The World's Worst Sport

I am the world's worst sport. Every time I lose it kills me. Unfortunately I am not always able to control my temper.

This is something which has not endeared me to the British press. In 1953, it sparked an acrid brush with them.

I was playing Rex Hartwig, the Australian, in the men's singles quarter finals of the Queen's Club Championships. On rain-drenched turf, I had won the first set and was leading 4-2 in the second with a break point.

Following a brief baseline exchange I approached to his backhand and Hartwig returned hard crosscourt. I moved over to volley, then in the last split second let it go out, or so I thought.

The ball landed six inches wide of the sideline. "Game to Mulloy," the umpired announced. "He leads 5-2 in the second set." The point you need to know before I go further is that in those days, umpires did not overrule linesmen.

We changed courts, Rex stopping to towel off, so that by the time I had reached the baseline and collected the balls he was just starting back to the baseline on his side.

Then the side linesman suddenly stood up, a bearded man of about seventy. "That ball was good," he announced pontifically, "I didn't make an out call." Behind him in the audience, a few people began to giggle.

Queens Club: the site of the flagrant injustice.

I turned to him. "What ball are you talking about?" I asked in genuine bewilderment. "The last crosscourt ball that Hartwig hit," he replied.

For a moment I stared at him, amazed. Then I put my hands on my hips and laughed in utter disbelief. The female umpire was no more credulous about it than I and gave him the opportunity to reconsider.

"Are you sure?" she asked the bearded one. "Yes," he replied defiantly. "That ball was good."

"Then why did you wait so long to call it?" I rapped at him. No reply. Meanwhile Hartwig, grinning from ear to ear, had come round to my side of the net.

"That makes the score deuce," the umpire announced, and I could detect the astonishment in her voice.

"Holy smoke!" I exclaimed bitterly, turning to Hartwig. "Rex, that ball was out six inches."

He continued to grin broadly.

"I know it and you know it," he said, "But it's been called good so let's get on and finish the game."

My opponent Rex Hartwig was unperturbed when his out ball was called good.

I stood there unable to believe this was happening. Then I became conscious of the mutterings and the restlessness of the spectators, and smothering my smoldering temper, I finally returned to the other court to receive at a deuce score.

But angered by this flagrant injustice, my concentration buckled. I lost that game and my following service game, dropping to 4--4 and eventually surrendering the set.

The third set went on serve to 6-6. I was serving at 30 love and after a brief exchange I lobbed deep. Rex leaped to hit a smash to my left, right in front of the Methuselah calling the sidelines. The ball hit in the middle of the alley, out by over two feet.

"That ball was good," said Methuselah. Twice the umpire questioned his decision but he remained adamant. I argued with him to no avail until once more the spectators, in Britain brought up in the belief of divine rightness of officials, began mumbling and fidgeting.

Unable to control my frustration, I served a double fault to lose that game, then easily went down on Hartwig's service and lost the match 8-6 in the third.

With unconcealed disgust I threw my racquet down in the direction of the aged linesman, shook Hartwig's hand, picked up my gear and stomped off the court. Upstairs in the dressing room reporters pecked at me for the headlines to put over the story.

"I should have won," I said to them. "Your officiating stinks."

The first attack came from that historic mainstay of British journalism: the Daily Herald.

Most of the newspapers reported just that but the Daily Herald went further, writing incorrectly that I had thrown the racket 60 feet toward the linesman.

"How can you allow one bad call to upset you?" I have often been asked. "After all it is only one point in the match."

My answer is this. First of all it is not one point but two points--the one taken from me and the one given to my opponent. Thus, to regain the position before the bad call I have to win the next two points.

But apart from the mathematics of the case, there is the psychological aspect of a bad call at a crucial stage in a close fought match. I cannot be philosophical: injustice and anger ferment within me, interfering with my concentration, weakening my control over my strokes. I invariably lose two or three games in a row before I calm down.

The British press did not forget. A year later I was staggered by the ferocity and viciousness of an English columnist in the Sunday Pictoral the day before Wimbledon opened.

Over a year later another attack from another historic paper: the Sunday Pictoral.

"Gardnar Mulloy, American lawyer and amateur tennis star, hereinafter referred to as the Miami Mouthpiece, should throw his racquet over a cliff and forget to let go.

"We want no part of your peevish, spoiled child act over the next fortnight at Wimbledon, Mr. Mulloy."

In addition to suggesting I commit suicide, he went on to accuse me of taking cash under the table while still an amateur. In America that what is called libel. I decided to sue.

Then in the preliminary back and forth my alleged past "transgressions" were brought to light. The defense now charged that at Queens Club the year before I had now thrown myracquet at the linesman, hitting the canvas back of the court. In addition, I had spit in his direction.

It was alleged I had insulted spectators in Paris and accused French officials of dishonesty. In addition I had again thrown my racquet again at an event in Newport. And finally, at Wimbledon I had accused an opponent of footfaulting on every changeover.

Allow me to say not one of the charges was true--at least exactly as stated. But my barrister concluded it highly unlikely a British jury would be sympathetic towards me, and I reluctantly accepted his advice. The cost of this brief encounter with the British law cost me 142 pounds in 1952, the equivalent of over $5,000 American dollars today.

While all this was going on, and I was still hopping mad over the Queen's Club affair, I had cabled a piece to the Miami Daily News.

What world class players have: the will to win.

"Admittedly my actions on the court that day were not the best, but neither were those of the linesman who cost me the match. At the end of the rain-soaked encounter I did throw down my racquet in disgust but not at the linesman."

The British press did not acquiesce in my version of events.

"Okay, okay, so you didn't kill our linesman," the Daily Mirror lectured. "You just brought to what is normally considered to be a game all the ugly hysteria of an ill-mannered schoolboy who deserves to get his ears slapped back. After all it is only a game!"

Only a game? Consider the development of an American tennis player who becomes world class. Around the age of ten he picks up a tennis racquet and begins to fumble his way around the public courts.

He discovers a liking and aptitude for the game and devotes more and more of his leisure time to it. Soon he is beating all the kids of his own age in the neighborhood and many a great deal older.

When he is thirteen a local coach is tipped off about him, takes a look at the boy, sees latent talent in him and takes him in hand. From this moment the lad is taught two things--tennis and the will to win. The two things are made to become inseparable in his mind.

At Wimbledon the following year, my antagonist at the Daily Herald had one final comment after my first round win.

"The Miamian lawyer with his reputation for assailing umpire and linesman was silent throughout the match." Of course I was, the officiating that day was impeccable.