AND THAT’S THE WAY IT WAS
It was always a daunting experience. For a mere sports reporter — a lowly tennis essayist — to gaze over some 45 yards from the cramped U.S. Open press seats and see the crème de la crème of American journalism sitting relaxed in the life-is-good President’s Box was humbling. A mere glance over at those titans, always put matters in brutal perspective.
While we were pre-occupied with why some rising Slovakian southpaw hit her backhand down-the-line on break-point in the third set, these guys colored and conveyed the core issues that shape our days: insurrection and crises, Vietnam and Watergate, bitter assassinations and transformative breakthroughs. In Marshal McLuhan’s universe, these were our sages, our storytellers: wise men in a powerful tube.
I only played tennis with one of these icons. Many a year ago I scored a win over tennis fanatic Harry Reasoner, (who once did a special lengthy segment with tennis’ “inner game” guru Tim Gallwey.)
But I did love to chat with these guys. I got an in-depth interview with the left-handed Long Island serve ‘n vollyer Charlie Rose. Alistair Cooke, the British commentator and host, shamelessly confessed his adoration of the lovely Argentine Gabriela Sabatini. And the highly competitive Michael Wallace became completely giddy, as he went off de-constructing the finer points of tennis. (Plus, he told me that the key to getting a good interview was preparation and knowledge of your subject.)
I never did have the guts to ask Dan Rather whether he was just a tad embarrassed about his meltdown when his news broadcast was delayed for eight minutes due to a long-running Steffi Graf – Lori McNeil tennis drama. But I did have to chuckle silently when Tom Brokaw answered a few of my questions with that deep voice and in the same slow studied, almost ponderous style that has drawn such sacrilegious satire.
Still the highlight of my interactions with all these exceptional talents was being introduced (by former USTA President Bob Cookson) to Walter Cronkite.
There were many princes of broadcast news. Cronkite and, before him, Edward R. Morrow were the kings who reigned above all the other royals. Straightforward, honest, innovative, risk-taking, wise and user-friendly, Cronkite’s was a singular, re-assuring voice – so calm amidst the considerable storm. Across the country he drew 18 million viewers. At my college union in the mid-west in the 60s, a throng of 75 people would crowd around a little TV each night just to get his ‘take’.
As 60 Minutes’ Morley Safer wryly reminded us, “they didn’t call him the most trusted man in America for nothing.” We saw war and peace, scandal and adventure, through this man’s prism. No wonder, when Cronkite became cautionary about Viet Nam, President Johnson wryly admitted: “if I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost middle America.”
His gestures told us everything. Stunned and resigned, he took off his dark clunky glasses on a fateful November afternoon, and informed us: “From Dallas Texas, this flash, apparently official, President Kennedy died at 1:00 P.M. Central Standard Time … some 38 minutes ago.” Glancing up at a studio clock, his speechless daze and a single painful whince informed us: a world of sorrow had descended – Camelot died.
Then again, in 1969, when — amidst societal chaos – America’s soaring eagle touched on the moon’s Sea of Tranquility, he smiled with glee. And when he rubbed his hands in triumph, a happy little boy, we knew we all had entered a Brave New World of exploration.
Cronkite was a truth-teller. He oozed gravitas and had a balance, which emerged from intellect, curiosity and wide-ranging interests. Sure he knew every President since Herbert Hoover and yeah he interviewed many a tennis champ (think Arthur Ashe and Jimmy Connors.) Still amidst all the work and celebrity, he loved to relax and play. Sailing was, of course, his first love. But he not only often came to the U.S. Open; he was a regular for doubles every summer on Martha’s Vineyard. Rural legend tells us that he would play every summer morning from 7:00 to 9:00 in a rather rumpled pulled-down white hat. Sadly, as a sprightly 86-year-old, he suffered a rather serious muscle pull while playing.
Michael Wallace took particular delight in telling me how he could lob Cronkite. And Katie Curic, who now sits in his venerable CBS chair, snickered with loving delight that when it came to tennis, she could “kick his ass.”
But when it came to informing us, to shaping our thought, to gaining our hard earned confidence – no one kicked ass like Uncle Walter — Walter Leland Cronkite Jr.
