Working. Part 26

Willie Shoemaker's the greatest. He has the old style of the long hold. He has a gift with his hands to translate messages to the horse. He has the gift of feeling a horse's mouth. But it's a different style from ninety percent of us. We've gone to the trend of the South American riders. They ride a horse's shoulder instead of a horse's back. They look a hundred percent better. Most riders have now changed over, mixed the two together.

Latin American riders are dominating the sport. They're hustlers and they've had it tougher than American riders. They come from very, very poor people. They have a goal they want to reach, bein' the tops. The American rider, he's satisified makin' a livin', makin' a name for himself. He's reached a plateau and he's stayed there. While the other fella is just pluggin' away . . .

There's some prejudice from riders, but most jockeys become very good friends after they get to know each other. But most is from the officials. I couldn't believe it. The stewards are prejudiced against Spanish riders. I have not felt it because I was brought up here. Home town boy makes good. But the Spanish ones . . . two riders commit the same infraction, one's penalized, the other isn't. One's Spanish, the other isn't. Once in a while, okay, but it's repeated again and again. It has a prejudice.

Sometimes I feel people don't treat you as they should. Other times they treat you a little too well. They get a little pesty. Lotta times you want to be by yourself. They don't realize I spent fifteen minutes combin' my hair and they come along and the first thing they do is muss it up. They'll put their arm around you and buy you a drink, and you can't drink. You have to ride the next day. You turn the drinks down and right away, they'll say, "This kid is too good for me." If I was gonna accept every drink that was offered to me, I'd be as big as a balloon.

I have a lot of friends who are horse players, but I've never been approached by undesirables, gangsters. I've been approached by other riders. I'd say racing has changed a little bit from the days when they were notorious. Riders now make enough money where they don't have to cheat. Any race I win, I'm gonna make two, three hundred dollars. For me to take a chance of losing my license, it don't make sense. A rider is more apt to take it when the money isn't there It's incredible to see jockeys as honest as they are, for the conditions they come from. If you could see conditions on the back side, the way people have to live. The barn area, it's bad now like it was twenty years ago. The filth I had to live in, the wages I had to work for, the environment I was with, with alcoholics and whatnots. To come out of there . . . I was twenty-two, I was set in my ways. But friends of mine, when they were thirteen, fourteen years old, lived through this and made good citizens of themselves. It's incredible to believe that people could come out of there and become great athletes and great individuals. You figure, they'd be no good.

The guild is workin' for better track conditions, better rooms for where we ride at. I think only four or five tracks have jockey quarters that are clean and livable. Here's an organization, they're bettin' a million dollars a day and you get a newspaperman come in and interview you. You're embarra.s.sed to have him walk in there. It's filthy. We drag all that mud in from the track. You figure they would have someone to keep it clean. They don't. The same furniture . . . there hasn't been much change.

In the barn, we have the tack rooms, where the grooms and the hot walkers live. A hot walker earns sixty dollars a week. He can't afford an apartment, he lives in the tack room. They have two cots. It's almost like a stall. You can put a horse in there if you wanted. A groom makes about $100. The exercise boys earn a little more, about $150. So they usually get apartments. I really don't know what the average jockey gets. I average around sixty thousand a year. I don't know if we average more than three or four years. I have no idea how long I'll continue. I wish I could ride another ten years, but . . . My ambition is to win the Kentucky Derby. It's still the most honored stake of all. I've come awful close two or three times to riding in it. I'm riding for Mr. Scott now. Say he comes up with a colt that's a two-year-old that I ride and I'll ride him next year and this horse works his way to the Derby. I have worked my way up there with him. Mm-hmm, could happen.

Through experience you know what to do. Whether the stick will make him run, whether hand riding, whether hittin' him on the shoulders, hittin''em on the rear, whistling or talkin' to 'em. You try everything. If one doesn't work, you try the other.

I'm pretty relaxed now, but when I first started riding-the night before a big stake I'd get very little sleep. You lost two, three pounds from just nervousness, just by going to the washroom and thinking about it. Especially when you run one of the favorites. You have to fight this. I have to really get rid of the b.u.t.terflies or I'm really gonna make a big mistake. Actually just mind over matter. Concentration.

