“Your grip is part of the problem,” Whitey said matter-of-factly.
It was what he asked Alice to call him.
“My grip?” She looked down at her hand around the racquet’s handle. It looked fine to her. “I didn’t know there was any other way to hold it.”
Whitey rotated the handle a quarter turn in her hand.
“Ew. That feels weird.”
He raised a brow.
She said no more.
“Okay,” Whitey went on. “Before, you gripped as hard as you could and hit as hard as you could. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me that.”
A hint of a smile emerged on Alice’s face.
If she wasn’t mistaken, Whitey had the start of a grin too. “That’s not how we want you to generate power, though,” he said. “Hold the racquet loosely. Just two fingers and your thumb around the end. You’ll have more muscle and less spin on the ball. It’ll do wonders for you on grass courts.”
Alice wanted to shrink away at the mention of that surface. She felt sure Teach had told him all about her lack of skill there. “It still feels weird,” she mumbled about the grip.
He shrugged. “It’ll take time. How about we try hitting some balls?”
Teach lobbed to Alice while Whitey instructed her.
“Step into the ball.”
“Full swing.”
“Follow all the way through.”
“Get to the net.”
“Ruby Bishop beat you at the net.”
“Stay there.”
“Nope. Don’t hit the ball.”
“What?” That stopped Alice.
“Meet the ball, Alice. This is a game of control, not a game of strength.”
She scrunched her brows, the ball bouncing past her. “But you said we were changing my grip because it’ll give me more muscle.”
He pressed his lips together, and Alice quickly said, “Let’s go again.”
“That a girl. Look. The control will come. What’s important is you’re creating as much power as you did before, but with less effort.”
Alice nodded.
“The control will come,” Whitey assured her again. “With practice.”
“That I can do.”
“Now pretend I’m Ruby Bishop. Get to the net.”
Alice did.
They practiced for hours, until Alice was certain she’d collapse if she hit one more ball.
“Ruby wouldn’t stand a chance if you played her again,” Teach said afterward. They were in the car, heading home. Teach beamed, a literal glow coming off her from how pleased she was. “I knew that man would fix you.” She bounced her hand off the steering wheel. “Your grip. Didn’t see it. But your new hold will do wonders against someone like Bonnie Miller.”
“Who?”
“Junior champion of Los Angeles. Her serve and forehand carry a lot of topspin. The ball bounces high. Gives her opponents an easy shot every now and again.”
“Tell me about the other girls I’ll play against.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Teach said, clearly happy with her protégé.
Helen Jacobs, a formidable serve and a strong, consistent backhand.
Sarah Palfrey, a clever player with a great net game.
Helen Moody, Herculean legs, a mighty swing—especially on her forehand—but less-than-stellar footwork.
Kay Stammers, an aggressive leftie with a good forehand.
Teach went on and on. Carolin Babcock. Sylvia Henrotin. Midge Van Ryn. Dorothy Bundy. Josephine Cruickshank. Dorothy Workman. Gracyn Wheeler. The who’s who of tennis. All of them vying for the same accolades.
Alice committed each and every detail to memory. She’d use it to beat each and every one of them.
San Francisco Gazette
Saturday, July 22, 1933
Marble Plays It Like a Man!
SAN FRANCISCO, Calif.—After a poor showing at Forest Hills, then disappearing from the tennis world entirely, Miss Alice Marble is back. And with a bang!
Word is Marble has been training with dynamic duo Harwood “Whitey” White and Eleanor “Teach” Tennant. Whatever they are doing is working, while also turning women’s tennis on its head. It appears Marble not only has adopted an aggressive serve-and-volley style generally reserved for the boys, but she’s also hung up her skirts in favor of mid-thigh shorts. This is the biggest shake-up in women’s tennis clothing since 1920, when Miss Suzanne Lenglen traded in her long skirt, petticoat, and high-necked blouse for a one-piece sleeveless dress. It comes as no surprise the rest of women’s tennis followed. Will that be the case with Marble’s new style sense, along with her new game?
The tennis world cannot wait to see.
