A Shred of Hector

Writers of sporting articles are forever chafing themselves into a fine frenzy over nothing at all. It is their trade. Poor fellows, they must find something memorable in every tilt they see and a shred of Hector in every county champion. They are paid to make things seem exciting and in pursuance of their calling they resort to many sad devices so that when at last a moment occurs which, by its inherent humanity, is dramatic and blood-stirring, they have nothing left to say, and can only shake their heads, and tap out fustian phrases with their fingers. Last week such a moment occurred at Forest Hills, L. I.

You do not have to know anything about tennis to understand it. Even as a generality, the crux of a vague plot, you must recognize in that moment the nice opposition of tensions and sympathies that make any situation either rococo or sublime. Here is a great champion. For six years he has held sway over the whole world, and if he succeeds for the seventh year he will equal the legend left behind by the greatest champion* before him. More than that, he knows that the confidence of his countrymen rests in his prowess, for he opposes a man from another nation. Now the fashion of fighting of these two champions differs like their races. The stranger, who comes of a people hot, delicate and windy, has schooled his natural haste into precision. His eye is cool; his strokes are like insults uttered in a careful voice. But the man of legend is a Jack of a different silk. Bleak in person and in countenance, sprung of a thin and righteous line of thee-and-thouers, he has sharpened caution into vehemence: every bravery of his stride is his, every fine conceit of skill and insolence. For a while his thundering ways prevailed, and the crowd cheered; then the soft-spoken stranger won back his lost advantage and more too, so that he seemed to surpass the champion, and the crowd trembled. But the champion had been before in evil straits; he had hammerblows waiting; now, triumphantly, he began to use them. Slowly, remorselessly, he advanced until he was on even terms with his adversary, until he was ahead of him. With one more effort he would conquer. . The crowd quivered. The moment had come.

This moment embraced the four seconds required to play the fifth point of the ninth game of the fifth set of William Tatem Tilden's match against Henri Cochet of France. Tilden lost the point. He lost the match. He has lost other matches, but never one like this. Cochet, who had won the second and third sets and had a lead of 4-1 in the fifth, seemed sure to win when Tilden started his rally. He had Cochet 40-15. And then, his fire waned, the reserve which had never failed before failed him now, and 24-year-old Cochet put him out, 6-8, 6-1, 6-3, 1-6, 8-6.

Concerning the technique of Cochet's victory--how he popped back cannonball serves, how he outthought Tilden, how with the first ball played he started Tilden on a long run from the backcourt to the net and from baseline to baseline, a run that never stopped until Tilden, gasping, twisted his haggard face into a smile and shook hands with his conqueror--critics will hold forth for some time to come. Indeed, critics and officials alike were so interested in the champion's debacle that they forgot about everything else, and William Johnston and Jean Borotra started their match an hour late. Johnston, the second ranking player in the world, and steadiest member of the U. S. Davis Cup team, won the first two sets with ease, as he was expected to. Then, amazingly, he lost the next three and the match.

R. Norris Williams, twice (1914, 1916) champion of the U. S., did not even give Rene Lacoste a run for his money.

Next day, Lacoste beat Cochet and Borotra beat Vincent Richards.

If Richards had made a stand, if he had put out the sad-eyed Lacoste, the bounding Borotra, he might have become a national figure comparable to Ethan Allen, Commodore Perry or Red Grange. But the momentum of the French was too great; thinking of Tilden's fall, of Johnston's failure, of Williams' calamity, how could he survive alone? So it was Rene Lacoste who faced Jean Borotra in the final.

Little did these two men look like the two first tennis players of the world as they lobbed and patted the ball at each other. Lacoste, whose father is director of the famed Hispano-Suiza Motor Co., seemed barely able to keep open his night-club eyes. Borotra leaped for the net, strained, caracoled, grimaced, and wagged his jaunty head--to no avail. Lacoste's precision was too much for him. In the first and third sets Borotra took the lead by breaking through his friend's service; but Lacoste's lobs were too accurate, Lacoste's placements too well thought, and 22-year-old Lacoste won the championship of the U. S., 6-4, 6-0, 6-4.

* Richard Sears, in 1887, won the tennis championship for the seventh consecutive time.