Never allow your sport to become your master. Staleness is usually mental, not physical.
No man can succeed consistently who is not in good condition, mentally and physically.
False stimulation will not carry a man to victory over a period of time. Most great matches are swung by reserve strength in the pinch.
Training is nothing more serious than leading a normal life which will keep a sound head on your shoulders under all circumstances.
One seldom realizes one is touching the high spots of one's life until they are passed and one looks back on them in the quiet, calm meditation of advancing years. From the sere and yellow of my twenty-fifth tennis season (I was quite young when I took up the game) I am baring my soul of its inmost thoughts to tell a waiting world (waiting, but not for this) of the matches I consider the high spots of my tennis career.
The first one I recall clearly was in 1901. The place was Onteora Club in the Catskill Mountains. The enthusiastic gallery consisted of my mother, my hated rival's mother, our respective brothers, and Miss Maude Adams — or should I say Peter Pan? The reason I recall this as my first great match is because I defeated my ancient and honorable opponent, 6-0, 0-6, 19-17, and won my first cup. I was seven years old. From then until the present I have passed through the fire of nearly twenty years of dubdom and five years of international competition, during which time victory and defeat have met me impartially and frequently.
I am asked frequently which match I regard as the greatest I ever played. I answer at once, "The match I played Billy Johnston in" — and then I pause. Which one of the matches against Johnston is my greatest match I cannot say. One moment I believe it was our meeting in 1919, when he defeated me in the finals of the United States championship. Then 1 recall 1920 when I turned the tables. Certainly 1922 with its bitter struggle in the final round of the championship singles, when Johnston seemed certain of victory, only to falter with it in his grasp, must rank with the best matches of my life.
I cannot claim any strong conviction as to which match I would pick, although I lean to the 1922 meeting, but unreservedly I say. "The match I played Billy Johnston in" as a partial answer.
Perhaps the most dramatic, from the standpoint of the spectator, was that match of 1922, regardless of the quality of tennis played. The spectators were on more of a strain, if possible, than the players, and really gave me some relief from the tension.
I remember at one point, with the victory in the balance, there was a sudden silence and a woman right behind the screen said, in an agonized voice, "O, my God!" And, in spite of the situation, I was able to laugh.
Those who witnessed the match will remember one shot I made. I reached the ball in a desperate effort not expecting at all to get it back, and it lobbed high over Billy's head. It might as well have gone over the back wall, but dropped inside, completing an "impossible" shot. Just then, while I still was reeling toward the backstop, a man just inside the wire jumped from his seat and screamed:
"He's a liar! He didn't do it. No one could do it."
The closest call of my tennis career was the challenge round of the world's championship at Wimbledon, England, in 1921, when I defeated B. I. C. Norton, 2-6, 1-6, 6-1, 6-0, 7 — 5, after he led me, 3-5 and 30-40, in the final set.
This was another case where the ultimate loser underestimated the reserve of his opponent. I went on the court known to be a sick; man. I was but one week out of the hospital from an operation that, while not very serious, was at least weakening. I had been ill for over a month. My own doctors, my general practitioner and my surgeon did not believe I could last two sets. I was convinced I could not. Norton was even more certain of it. He ran away with the first two sets while I sought to recover some semblance of nerve. I had my first and only attack of stage fright.
I gradually improved and when I went into a lead in the third set Norton foolishly threw it away, convinced I could not last out the match. He was nearly correct. I put all I had in the fourth, which Norton could not stop, but the reaction came in the fifth. Norton pressed on with confidence, reaching match point at 3-5, 30-40. We played a bitterly contested point, which finally resulted in my driving off my backhand down his forehand side line.
I was so certain that my shot was going out I started to the net to shake hands and congratulate him on the championship. The ball fell on the line. Norton was so surprised he drove out on his return, when any shot would have defeated me if it had landed in court. The respite saved me and afforded a stimulus that carried me on to victory on the crest of the wave of my final reserve.
Tactics, Strategy, Courage, the Fighting Spirit — Not Shots — Win Tournaments — Says Tilden
Most tennis players and all tennis critics are prone to take a match at its face value without inquiring into conditions attending it. What is a great match? Most persons will claim it is one in which both men play good tennis to a close, exciting finish. I cannot agree. To me a great match is one in which the elements of drama exist. It must have personality, magnetism, individuality, not merely mechanical perfection and cleverness.
One of the greatest matches of my career, the one in which I personally believe I reached the peak of my tennis game, one which I regarded as hard fought and well played, I won by the score of 6-0, 6-0, 6-2. This match (against Manuel Alonso in the 1923 American championship) had color and personality, due to Alonso's game fight against, for once, a flawless game.
