Not a single cloud dares defy the Bruin blue sky. Only one brave, bold breeze interrupts the warm morning stillness.
There is a basic simplicity to the Jack Kramer Memorial service, which nonetheless hints of grandeur.
At first gla
nce at the baseline of UCLA’s tennis stadium, one’s eye spots three elegant silver trophies that shimmer bright, plus three over-sized floral constructions: a white Christian cross, a golden replica of Big Jake’s iconic Kramer Autograph racket and a horseshoe of red roses emblematic of the horse racing Kramer so adored. (He went to the track just five days before he passed.)
Naturally, the farewell to the alpha male lion of our tennis pride proved to be nothing less than a gathering of the tribe. There was “The chief” (Alex Olmedo); “The Judge” (Robert Kelleher); “The Bear” (Barry MacKay) and “The Donald” (agent Donald Dell) along with Charlie (Pasarell), Vic (Braden) Vijay (Amritaj) and Dick (Gould), plus ladies (Tracy) Austin and (Pam) Shriver.
A parade of speakers told the September 21 throng of several hundred of the memorable journey of a Western individualist who — with a wind in his sails confidence and an unwavering gravitas — called everyone “kid.” A cautionary and ever-savvy product of the depression, he never worked for anyone else and always carried enough money in his pocket to buy a new car.
His son Bob didn’t beat around the bush, telling us, “Dad was never against women’s tennis.” (We flash to Kramer’s tectonic battle of the sexes with the young don’t-tread-on-me Billie Jean King.) “But he was against losing money on women’s tennis.”
But truth be told, in this twitter world in which we get little more than our 15 minutes of fleeting fame, it’s hard to grasp the almost mind-boggling impact of this man who years ago so transformed the tennis landscape.
His Himalayan achievements make the accomplishments of the most fervent overachiever among us seem decidedly Appalachian. After all, the short version of his resume tells us he was “merely” the greatest player of his generation (and brought in “the Big Game” or percentage tennis, which long defined the American game.) With a canvas court in tow and two station wagons navigating backroads, he dared orchestrate a rag-tag barnstorming tour that brought Wimbledon to Kalamazoo and that without pause asserted that Riggs and Rosewall were all but Babe Ruth and Bill Tilden incarnate. “He was,” said MacKay, “the best promoter tennis ever had and will ever have.”
(OUT OF NOWHERE NOTE TO SERENA WILLIAMS: this guy’s tenacious will essentially forged the path to Open tennis from which you, myself and so many others have gained so much. Now back to our mini-timeline.)
In ’73, Kramer courageously spat into the prevailing wind and led the most important strike in tennis history. (And thus the tale of being approached that tumultuous summer at London’s snazzy Savoy Hotel by a kindly old English lady who deferentially asked, “Excuse me, sir, are you Jack Kramer?” Tennis’ perpetually gentlemanly star replied, “Yes, mam, I’m Jack Kramer.” At which point the good lady raised her umbrella and began to beat the rabble rouser who had denied her the proper tennis entertainment she craved.)
Kramer was not only a broadcaster, a co-founder of the more-powerful-than-ever ATP, a club owner, tournament director and the go-to decision maker in Southern California tennis, he was a family man who raised his celebrated “five perfect sons” in a jolly, “Father Knows Best” Bel Air ambiance that included plenty of hi-jinx and Kramer’s singular wife Gloria (who sported the playful nickname “Foo-Foo” and didn’t hesitate to complain that the lockers at one of Jack’s clubs were too small because she couldn’t fit her fur into them). For years, it was said, the kids figured their dad was called Nieman Marcus since every week their mom would get a package from that guy Nieman Marcus.)
Anyway, in the end, the Kramer Memorial gave us a rich tapestry as we learnt all we needed to know about this larger-than-life fellow, his storied accomplishments and old school dignity. Supposedly a rugged individualist, Kramer was actually quite the community guy: he led his band of merry nomadic players, there was the bountiful Wilson corporation, the ATP, the SCTA, UCLA, the feel-good tennis and golf clubs he headed, his golfing buddies at the 19th hole, the gang down at the track and, of course, his family.
Commanding and charming, Kramer was a “fortune favors the bold” risk-taker who for six decades played the percentages.
Who can say where tennis would be these days without him? But SCTA prez Bill Kellogg did note that “back in the 40s I’m not sure too many of us admitted we were tennis players. Now we’re proud.”
USTA exec Jim Curley simply noted, “The name Jack Kramer became synonymous with tennis.” And why not? As Bud Collins observed, he was “the most important man in the history of tennis.”