Next up for Marble is her second trip east, first to play at the Maidstone Club as a qualifying tournament to win a spot on the Wightman Cup team. If she does, she’ll play in the international Wightman Cup itself. Then Marble will get another shot at the National Championships at Forest Hills. The last time Marble played on grass courts she left with a stained ego, but here’s wishing Miss Marble all the success this time around.
“You’re a shoo-in to make the Wightman tournament team, Alice,” Teach assured her over the phone.
“Say it again?” Alice said, wrapping the cord around her finger.
“I will not. Every second of me calling you in New York costs me an arm and a leg. Yes, you’ll be playing on grass. Yes, you’re still perfecting your new game. But you’ve been winning and you’re damn good. They’d be lucky to have you.”
They being the American players who competed annually against England’s team, a women’s rivalry that’d been going on for over a decade. This year it was the United States’ turn to host after bringing home the cup the past two years in a row.
Alice smiled, not because Teach stroked her ego, but because Teach knew Alice needed to hear it all again. The only thing better would be if Alice saw her coach’s face while she said it. But Teach had stayed behind when Alice went east, not being able to take the time off from teaching. Alice understood that, especially when Teach supported her through the income from those lessons. “Okay,” Alice said, following the word with a long breath.
She looked down the long hallway of the Maidstone Club. A stern-looking man with snow-white hair had his eyes focused on Alice and was walking at a clip in her direction. “I think I have to go.”
“Yes, go, go. Telegraph me once you have your schedule.”
“I will.” A few of the other girls already had theirs, and Alice had been waiting to receive hers. The line went dead just as the man stopped in front of Alice. “Miss Marble, I assume?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Julian Myrick,” he said down his nose, which would’ve had a greater effect if they weren’t nearly the same height and if he didn’t have a large smudge on his glasses. But Alice knew the name. He was the chairman of the Wightman tournament committee, the one who signed the letter inviting her here.
“Of course, how are you, Mr. Myrick?”
“Very busy.”
Alice clasped her hands at her stomach.
“I’ve many players to talk to.” He produced an envelope from inside his breast pocket, handed it to her, and punctuated the exchange with a nod before continuing on his way.
Alice quickly opened the envelope to find her schedule. She made a sound she couldn’t identify.
“Mr. Myrick! Mr. Myrick,” Alice called, chasing after him, a response that appalled him if the curling of his upper lip was any indication. “Um, sir, I believe there’s been a mistake. This has me playing both singles and doubles in a three-day span.”
She pointed to the schedule as if it were his first time seeing it. He’d look. He’d laugh at the oversight. It’d get fixed. All would be right in the world again. But that was not how it went. “Yes, that is correct, Miss Marble,” he said instead. “Mrs. Moody has afforded you the honor of playing with her in the doubles.”
Alice cleared her throat. “Yes, and it’s quite the honor. But three—”
“As I’ve said, I’ve other players to talk to, Miss Marble. Do not make me regret your invitation here.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, her heart pounding at an alarming rate. “But perhaps I could only play the doubles with Mrs. Moody in this qualifying tournament then?” And save the singles for the Wightman’s Cup next week, she left off.
By the way his nostrils flared, he understood Alice’s implication, which she realized too late Mr. Myrick interpreted as audacity at suggesting he undergo another draw for his tournament.
Mr. Myrick let out an exasperated huff. “You are counting your chickens before they hatch, Miss Marble.” He said her name as if she were diseased. “In order for you to qualify for the Wightman Cup team, you first have to prove yourself by making a good showing here in both singles and doubles.”
But all those games in three days? And why both singles and doubles? Alice couldn’t help herself from one last retort. “Is anyone else scheduled to play as many games?”
If looks could kill . . .
“Miss Palfrey and Miss Babcock have no need to do so. They come from a long line of tennis players.”
And Alice didn’t. Her stomach sank, squeezed into a knot, and she teetered on the edge of being sick. She knew it’d accomplish zilch to remind Myrick how she’d won two singles tournaments to Sarah Palfrey’s solitary win. Same with Carolin Babcock. But she’d already pushed too far, as evidenced by the rising color in the tournament director’s cheeks.
“Furthermore,” he said between his teeth, “I will be the judge of who’s to play. Not you.”
