San Francisco Gazette
Monday, September 16, 1940
Has Tennis’s “Best in the World” Gone as Far as the World Will Let Her?
SAN FRANCISCO, Calif.—It’s been quite the impressive few years for our hometown girl, Miss Alice Marble. Only days shy of twenty-seven years old, she has racked up an impressive list of accolades. Winning eighteen Grand Slam championships. Holding a place in the World Top Ten. Becoming the top-ranked US women’s player. Earning the title of the Associated Press Athlete of the Year. Being named the “Best Dressed Woman in Athletics.” Gracing the cover of LIFE magazine, donning the tennis shorts she designed, to boot.
Marble is at the peak of her game on and off the court, stretching her vocal cords as a nightclub singer while maintaining an unbroken string of twenty-eight tournament victories, which most recently included making quick work of Miss Helen Jacobs in two sets (6–2, 6–3) in the National Championships in Forest Hills, New York.
But what comes next for San Francisco’s own? With the war knocking at our door and competitive tennis on hiatus until further notice, Marble may be all dressed up in one of her designs with nowhere to go.
Alice licks her finger and forcefully turns the page.
A Shifting America
SAN FRANCISCO, Calif.—With the war ongoing overseas for over a year, America is shifting. President Roosevelt has declared a state of national emergency. Embargoes are in place for scrap iron and steel exports for all destinations other than Great Britain and Western nations. Plants across the country are changing their assembly lines from trousers, cars and toys to uniforms, planes and ammunition.
Churchill’s impassioned “blood, toil, tears and sweat” speech may not have been directed at us Americans, but we’ve unofficially answered the call. Which, as of today, includes the passing of the Selective Training and Service Act. All men between the ages of twenty-one and forty-five are now under conscription. This marks the first peacetime draft in our great country’s history.
Will our fathers, sons and uncles cross the pond to officially aid our allies in the war? We pray the answer is no and Hitler’s troops will meet their end soon. But for now, our men are required by law to prepare.
With a sigh, Alice lowers the newspaper. She knew the war was coming. Hadn’t he—she won’t think his name and drudge up all those memories—predicted it? But now to see the state of the world so clearly in black and white . . . It takes the wind out of Alice, while also igniting a fire inside her.
“What is it?” Alice’s coach asks, eyes never lifting from her nails, transforming them with each swipe from bland to a tasteful mauve.
The women sit across from each other at their kitchen table, two mugs of steaming coffee between them.
Swiftly Alice folds the paper once, twice. “I feel as if I should be doing something.”
“We have practice in”—her coach checks her watch—“two hours.”
“No, that’s not . . .” Alice shakes her head and starts again. “I’ve just read about myself.”
“Is that so?” The question is said facetiously, eyebrows lifting, leathered forehead crinkling.
Alice goes on, ignoring her coach’s mockery. “And I’ve read more about the war.”
Still, her coach’s eyes remain trained on her nails.
Alice raises the intensity of her previous sigh to a huff. “I feel like I should be doing something of greater importance than hitting a ball back and forth over a net. Seems I won’t even be able to do that anymore.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Alice’s coach shrugs.
“I’m serious.”
“Fine.” Her coach screws the cap onto her polish. Her short blonde hair has grown grayer in recent years. Most likely on account of Alice. “I understand the war has disrupted tournament play. Wimbledon isn’t happening this year. But the real question for you is, what could be more important than keeping your tennis game sharp while you wait for it to resume?”
“Well,” Alice says, licking her lips. Her mind and heart careen back to years ago when there’d been him, someone she’d almost fought for. But right now? “I’m not certain. But an act passed today.” She taps the newspaper, as if needing this proof. “Men are required to sign up for the draft.”
“I read that too.”
“Okay, well, America joining this war feels inevitable. Helen Jacobs said she’s enlisting in the WAVES.”
Alice’s coach smiles. “Was this before or after you whupped her butt on the court at Nationals?”
What’s louder than a huff? Sticking to one’s guns. “I’d like to do my part. Serve, you know.”
“You do serve your country. Every time you step onto a court, even if it’s during a meaningless exhibition match, you take people’s minds off the war. You give them a show. A great one, if I say so myself. You belong on the court. Entertaining. It’s what you do best, Alice.”
It is what she does best. Alice can recognize that, and how her name being chanted on the courts is a currency for her. A way to feel valued.
Seen.
Respected.
A way to belong.
Tennis is all she’s known for the past decade—since she was seventeen, a face ripe with acne, built like a fireplug, no tennis skills beyond hitting the ball as hard as she could, and a desire to prove herself so strong folks couldn’t help but sit up and take notice of her.