How I Wiped Up the Court with Pancho Gonzales

A couple of years ago, I was hired to write a tennis teaching film. The star of the film--the teacher--was to be Richard "Pancho" Gonzales. I was picked as the writer because I was the only writer the producers knew who was also a good tennis player. They knew I was a good tennis player because I knew how to keep score. Also, I had once told one of the producers that one way to tell a non-tennis player is if he says volley when he means rally. (A volley is a ball hit before it bounces; a rally is simply keeping the ball in play. Most people call a rally a volley.) After that, they kept meeting writers who would say, "Yeah, I go out sometimes and volley with the guy next door." So the producers knew that they weren't good tennis players. I got the job.

This is how good I am: I once lost a pretty close but not very close match to the number-three man on a high school tennis team from Brooklyn that lost all but one of its matches that year.

The plan was for me to spend a couple of weekends with Gonzales at his tennis ranch in Malibu, learning his approach to teaching. I would then write a rough script that Gonzales would edit, and eventually we would shoot the film at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, where he was Director of Tennis. The night before I left for my flight to L.A. and my first meeting with Gonzales, my wife and I had dinner at a friend's house. Somewhere into the second cocktail, we got to trying to figure out a way Gonzales could be handicapped so he and I could play a match. (This was before I learned how Bobby Riggs handicaps himself--wearing snowshoes, carrying an umbrella, etc.) Unlike golf, you just can't give a guy a number of strokes based on a recognized handicap system. And something like giving me a 40--love advantage in every game wouldn't work, because there's no way that Gonzales couldn't come back from a handicap like that even if I somehow won a game or two.

By the end of the wine, we were considering having Gonzales use the stick shift from an automobile instead of a racket (he's also a racing driver), but we all agreed that he might consider it demeaning, and I also figured that I'd probably lose anyway and that would be degrading. By the end of cordials, we had come up with a plan. I would play Pancho Gonzales under the following conditions: The match would start with me ahead two sets to none, and five games to love in the third set, and the score either 40--love with me serving or love--40 with Gonzales serving. So, for Pancho to win, he had to win the first three points. If he did, that would even things up in that game, and there'd be no question he'd then win 19 straight games to take the match at 0--6, 0--6, 7--5, 6--0, 6--0. (Which isn't, you'd admit, a bad score to be beaten by Pancho Gonzales.)

However, if I won any one of the first three points, it was my match 6--0, 6--0, 6--0!

The next morning I left for Los Angeles. And how I eventually did beat Pancho Gonzales happened like this.

June 17

Drove from the Beverly Hills to Pancho's spectacular ranch in Malibu Hills. Met by Pancho's gracious brother-in-law, Argos Farrell, a former Mexican Davis cupper who helps him run the tennis ranch.

"Pancho is in a good mood today," he said.

"How do you know?" I asked him.

"He said, 'Hello, Argos,' this morning." I waited for more.

"That's all he said, 'Hello, Argos'?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And that means he's in a good mood, if he says, 'Hello, Argos'?"

"Yes."

"Terrific."

At that moment, a car drove through the entrance to the ranch and stopped about 20 yards from us. Gonzales and his agent got out and started walking toward us. I walked toward Pancho, hand extended. "Hi, Pancho, I'm Peter Nord and I...."

He walked past me, and my hand was taken by his agent, who said, "Pancho's pissed because his dog attacked a goddamn mountain lion or something last night." The next thing I saw was Gonzales staring at a ferocious-looking dog. After about ten seconds, the dog put his tail between his legs, whimpered and rubbed his face against Gonzales' legs.

Finally I met Gonzales. He was gracious, reasonably warm, but there was always that shadow of the stare reminding you that he was Pancho and you were you. All the time we talked that first day I was desperately waiting to get on the court with him. Finally we headed for the court.

"Pancho," I asked him, "what's the single most important thing for a tennis player?"

"You can't be a lard-ass," he said.

"What?"

"You can't be a lard-ass. You got a lard-ass, you can't move. You can't move, you can't play tennis."

Now, I have been skinny and I have been fat. But even skinny, I'm a lard-ass. I casually pulled down my tennis jacket to cover the offending part.

"The most important thing," Gonzales said, "is moving your feet so that they help you turn your body so you can step into the ball at as close to a ninety-degree angle to the net as possible, you know what I mean? If you can, you should always be facing the side lines when you swing. Lard-asses can't move their feet that fast, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I said, pulling again at my jacket.