On the other hand, I regard my defeat by Johnston in 1919, in three straight sets, one of my great matches, because Johnston, by sheer artistry, prevented my playing good tennis when I was actually capable of playing at the top of my game, if he had not tied me in knots by his own superlative game. It was a magnificent exhibition by Little Bill.
A great player who is defeated in an important match is usually as good as the victor allows him to be, a point which very few spectators realize. Many times, after I have been defeated, people have come to me in all sincerity and told me that I lost because I was off form. Actually I had lost because the other man played so well he did not allow me to play my game, not because that game was off form.
Most great matches are swung by reserve in the pinch.
Billy Johnston is just as great a tennis player, if not greater, than I. By that I mean he has a technical equipment which is fully as sound as my own. Johnston is a "go-getter." He goes out and gets every match by as small a score as possible. The comparison of the scores made by Johnston and myself on our march to the final round of the championship in 1922 gave Johnston a distinct edge on me. Yet we arrived at the same place with Johnston slightly worn mentally and physically.
The final match opened with Johnston launching his strongest attack. It proved so strong that for two sets he dominated the situation, but in so doing he drained his physical reservoir to the last drop. From then, when he led, two sets to none, to the end of the match, which I won in five sets, he threatened only once, when he led, 3-0, in the fourth set, a lead which he amassed by mighty will and wonderful courage which forced his failing body to its last stand. Even Johnston's determination could not carry him along without reserve. He was an automobile without gas, a mighy machine, powerless without its reserve fuel.
He had overestimated his reserve and drawn too heavily on it at first. Possibly he had underestimated my lasting power. It is a terrible thing to overestimate your reserve and be forced to finish on nothing but your nerve. That was the mistake I made in 1921 in the Davis Cup Challenge round when I played Shimizu a few short weeks after a serious illness. Only a fortunate accident saved me a straight set defeat. Had I lost I would have had only myself to blame, because I drew too heavily on my reserve too early in the match.
Match tennis is essentially a psychological study, a battle of wits. Most of the world's leading players are so closely matched in ability that the result hinges on the mental competition. Any man or woman who is willing to practice under correct methods can master the strokes of tennis. It is how they are used, once they are mastered, that wins tennis matches. Tactics, strategy, courage and willingness to fight to the end, not shots, is the deciding issue in every great tournament.
It is the combination of these qualities that make Billy Johnston so great.
Much of the foregoing is a plea for training. Sensible training — in other words, preparation — for a match is usually the signpost to a High Spot in tennis. No man can succeed consistently who is not in good condition mentally and physically. False stimulation, no matter to what it is due, will not carry a man to victory over any period of time. A player who believes he can rely on any reserve but the one which nature at its best builds up, is due to disappointment and defeat.
Staleness is usually mental, not physical, so that any system which forces a man to remember his sport all the time over a long period tends to staleness rather than good condition. I prefer under-condition to overcondition, for in the first case you improve as you play, while in the latter you go from bad to worse.
No set rules can be drawn to provide perfect training for ever one. Individual reaction should determine each person's method's of holding good condition and avoiding staleness.
Never allow your sport to become your master. Always regard it as a sport. If it gets on top of you, and you worry over it, you will go stale in a week and collapse in two.
If you always retain your love of the game and play it solely the for the joy of competition. I believe you can play all year, every year, and never grow stale.
Food, climate, and physical stress and strain will not break you down for build you up as quickly as your own mastery of your mental viewpoint. I sound like Coué. I should pick as my tennis motto:
"I am the master of my fate — I am the captain of my soul."
Honestly, I believe that athletic condition depends on the sound balance of one's mentality, and that training is nothing more serious than leading a normal life which will keep a sound head on your shoulders under all circumstances.
Many a great match has been lost because the man who lost it, lost his head just previously, Nerves, irritability and supersensitiveness are symptoms of abnormality in living. It may be an abnormality of the personal life or that of our civilization, yet the effect is much the same. One reason I am a strong advocate of sports is because they are sound, normal and sane in their inherent traditions. Sports tend to bring the individual back to that normalcy which is the best in the world.
Tennis has taught me whatever self-control, patience, and courage I possess. I was a nervous, high-strung, temperamental, ridiculously sensitive boy. Many of these qualities are still with me, but today they are under my control. The vicissitudes of the tennis courts have ironed out many of the foolish wrinkles of my childhood and have taught me the great lesson of training — normalcy of life.
High spots are not normal. That, is why we enjoy them. It is the contrast with the deadly dullness of monotonous existence which causes the thrill of the moment and the glow of tender memory of such High Spots. Yet could our whole life be lived on the plane of these moments? Would we not break down under the tension?
I know I am thankful for the High Spots of my tennis career, and still more thankful I have had no more. I am most thankful for the normalcy of training which keeps me in condition to meet them when they arrive.
Publication Date: June 21, 1924