He said nothing more. Off he stormed.
Alice stumbled backward until her heels hit the wall, needing the support of it. Playing both singles and doubles in a three-day period . . . The third day could be four matches alone if she made it to the finals in both. Alice didn’t know how she’d pull it off.
* * *
“Anyone else dying from this heat?” Alice asked the women in the dressing room. There were about twenty-five of them in the tiny space, but only a few of the girls were clustered in Alice’s corner. Last time she was in New York, she was so intimidated by the pedigree of the other players and by her lack of a coach that she didn’t even notice the hellish humidity. But this time Alice pulled at her neckline.
A few of the girls laughed. One was slowly shaking her head, a look of total disbelief on her face. “Honey, I don’t think it’s the weather getting to you. I think it’s how much tennis you’re expected to play.”
Alice cringed. “Yeah. That. Mr. Myrick hates me.”
Carolin Babcock chuckled. Her curly dark hair certainly got the memo it was humid. “It’s because you wear shorts.”
Alice cocked her head. Maybe. But it was more about where Alice came from, and she knew it. But she didn’t want to admit that to these other girls. Why put the idea in their heads if it wasn’t already there? Bad enough it was in Alice’s.
“What’d your coach say about it?” Sarah Palfrey asked. Somehow her slick dark hair was defying the weather.
Thinking about Teach didn’t make Alice want to cringe any less. “I haven’t telegrammed her yet. Steam would blow out of her ears if she knew what I’m up against. I’m relieved she’s not here, actually. Carolin, what’s it like having your ma travel everywhere with you?”
Carolin raised her brows. “She’s out of earshot, right?”
They all laughed. But laced within Alice’s lightheartedness was a tinge of jealousy. Carolin came from money, the granddaughter of a banker who was so rich he had theaters named after him, and her father was able to uproot the entire family and move them to Los Angeles so Carolin could focus on tennis.
“So you’re going to do as Myrick says, Alice?”
“Huh?” Alice said, distracted by her thoughts.
Sarah tried again. “Myrick . . . are you going to play all the matches he wants you to do?”
Alice shrugged. “What choice do I have? I want to make the Wightman team.”
“What about Helen Moody?” Carolin said, lowering her voice despite Helen not being in their dressing room. She always requested a private space. “Are you excited to play with her? One would think Myrick would be nicer to you since Mrs. Moody”—she said the name in a hoity-toity voice—“requested you specifically as her doubles partner.”
One would think. Alice shook her head, then admitted, “It’ll be interesting. She’s the only player I knew of when I got my start.”
“Word is she has a hurt back,” Sarah added.
“Get ready to do all the work,” Carolin said.
Alice pulled a face.
“Yeah, good luck with that, Alice,” Sarah said with a sly smile. “But not too much luck. I want to make the team too.”
Carolin rolled her eyes.
“What?” Sarah questioned.
“You know what,” Carolin insisted.
Alice sure didn’t.
Carolin went on, “There’s no way you’re not making the Wightman team, Sarah, when your coach is Mrs. Wightman.”
Sarah’s face wrinkled up in annoyance. “It’s no guarantee.”
Was Alice’s jaw on the floor? She wouldn’t be surprised. She hadn’t known who Sarah’s coach was. Teach had never told her, perhaps because she knew Alice would immediately feel . . . what? . . . slighted, intimidated . . . that Sarah had this very clear leg up.
Once more Alice was reminded that she came from a very different background and circumstances than her peers. She also reminded herself of something else: the court was the great equalizer.
And for the first two days, that sentiment rang true. She won her first matches handily—and without the sun completely draining her. This third day, though, she’d play semifinals in singles and doubles and, God willing, finals in both as well.
In her singles match, Midge Van Ryn—“A right-handed baseline player with a game based more on technical skills and accuracy than on power”—took Alice to three long sets before Alice put her away. It’d been hot as Hades. Walking off the court after Van Ryn, Alice’s temples pounded to the beat of her heart. An official approached her. “Miss Marble, Mrs. Moody is waiting for you to warm up.”
