!A Terrible Splendor - Cover Image Freelance tennis writer Kamakshi Tandon and I are discussing “A Terrible Splendor,” by Marshall Jon Fisher. The book, released this month, delves into one of the sport’s legendary matches, the 1937 Davis Cup showdown between Don Budge of the United States and Baron Gottfried von Cramm of Germany, played as the world readied for war.
Kamakshi,
You’re right to point out that Fred Perry would have made another logical counterpoint character in this book; we could have used a little more of him and a little less of Tilden. Perry strikes me as a unique character, in that he was one of the first world champions from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, yet no one in the history of the game looked more like the classic definition of a tennis player. He may have resented the game’s snobbish gatekeepers, but he remade himself in the traditional gentleman’s image. Perry took his famed laurel wreath logo from the wreath that was once sewn onto the ribbons given to Wimbledon champions. Ironic to think that that upper-crusty wreath, combined with the name of a working class tennis champion from the 1930s, would become a symbol of all things cloyingly hip at the turn of the century.
I’ll add another player of that era whose life also could have been profitably fleshed out: Bobby Riggs. He was a sort of an American version of Perry, a blue-collar spy in the world of top-tier tennis in the 1930s who would go on to have a second life in the Open era—rather than hipness, Riggs happily became the personification of what was once quaintly known as the “male chauvinist pig.” Riggs, a lifelong gambler and clown, makes a few cameo appearances in Splendor; I’d never realized that he’d been such a thorn in Budge’s side, beating him in a number of big-money matches. But he could have been used as another example of how tennis was changing and evolving in the 30s. Like Budge, Riggs was part of the California public-court takeover of the sport in that decade.
Of course, those are just sidelights to this story. The core of the book is the relationship and contrast between the two opponents that day on Center Court, Budge and Cramm. I think you said it well when you wrote that Cramm, destroyed as a man, was left with only his sense of honor in the end, the thing he had always prided himself on more than anything. That scene where he teaches Budge the finer points of gentlemanly sportsmanship before their first match seems to me to be the key to the book and that era of tennis. On one side you have the teacher, Cramm, who was born into the aristocratic, amateur code of honor and sportsmanship, of playing tennis for the joy of competing rather than money. His class of nobles has already lost all power, and in a few years his country will be wrecked. But he’s transmitting the values of that class to a young American and child of immigrants, Budge. And what strange values they seem to us now. Cramm will never question a call or throw a point in a theatrical act of “chivalry” because he doesn’t want to embarrass a linesman. And he won’t accept anything less than this standard from Budge.
For his part, Budge is the student, but he learns the code of the sport, and it serves him well. He begins as a Tommy Dorsey-loving (notice the love of music by both Tilden and Budge, a common theme among tennis players, and tennis bloggers), red-haired rube from northern California, but like Fred Perry he quickly cultivates the image and demeanor of the elegant tennis champion, from his all-white racquet, to his London-tailored white slacks, right down to his white shoes. The sport makes Budge into a man he might never have been otherwise.
The ethos of the game then was the amateur one, of course; in those days “professional” was, if not a dirty word, certainly not one that a top tennis player wanted affixed to his name—it was the sport's version of a tradesman. In the 70 years since, the meaning of amateur and professional have flipped. Now the highest compliment you can give a tennis player, or pretty much anyone in any walk of life, is that he or she is a “true professional.” Like Budge, all the top pros today have had to learn to handle themselves as just that, pros. In the 1930s the important thing was to play the game the right way, by the code—if you didn't, you were looked down on because you weren't living up to your class or your calling. Now it’s about playing up to your potential—if you're not, you're looked down on because you're not "getting the most out of yourself" (a strange phrase, when you think about it). Still, when I think of Budge’s transformation from goofy hick to man of style, I think of Roger Federer. And when I think of how, after he lost to Perry at Forest Hills because he'd scarfed too many chocolate sundaes, Budge retreated into the California hills to begin training in earnest, I think of two recent tennis brats turned men, Andre Agassi and Andy Murray. Whether they’re called amateurs or professionals, this individual sport still turns out full-fledged individuals.
My favorite moment from the book? It comes at the end of the match, when Budge hits a scintillating winner from the far corner as he’s falling down to clinch the tie for the U.S. When he gets to the net for the handshake, Cramm is waiting for him, as disappointed as he has ever been after blowing a 4-1 lead, and perhaps even fearful for his future in Nazi Germany. These, according to Fisher, are Budge’s thoughts as he approaches his opponent:
There at the net stands his vanquished friend, the most gracious sportsmanlike smile masking what must be turmoil underneath. Three Wimbledon finals in a row lost, and now the Davis Cup. But then Budge realizes that the smile is not a mask. Cramm is genuinely happy. Happy for his friend, glad for the fans who have watched such a fine match.
Budge moves to hug Cramm, but the German stops him by clasping his hand. “Don,” he says, “this was absolutely the finest match I have ever played in my life. I’m very happy I could have played it against you, whom I like so much. Congratulations.” And with that their arms are around each other.
First a lesson in sportsmanship, then a lesson in gracious defeat. Budge may have been the winner, but Cramm remained the teacher. And you don’t get any better than that.
Thanks for the posts, Kamakshi. You might consider a career as a book critic someday. See you next time,
Steve