We stepped onto the court. Pancho stood at the net and hit a ball to my forehand, not more than two or three feet away. I didn't have to move for it, so I didn't. I hit it back to him and realized that I was facing squarely toward the net.

"Your feet," he shouted. "Move your goddamn feet!"

I was afraid to tell him that he hit the ball so much faster than anyone had ever hit a ball toward me that I didn't have time to move my feet. He proceeded to hit 14 or 15 balls to me from the net, all of which I returned reasonably well and none of which I moved my feet for. Then he moved to the backcourt and we rallied for an hour or so. During that time, I would estimate that I hit 300 balls, 296 of them while my body was planted firmly and squarely toward the net. I decided to wait until the next day before I challenged him to The Match.

June 18

Returned to the ranch, this time with the two producers. Pancho and I took the court. I stayed at the net while Pancho demonstrated his strokes for them. He was hitting fairly hard but rhythmically, so I could time them without any trouble.

One of the producers said, pretty loud, "Hey, Pete looks good. He's getting everything Pancho hits at him."

Suddenly, Pancho picked up the pace a little. Then a lot.

Producer (very loud): "Jesus! Look at Nord. Pancho can't hit it past him!" He said it as I hit a volley deep to Pancho's backhand. I vaguely remember a flicker of a smile on Pancho's face. I clearly remember that Pancho's whole body coiled, then it uncoiled, and suddenly an aspirin tablet was heading at me, waist high, and if it hit me I would remember it until the day I died.

It hit my racket. Which was there because I hadn't returned it to the ready position after the last ball that I'd hit, as Pancho disdainfully told me later.

I decided not to challenge Pancho that day, because there were too many people around. And because of that last lucky volley. But that afternoon, Pancho was demonstrating his different serves for the producers. As unobtrusively as possible, I stationed myself behind the base line on the receiver's side to see how I could do. Pancho hit 25 serves. I returned seven of them. All seven that I returned were faults. I didn't get my racket on a single one of his 18 good serves. A bad omen for The Match.

February 4

Finally arrived in Las Vegas for the filming. They had told me about Mike the director. Top sports director, mostly golf and football. Doesn't know tennis. Important that we get along. Works best if he likes people he's working with. Drinks a lot. Tonight's the test.

We start at a bar in Caesars Palace.

7 P.M.

Director Mike: How 'bout you and I have cocktail before we go to dinner. Then we'll go to this terrific steak place. Bartender. Two martinis, please!

Bartender: Right. Two martinis.

Director Mike: Each.

Bartender, Me: Each?

Director Mike: Each.

9:45 P.M.

Me: Mike, whassay we go for the steak? (continued on page 167)Pancho Gonzales(continued from page 98)

Director Mike: Right, steak. Hungry as hell. Steak. Bartender? Check, OK? But first, two martinis.

Bartender: Each?

Director Mike: Each.

11:15 P.M.

The Flame. Big steak restaurant. We walk in and I head us for the entrance to the dining room, hoping Mike doesn't see what I saw but knowing that he must have seen what I saw.

Director Mike: Hey, look! A bar. Let's have a before-dinner cocktail, OK? Bartender? Two martinis, please! Each.

11:45 P.M.

Me: Mike, chrissake, I gotta get somethin' to eat.

Director Mike: Me, too. Hungry as hell. Let's eat.

We go into dining room, sit.

Waitress: Would you gentlemen like cocktails before dinner?

Director Mike: Good idea! Two martinis. Each.

12:15 A.M.

Waitress: Would you like to order?

Me: Steak, rare; Caesar salad.

Director Mike: The same.

And as waitress walks away:

Director Mike: Oh, yeah. And, miss?

Waitress: Yes?

Director Mike: Could we have the wine list?

• • •

I bear-walk out of bed at eight o'clock, shower, dress, get to the court before the nine-o'clock call so I can impress everybody with the way I can drink a lot and function the next day. Mike is already there. He's as good as new, fresh as a daisy, only I don't think he knows who I am.

11:15 A.M.

Pancho comes out. Bad mood. Does his scenes, however, perfectly. But bad, bad mood.

