It was just a hot dusty fair, a summer diversion, in Depression-era Pomona. But the lean kid, the son of a railroad worker, was intrigued. Before him, in 1934, was a lanky fellow, elegant Ellsworth Vines, who was strutting his stuff, amazing a throng with his strokes by the racetrack.
The wide-eyed boy, just 13, got hooked. A singular talent, he forgot about pole vaulting and playing first base and began to take the bus to a street car that connected with another bus that wound its way through a freeway-less L.A. to Pasadena, where he honed his skills.
Who would imagine that skinny little Jack Kramer, who would soon become the favorite of Tennis Godfather Perry Jones, was destined to become the legendary “Big Jake,” the icon they simply dubbed “Mr. Tennis.”
After all, long before there was Pete Sampras — elegant, smooth, powerful — there was another Southern Californian whose fierce and imposing serve-and-volley game enabled him to dominate.
Long before there were nomadic Rolling Stones’ tours, there was an impresario who barnstormed from snowy Madison Square Garden to sun-baked Texarkana, taking a raw, ragtag version of pro tennis to outback junior high gyms, forlorn hockey rinks and drafty armories. Before Michael Jordan raked in ga-billions for his sneakers, there was a clever lad who put his name on a wooden Wilson racket, which became the game’s first lucrative cash-cow endorsement.
Before Arthur Ashe began to fight apartheid, Kramer was at the forefront of a pivotal battle to get pros to boycott Wimbledon in ‘73 — such courage, insight and skill. London’s cabbies soon yelled at him and he was eventually fired as a Wimbledon broadcaster. Pioneers pay a price.
Jack Kramer did it all. He was a tireless popularizer who led a tennis-to-the-people tour that swept the game to the masses far beyond leafy enclaves and exclusive clubs, and a fierce insurgent who tenaciously battled the old fogey powers who clung on to that oh-so-tired corruption they called amateur tennis; an antiquated concept that locked the game in the prison of the past and lingered decades past its prime. Demonized and marginalized, Kramer, of course, could not play Wimbledon or even, God forbid, peek into the locker room.
But let’s be crystal clear. His (dare-we-say heroic) struggle led directly to the creation of the modern game and the tennis industry itself. Period.
Ironically, Kramer eventually morphed into an imposing authority figure: the rebel becomes CEO. For years, he was the Vince McMahon of a circuit where the mantra was clear: Sign a contract with Kramer, top off your gas tank and head out to the boonies to play — not pretty trophies — but for much-needed cash. Plus, on top of all this, Kramer was the George Washington of the men’s tour, co-founding the ATP and coming up with the rankings system.
He was so powerful that even his spats resulted in tectonic changes. His high-volume quarrels with the not-exactly deferential Billie Jean King led, when the dust settled, to the creation of the WTA. Locally, in L.A.’s post-Perry Jones era, the Bel Air Baron was the region’s go-to, behind-the-scenes decision maker.
SCTA President Bill Kellogg noted, “When he came into a room, he lit up the place. The man had a commanding presence and a huge heart and was a good listener. I don’t know how a person could give more to tennis.”
When L.A.’s storied tournament was in deep trouble, Kramer stepped in and ponied up $100,000 and from ‘79 to ‘83 was the tournament director of the Jack Kramer Open. He stepped in to help wide-ranging local projects, like tennis in Ojai.
But tennis was not his only sports passion. He adored horses, owned many and was out at the races with Barry MacKay and Donald Dell a week before he passed. An inspired entrepreneur, he pocketed hefty sums from the golf clubs he owned.
Despite his affluence, the life’s work of this Vegas-born man who was deeply rooted in the Southwest, brings to mind the heart-wrenching farewell speech that dirt-poor Okie Tom Joad made to Ma Joad in the Grapes of Wrath.
If there was a great player to be played, Jack would be there. If there was a tour to be launched, Jack was there. If a seemingly futile battle for Open tennis had to be forged, Jack would lead the way. Or if an against-the-grain boycott had to be set in motion or a rankings system needed to be launched or a tournament had to be saved or a King had to be schmoozed or a celebratory banquet had to be held, Mr. Tennis was there.
So how could tennis possibly replicate this fellow?
I suppose the formula would be something like this: Take 10 heaping cups of pure, raw, unadulterated Sampras-esque athletic genius, mix in a generous portion of aw-shucks, straight-shooting, Jimmy Stewart-style Americana. Add a bountiful dash of Trump-like enterprise, a pinch of old-school patriarchal noblesse oblige, some Bobby Riggs-like delight in risk-taking, Billie Jean’s love of the battle, a McEnroe penchant for getting involved in just about everything, a dose of Aussie-style (“Let’s shut this joint down”) social aplomb and an unflinching devotion to his abundant five-son family and voila, you‚d have it — another Mr. Tennis.
But wait, never mind. There was only one Big Jake, one Mr. Tennis. There will never be another.
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KRAMER MEMORIAL SERVICE
There will be a public memorial service and remembrance for the singular Jack Kramer at 11:00 on Saturday, September 26 at the Straus Stadium at UCLA’s Los Angeles Tennis Center, where the Los Angeles Open is played. All are welcome.
