May 31, 1934
The American Hospital at Neuilly, France
It was crazy how life could be altered in an instant.
It had all started when Alice boarded the SS Westernland set for France to play in a series of matches before going on to England to play in the Wightman Cup. It was on the ship, across the table from the icy-eyed psychic, that Alice received that chill-inducing omen.
“You’ll rise. Then you’ll fall.”
From there she had docked, caught a train to Paris, ogled the Eiffel Tower, become swept up in the awe of being overseas for the first time, and arrived at the Ritz Hotel.
However, none of those things did the altering. Sure, after the long journey, Alice’s skin no longer held her usual olive coloring. And yes, dark circles had accumulated under her eyes. But no, not life-altering. Not yet.
Nor did her life change on account of the conditions of the stadium in Paris, which was as airless as a shoebox and as hot as a steam bath. Or because Alice’s game seemed to be off in each match and that persistent cough of hers labored her breathing.
Usually something life-changing happens in a moment. A phone call. A telegram. A death. An accident.
In Alice’s case, it was a declaration.
“You’ll never play again.”
That was what Dr. Dax had just said to her, with the bedside manner of a boulder.
She was in the hospital. Again. She had collapsed. Again. She’d been playing Sylvia Henrotin in a match. A match that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Just one of the friendly matches the tennis association set up for Alice and her teammates to play before they went to England to play in the Wightman Cup.
But while playing against Henrotin, Alice’s vision had begun to wane. She tried to keep the Frenchwoman’s face in focus, to breathe, to keep her feet moving. But she couldn’t. Henrotin swam before her eyes, then Alice went down.
Sunstroke and mild anemia were what she’d been diagnosed with after her collapse from Myrick’s shenanigans, but she’d been able to come back from that. Even an article in the Parisian papers that very morning—with the most embarrassingly horrid photo of two men carrying her from the court, Henrotin looking on with concern—held high hopes Alice would recover just fine. So what on earth was this doctor saying now?
“You’ll never play again.”
She wrinkled her brows with confusion and anger. Just that slight movement made her body ache.
Dr. Dax pointed to an X-ray of her lungs and cut straight to the point. “You have tuberculosis,” he said. “I regret to say you’ll never again have the strength to play.”
What was he getting on about? He’d said it twice now, in two different ways, but she still couldn’t accept any of it as reality.
“For some people,” he said, “tuberculosis bacteria can be inactive for a lifetime. For others, especially those with a compromised immune system, the bacteria becomes active, multiplies, and causes the disease. You’ve likely had the bacteria for a while now, and your health in the past year has most certainly been compromised. You’ve had a cough all that time, you say?”
She raised a hand, waved it. This wasn’t happening. The rest of her Wightman team had left only hours ago to go on to London. Even though Alice understood their need to leave, to keep the team’s schedule, it was horrible to be left behind. At the time she told herself she’d follow after them in only a matter of days. She was not going to miss out on playing in the cup, not after all she’d been through to earn her spot on the team. Wightman Cup. National Championships. Wimbledon. Those were her and Teach’s goals. Their dreams. Now this quack was telling her she’d never be able to play again. “There has to be a mistake.”
Dr. Dax shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Alice’s neck pricked with unease. Dread, actually. Like the rug had been pulled out from under her. Or as if she were trapped, desperately searching for a way out. “Okay,” she said, trying to calm her racing thoughts, “how do we treat it?”
“Rest, isolation, fresh air, exercise, and good nutrition.”
“Exercise?” Alice didn’t care a lick her tone was impudent. “You just said I couldn’t play tennis.”
“Not at the level you are accustomed to, Miss Marble.”
Tears stung her eyes. The feeling of entrapment was intensifying, the walls closing in on her. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be here any longer.”
Quite frankly, she didn’t want to be alive. It felt as if everything had been taken from her in Dr. Dax’s deadpanned four words.
“You’ll never play again.”
Or maybe everything changed at the utterance of another set of ominous words.
“You’ll rise. Then you’ll fall.”
* * *
It took six weeks for arrangements to be made and for Alice to return to the States. Teach had made the drive from California to New York. She stood at the end of the gangplank, arms stiff at her sides. Alice couldn’t believe she was there. Couldn’t even make eye contact.
Teach was a tennis coach, yet Alice was no longer a tennis player. She’d let Teach down. Herself down. Her brother, who sacrificed so much. Her mother, who supported her endlessly, writing a letter every single day Alice was apart from her. Hell, she even felt like she let that jerk Myrick down. Back in France, the nurses spoke under their breath about what they overheard Myrick saying: how he never should have given in and let her on the Wightman team. Alice told Teach, who was ready to dance on his eventual grave, blaming him for Alice’s illness. When Teach called Myrick on it, he, of course, took no responsibility, and even went so far as to say that Alice was a liability. A bad investment. Now that she’d never play again, there would be no gate receipts to make up for the medical expenses she’d incurred him.
A sob bubbled up Alice’s throat as she was wheeled toward her former coach.
