Some people still send Xmas cards

My first Christmas card arrived this week. Yes people still send real cards instead of the sterile, press-a-button offerings on your PC. This card was from Australia, from none other than Ken Rosewall. If your not into tennis, turn to page three and read about the stadium that has been named after him in Sydney, New South Wales.

The point of this item is that while taking the time to write and mail a card to an acquaintance of times long distant, he made no mention of the honor that was being bestowed on him. That was typical of a man who, while he dominated the tennis world, when the game was still “amateur” and displayed an incredible modesty when you compare it to some of those who stride the courts and sports fields of the world today.

His was the era of Harry Hopman, the stern team disciplinarian who made sure that all of his “boys” wore blazers and ties when they appeared in public. His wife Nell, who chaperoned the Aussie women’s team, was equally firm with her flock, which included the likes of Margaret Smith (later Court) and her grand slam winning doubles partner Robyn Ebbern.

The girls had to be back in their hotel by 9 p.m. every night, except when there were official functions like The Queens Club eve of Wimbledon dinner, or the Wimbledon Ball.

But Nell was never able to discover the source of a story that made headlines across Britain, during one Queen’s Club event. Robyn was the unexpected winner of the pre-Wimbledon Queens event, defeating the renowned Maria Bueno in the final.

One devoted admirer had promised her a rose for every game she won during the tournament. She sailed through the first couple of rounds with straight set victories, so only two dozen roses were delivered to her hotel.

Then the matches got harder, and the bunches of roses bigger, and at the end of the three set final her hotel room was ablaze in color.

At the time no newspaper reporter was able to track down the besotted man who was emptying his wallet for the hard hitting champion. As I scudded around Wimbledon from players’ lounge to press room, I was often asked if I knew the source.

Well, I don’t know if Robyn ever spilled the beans, but perhaps its time to bare my soul. It was me.

But back to Ken Rosewall and his fellow giants of the court (although most of them were small in stature). When he finally turned professional, and joined the Jack Kramer travelling circus, he retained his modesty and charm and was willing to give back to the game that had served him so well.

In a busy schedule he made time to appearing in a training movie, approved an article I had ghosted for one of my tennis books, and turned up to present the prizes at a kid’s tournament. When he received the miniscule checks, months later, he took the time to write a long thank you letter, another much forgotten courtesy.

Ken had two nicknames, “Muscles” and “Moneybags”. The first because of his pocket dynamo frame, the second because in an era when a pro’s annual earnings wouldn’t match the purse from one of today’s big tournaments, he carefully socked away his earnings, so that when he retired he was able to make some wise real estate investments, and benefit from his years of bringing joy to thousands of admirers. My Christmas card is in the mail.