor's part in a play or a musician's solo in a concerto. As a participant, he was a thespian in pursuit of the perfect performance, and anyone watching deserved the very best presentation he could offer.

Allen Fox called him bizarre and Bud Collins called him zany. But they both agreed that Whitney was a unique personality on and off the court.

Maybe no one knew Whitney intimately, and maybe that's good. He was fun, sad, and enigmatic. An elusive character with an almost cult following.

Kindred spirits celebrated his successes and empathized with his failures. Just the mention of his name in some circles is good for hours of reminiscing.

Yet, in every discussions involving Whitney, one aphorism persists. Whitney was always Whitney. He was the same person accepting a trophy or heading for the locker room.

As the late Jackie Cooper, former junior Davis Cupper, and for years director of tennis in Palm Desert, "Whitney was the same guy winning at Forest Hills or losing in Hoboken."

Being a friend of Whitney's came with huge risks. Primarily, anyone foolish enough to emulate Whitney's midnight meanderings was either dumb or suicidal. The Australians had big reputations as fun-loving, womanizing, beer drinkers, but they were mere amateurs compared to Whitney.

If Newcombe, Emerson, or Roche had lived as fast as Whitney, their names would not appear in the record books. They would probably appear on head stones. Occasionally a player would join the tour and see Whitney's classic third set recovery and think “Hell, if Whitney can do it so can I." Presently, they're either dead or teaching tennis in Peoria.

At the 1960 Cincinnati stop, Whitney met Ed Atkinson, a first year tour player and the proud possessor of the biggest forehand on the tour. (Click Here for Ed’s awesome articles on the great players of a bygone era.)

If tour players at the time had required guardians or coaches, Whitney and Ed would have been immediately separated. No self-respecting coach would have allowed two athletes to feed on each other's penchant for life's festive activities.

Fortunately, they were both endowed with ox-like constitutions and they survived without causing each other permanent damage. In fact, Whitney taught Ed to concentrate on the middle ball if three balls appeared to be coming across the net.

Bye Gone Standards

To be completely fair, the '50s and the '60s embraced a different set of standards. Executives thought nothing of a three martini lunch with a pack of cigarettes and a couple highballs after work. A man was judged by how well he handled liquor, tobacco, and fashion.

It was cool to drink copious amounts of booze. It was uncool to drink copious amounts of booze and act like a bore. It was cool to smoke; it was uncool to dress like a slob.

Cool

Whitney Reed was always quintessentially cool. In 60 years of competitive tennis, no one has ever accused Whitney of being a bore or a slob.

Understanding Whitney's proclivity for the good life may be difficult for some people, but not for tennis players of that era. They figured out at a very young age that tennis was his or her ticket to ride.

They understood that they could have almost everything enjoyable in life and not have to sell one shoe, drive one nail, or don one three-piece suit. They could enjoy the company of interesting people, and appreciate the companionship of beautiful women.

All they needed to do was hit a ball over the net better than anyone else on the planet. Tennis allowed them to spend the spring in New England, the fall in the Caribbean, and the summer in Europe.

Whitney and most of his contemporaries understood that the life they choose was finite. Time would take its toll.

The design of the human body was at odds with the physical abuse that is inherent in the game--not to mention the abuse generated by the lifestyle. Where Whitney's attitudes and goals differed from his colleagues was in his core value.

Performer

He was a performer first. Winning was important, ranking was important, and ego was important. However, in front of either one or a million fans, if he could stroll into "no man's land" and half-volley an opponent's passing shot for a winner, Whitney was in heaven.

Whitney's story is not without precedent. Countless storied athletes lived life in the fast lane. Mickey Mantle died in his 60s. Bobby Lane never made 60. John Brodie had a stroke and barely survived.

What separated Whitney and made him unique was that John Brodie, Mickey Mantle, Bobby Lane, and countless other professional athletes were forced to quit their beloved sport by attrition.

When interviewed, they universally proclaimed that the competition was the element they missed the most. Not Whitney, he never gave a hoot about the competition, he only cared about the performance.

On the Caribbean tour, he beat Roy Emerson and Neale Fraser in the same day to win a tournament. Ironically, if there was no one in the stands to enjoy his feat he would have considered the day no different than sitting at his kitchen table working the New York Times crossword puzzle and completing it successfully.