Teach wrapped her in an awkward hug that pinned Alice’s arm against the wheelchair. “I’m so sorry . . . If I had gone . . . Whitey said . . .” Then Teach pinched her nose, quite effectively also pinching off her emotions. She tried for a smile. “Let’s get out of here, huh?”
To do what?
Twenty years old. No college education. Very few job experiences. Alice had never thought beyond tennis.
Alice was tennis.
She shivered at the breeze coming off the water, her body not getting the memo it was a balmy summer day.
Alice said nothing. She just allowed herself to be taken away.
Big Apple Tattler
Sunday, July 15, 1934
It’s the End for Tennis Great Alice Marble
NEW YORK, N.Y.—The tennis career of Alice Marble, a Californian who traded in baseball to emerge as a marvel on the tennis courts, ended abruptly weeks ago during an exhibition match at Roland Garros Stadium in Paris. Miss Marble, a student of Eleanor “Teach” Tennant, is only twenty years old.
Miss Marble, who previously suffered from anemia and sunstroke, according to her team doctor, was admitted to the American Hospital at Neuilly after collapsing on the court while playing France’s No. 2, Miss Sylvia Henrotin. United States Lawn Tennis Association president Julian S. Myrick gave no comment.
To achieve her stature as the golden-haired princess of women’s tennis, Miss Marble overcame many obstacles. Born on Sept. 28, 1913, in the lumber town of Beckwourth in the Sierra Nevada, she relocated to San Francisco with her parents and older siblings at the age of five. In 1920, Marble’s father died after complications from an automobile accident. The family was thrust into poverty.
Miss Marble was a chubby girl athlete, adept at boxing, baseball, and basketball. Her athletic skills turned to tennis at the age of fifteen, quickly accumulating many wins in junior tournaments all over California and catching the attention of tennis instructors Eleanor “Teach” Tennant and Harwood “Whitey” White. The world held high hopes for this tennis prodigy, whose progress was tested in 1933 by a case of sunstroke after Marble played 108 games of tennis in one day in Easthampton, Long Island.
How sad for Marble to fight back, rising to the World Top 10, only to fall victim to poor health once again. We wish this young tennis star had the opportunity to reach her full potential.
DEAREST ALICE -(STOP)-
YOU ARE ALWAYS WELCOME AT THE RANCH -(STOP)-
WITH LOVE -(STOP)-
MARION AND WILLIAM
“Wait!” Alice said. “Where are we going?”
This wasn’t Beverly Hills with its tree-lined streets and perfectly maintained lawns.
Teach kept her eyes on the road. “We’re not going to my house.”
“Then where are we going?”
Teach didn’t respond, and it felt like a fist was closing around Alice’s insides. First they’d gone to San Francisco. The whole way from New York to her ma’s house, Alice’s guilt flared like a disease of its own. How would her family pay for her ongoing medical expenses? It really wasn’t a question. They couldn’t.
As soon as Teach parked along the curb, her brothers had rushed outside. Alice’s mother was on their heels. Not a single one of them hadn’t been crying.
“Enough,” Teach had said as Alice’s brothers carried her inside. “This isn’t a wake. I personally don’t care that Alice’s tennis career is over.”
Lies, Alice had wanted to scream.
Even some second-rate gossip rag had written about the end of her career like it was an obituary. Teach had insisted Alice not read any more newspapers after that. The fact her former coach was being so supportive actually made Alice feel worse—and caused the tears to fall harder.
How easy it’d been to feel sorry for herself. She was settled in her old bedroom she used to share with Hazel. It felt smaller, different. Despite it being summertime, the house felt drafty and cold. Her mood felt just as bleak.
Seemingly a million times a day, her mother climbed the steps to palm Alice’s cheek, smooth the wrinkles from her bed, bring her books, try to encourage Alice to eat.
The image Alice had always had of her mother was short yet heavyset. But as Alice watched her mother flit about the room, she recognized exhaustion behind her eyes, a thinning waistline, and a perpetual strain on her face. It wouldn’t do. Alice had been a burden in too many ways, and Alice decided to write to Teach, not as her student but hopefully as a friend.
To Alice’s complete surprise, Teach came for her with the recommendation that Alice would recuperate more quickly in a drier climate. Specifically, with her and her sister, Gwen, in Beverly Hills.
Alice’s mother objected; she could care for Alice just fine, thank you very much. But Alice saw the fatigue in her mother. In the end, her ma agreed to Beverly Hills.
But that wasn’t where they were currently headed. Teach had just said as much.
“Then where are we going?” Alice asked again.
“Monrovia.”
It still wasn’t an answer. They drove through a very suburban-feeling town surrounded by rolling hills and mountains. At the mouth of a canyon stood a gigantic, three-story white building.
“There,” Teach said matter of factly.
They approached a gate with words etched into the ironwork.
Pottenger Sanatorium
Alice’s head whipped toward Teach, the fastest she’d moved in weeks. “You’re having me committed?”
Alice hadn’t thought she could fall any farther. She was wrong.