Same in afternoon. His demonstration of the strokes is perfect, only he doesn't talk too much. We break at five, having gotten more in the can than we'd thought for the first day of what will be a two-day shooting. But Pancho's obviously in no mood to play a match against me or anyone else.

February 6

2 A.M.

Producers are playing craps, most of us are at the roulette wheel--Pancho, Mike, assistant director, me. Pancho is in a little better mood, but not what you'd call a good mood. Mike is sitting next to him and is winning pretty good.

Pancho puts some chips on number 16.

"Pancho, you dumb bastard!" says Mike. "You bet on the wrong number. Not 16, 19!"

He takes Pancho's chips off 16, puts them on 19, the wheel spins.

Assistant director turns white, I edge between Pancho's and Mike's chairs and see the end of nice assignment, maybe even some physical pain. Unexpectedly, Pancho smiles a little. But just a little.

"Nineteen," says the croupier, and Pancho collects his winnings.

"See, you dumb lovable son of a bitch," says Mike. "You almost put it on the wrong number.... Hey! Lady!" He is yelling to a cocktail waitress about 20 feet away who is built like Raquel Welch.

She walks over. Smiles. "Yes?"

"Miss?"

"Yes. What can I do for you, sir?"

"Miss?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Miss. I need an enema."

He ended the night winning $175.

February 7

Pancho is in a terrific mood this morning. I decide to ask him about The Match at lunch break. I do. He laughs. Not at the fun of it all. At the stupidity. But I can't leave without playing him!

That afternoon, while the crew is setting up the last shots, Mike is potchkying the ball back and forth over the net with one of the sound engineers. He's delivering a running commentary: "And there's a hard smash to Rosewall's forehand and Rosewall can't return it and...."

Of course! Why not play Pancho exactly the way I pitched against DiMag, vaulted against Warmerdam, shot against Hoppe, massacred Schmeling? How many times did I strike out Stan Musial with two men on in the bottom of the ninth before a sellout crowd at Ebbets Field, while bystanders thought I was playing fast-pitching-in against the apartment house on Ash Avenue in Flushing? How many times did I intercept a desperation pass to Don Hutson, although some thought it was meant for Harry Kaplow? And my God, was it 50, 60 or 70 homers I hit off Sal Maglie/Joey Rosenthal? Who doesn't remember that incredible chip shot that won a play-off in the U.S. Open at the miniature golf course near Kissena Park? And who could forget that astonishing driving lay-up (I took off from behind the foul line) that enabled me and Queens College to beat Kentucky at the buzzer in the finals of the N.C.A.A.? Certainly not Alex Groza, whom I held to nine points, or Wolfie Politz. who actually thought I was covering him.

I asked Pancho if he wanted to warm up before we started the last scenes. We rallied for about five minutes, and at one point we stopped to retrieve the balls. I set the scene in my mind. The U.S. Open: 46-year-old master Pancho Gonzales in the finals against a 44-year-old unknown, Peter Nord. An amateur. A part-time tennis player who had somehow worked his way to Forest Hills, all the way to the finals. And suddenly, there was the announcer. Sounded a lot like Bill Stern.

"And now he's got his back to the wall--of course, it's a miracle that he's even here, folks--the score 6--4, 8--10, 10--12, 9--7, 6--6, and in sudden death each has four points, and Nord is serving for the last point and the match."

All the balls gathered, I nonchalantly walked to about where I'd stand if I were serving in a match. Fortunately, Pancho was standing about where he'd be standing if he were receiving.

I bounce the ball. Pancho is calling, "Come on, for chrissake."

The announcer speaks again: "The crowd hushes. You can see the strain in both these aging warrior faces. Gonzales tenses. Nord begins his motion."

Instead of hitting the ball off a bounce, the way you do it when you're rallying with someone, I serve. As hard as I can, I serve. Gonzales doesn't even move for it. It's in.

"An ace! Incredible! An ace! Point! Game! Set! Match! U.S. Open to Peter Nord, in what has to be, ladies and gentlemen, one of the great moments in sports! Both Gonzales and Nord are too tired to move. They stand there bathed in sweat, and now Gonzales, shaking his head in disbelief and what has to be respect, walks toward...."

At that point, I hear in the background, "For chrissake, Nord, what the hell are you doing? Are you warming me up or are you crapping around with that stupid serve of yours, or whatever it was? Come on, for chrissake, either act like a tennis player or...."

Sore loser.