“Right,” Alice said. She’d known the turnaround was going to be tight. But, bloody hell—as Teach would say—she barely had time to change her clothes before she was back on the court for the doubles semifinal with Helen, who didn’t look impressed by Alice’s so-called tardiness. Alice resisted an apology. None of this was her doing. Instead, Alice suggested they start loosening up. Immediately Alice recognized two things.
The first: Teach had been spot-on. Helen Moody had killer instincts and an unreadable demeanor. The press even called her “Poker Face.”
The second: the rumors of Helen’s back injury weren’t fiction.
Alice’s stomach twisted into a knot. Facing two of England’s top players, Betty Nuthall and Mary Heeley, would be a formidable match as it was, partly because Teach hadn’t provided reconnaissance on either of those ladies. But Alice knew Helen Moody usually brought a mighty swing, strong legs, and less-than-stellar footwork. And this time, a hurt back. That’d make her swing not as mighty and her footwork even less dazzling. Alice soldiered herself for a battle.
A battle that went to three challenging sets, where Alice pulled most of the weight. Legs heavy, arms dead, head spinning, they won, but it took Alice a few seconds to even realize they had. Without missing a beat, Helen began strutting from the court, her face turned toward the cameras.
Alice stumbled after, hands shaking, gaze wobbly, skin on fire, knees weak. Like an apparition, a reporter was suddenly in front of her. “Nice work out there, Miss Marble. You ready to do it all again in an hour?”
“An hour,” she parroted.
Someone took her arm, saying something about getting Alice out of the heat. Then she was inside. Cold towels were on her forehead. In slow motion, the wall shifted into the ceiling. Voices hovered by and over her, the words singles final cutting through the din of noise.
Alice still had her singles final to play.
In less than an hour.
She couldn’t quit. She wouldn’t let Myrick’s ridiculous schedule and his prejudice against her on account of her humble beginnings beat her. She owed it to Teach and her family to give this everything she had.
Alice sat up, dots appearing before her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. “I just need some tea.”
Tea, a sugar pot, and milk were placed in front of her. Alice poured in sugar until an attendant took the pot from her.
“Eat some toast,” another attendant suggested.
“Yes, okay,” Alice said.
She answered the same when she was told the match was beginning. She stood on her side of the net. Alice’s opponent, the name escaping her, stood on the other.
Everything hurt from fatigue. Alice wished the problem could be solved by cutting off the heels of her shoes. But there wasn’t an immediate cure for exhaustion. Dehydration. Whatever this was.
Alice yanked at her shirt, pulling it away from her perspiring skin. Then she awaited her opponent’s serve. At first, it didn’t come. Instead, the woman approached the net, leaned over it. Alice stayed on the baseline. Still, her opponent mouthed, “Are you sure?”
Alice nodded.
The game began.
The woman made quick work of her.
Winning the singles final went down the drain.
Qualifying for the Wightman Cup team likely going with it.
Yet Alice still had the double finals to play with Moody.
“Miss Marble,” an official said, immediately leading her inside. “I don’t think you should play anymore.”
Alice shook her head just as the devil himself joined them. “She has to play,” Myrick said. “A crowd has come to see Mrs. Moody play, and I won’t disappoint them.”
Alice rolled her eyes. Even that hurt. But she’d play.
In the dressing room she clumsily changed into her fourth outfit of the day.
She was led to Helen’s side on the court. Helen said nothing.
“We love you, Alice,” someone in the stands called. Similar sentiments followed. Many spectators were on their feet.
Alice raised an arm, thanking them for their support, emotion welling in her throat. For the first time she felt seen, appreciated.
But if any of them thought she’d miraculously pull off a win, they were sorely mistaken—and that feeling was the pits. So was the fact Helen and Alice lost in two straight sets, no need to play a third and final one. In a blink, Helen Moody was gone. A hand was around Alice’s waist, guiding her.
Someone called out, “One hundred and eight, Miss Marble. You’re remarkable.”
She didn’t understand.
The person holding her up clarified. “That’s the number of games you played today, Miss Marble. Four matches, eleven sets, one hundred and eight games. All in nine hours on the hottest day of the—”
That was the last Alice heard.