The story of Hall of Famer Yvon Petra, from a POW camp to SW19 courts

It’s been more than 35 years since Ronald Reagan stated, during his first inaugural address, “Those who say that we’re in a time when there are no heroes, they just don’t know where to look.” We discovered heroes in every state, starting with the determined 69-year-old who won a match at an ITF Pro Circuit event earlier this year in the Alabama town of Pelham, and culminating with the coach who has overcome multiple sclerosis to build a winning program at the University of Wyoming. Their compelling stories of courage, perseverance and achievement demonstrate that the message delivered by our 40th President rings as true today as it did then.

My dad, Yvon, had a very difficult life. He came at the wrong time, frankly.

He was born in the middle of the first World War, in 1916, in a Chinese district of Saigon called Cholon. It was a colony of France, and his father was a bureaucrat for the French government there.

When he was 12 or 13 years old, he picked up a racquet and started hitting a ball against the wall, like many kids do. He was a natural athlete—he played soccer and swam—and never had any tennis lessons. He started to play on public courts with Vietnamese kids, and then moved on to playing clubs.

One day, at a local club, there was an exhibition between the best player in Indochina and a Frenchman. The French player trounced his opponent. It was Henri Cochet, who was No. 1 in the world in the late 1920s. My dad was terribly impressed by this, and decided that he was going to be a tennis player.

By 1936, my dad was the 17th-ranked player in France. Two years later, just before the beginning of World War II, he was No. 1 in the country. His big victory came not in singles, but in doubles. At Roland Garros in 1938, he and his partner, Bernard Destremau, beat Don Budge and Gene Mako, the No. 1 team in the world.

My dad also went to the United States to play Forest Hills, and he was a good friend of Gustav V., the king of Sweden. He would go to Stockholm and play at the palace with him. Rather quickly, he had established himself as a well-known international player.

He was about 20 years old when he started military service. By the time he was 25—an age when most people peak as tennis players—he was in the middle of the second World War. He spent two of his peak years in a prison camp in Germany. That was unbelievable for him, since he wanted to become champion of the world in tennis. It was his ambition.

When his company got caught on the front lines of Alsace in early 1940, Adolf Hitler’s army was invading France in the blitzkrieg. They sent the soldiers to Germany. Forced to walk for miles, my dad’s left knee was injured badly.

They left my dad at the camp, but after a number of months, word got out that he was still there. People knew him, as he had played in Germany before the war. The Germans actually sent a surgeon from Berlin to operate on him.

Usually, when a prisoner had injuries of this kind, the Germans sent him back home. But the man who was in charge of his camp would not release him, for reasons I’m unaware of. My dad didn’t talk about it much.

Finally, after two years, in 1942—after a lot of effort—he was sent home.

Repatriated to France, my dad went south, where he married my mother. His body was wasted and malnourished. Then he started his recovery.

Southern France was left alone by Hitler in the early 1940s—it was called Free France, under Vichy rule. It was a collaborative kind of government; the Germans didn’t want French society to be overpowered without any freedom. So they let the arts and sports flourish, under limitations, of course.

My dad got his strength back after approximately a year at home. The reason why great players are champions is because they have so much confidence. They think they can beat anybody. My dad had that belief. It helped him before, during and after the war.

From 1941 through 1945, the French Championships were not held, but the Tournoi de France was still contested at Roland Garros. My dad won it three times, beating Cochet twice. He had so much confidence and a fighting spirit.

The liberation of Paris occurred in May 1944. In 1946, the British resumed Wimbledon. My dad won it—the first Championships after the war—and he remains the last Frenchman to win Wimbledon. It’s just an absolutely amazing story.

It’s been 32 years since he died. It’s a sad situation for me—and yet, it’s very happy. I’m on a roller coaster right now. All I’m thinking about is his legacy.