What I've learned as a jockey sometimes drive me crazy. I've gotten where I could look at animals and see personalities in them. Most of what I've learned is patience. It comes with love of the horses. A lot of times a horse will do something that could even get me hurt. At first you want to hit him, correct him. But then you realize he's just an animal. He's smart but not smart enough to know that he's hurting himself and is gonna hurt you. He's only doin' it because it's the only thing he knows how to do.

Let me tell you somethin'. Animals got traits from humans. You put a nervous person around a nervous horse and he becomes a nervous horse. It's helped me to understand humans, too. By understanding the horse, the animal himself, his moods, his personality, his way of life, his likes, his dislikes-humans work the same way-you have to accept them for what they are. People do things because it's the only way they know. You try to change them to your way of thinking, but you have to accept people the way they are.

POSTSCRIPT: "I would like to see the sport treated differently. I would like to see the politicians out of it. I would like to see the states own all the tracks. People that own the tracks now are draining them . . ."

STEVE HAMILTON.

He is a well-traveled relief pitcher, having been with the Was.h.i.+ngton Senators, New York Yankees, San Francisco Giants, and Chicago Cubs. "I live in the foothills of the c.u.mberland Mountains. Morehead, Kentucky, is a town of only four thousand. I'm not a hero there 'cause everybody knows everybody."

It is Sat.u.r.day evening in the late August of 1971. We're in Chicago at a downtown hotel. His team, the San Francisco Giants, in first place but slipping fast, had lost this afrernoon to the Cubs.

Several times I'd go downtown in Manhattan and somebody'd stop me and say, "Aren't you Steve Hamilton?" This made me feel all puffed up. It made me feel good that people knew me. Whether guys admit it or not, I think most of them feel good when they're recognized. They feel they're something special. Everybody gets a kick out of feeling special. I think that's one part of this game.

I've never been a big star. I've never done anything outstanding. I feel I've been as good as I can be with the equipment I have. I played with Mickey Mantle and now I'm playing with Willie Mays. People always recognize them. Yogi Berra, people always recognize him. Yogi has a face you couldn't forget. But for someone to recognize me!

"I signed with the Cleveland Indians in 1958, with their farm club. Back and forth in the minors." He was working on a master's degree. A scout signed him up. "I told them I was twenty-one. I was really twenty-three. He felt I wouldn't have a good chance if I was twenty-three, so I went along with him. Now I give my right age. I'm thirty-six." (Laughs.) Age is very important in baseball. If you've got two prospects of equal ability, one kid's twenty and I'm twenty-three, they're gonna take the boy that's twenty. They think they're gonna have him longer. That's why it was important to the scout that I be twenty-one. Scouts get some money back if you make the big leagues. Most of us in baseball who are thirty are considered old men. Lotta times when Larry Jansen54 wants me to get in the bull pen he'd say, "Pappy . . ." (Laughs.) I don't feel old, but in baseball I'm ancient.

The average time in the big leagues is two to four years. When you consider that only one of about seventy that sign a contract even make the big leagues, that's a very short life. In the minors, guys'll play eight, nine years. He's getting really nothing. He makes about five thousand dollars a year. If he hangs on long enough, he may make ten thousand. But he has no winter job and he becomes an organization man. They figure he can help young players. And age is pa.s.sing by . . .

In the minor leagues we spent a lot of hours riding in buses, and they were so hot and you didn't have too many stops to eat. You ate poorly because you had bad meal money. We got $1.50 a day. But you were young. When I was with a cla.s.s B league, I got a long distance call. My wife went to the hospital in labor. It was the first baby. I had to get home. The ticket was forty-some dollars. We didn't have it between us (laughs)-the manager, everybody. I got there a day late. I thought baseball players made so much money. (Laughs.) That's why I wanted to play it, loving the game too.

To be perfectly honest with you, I'm ready to quit. I feel I don't want to play any more. I'm losing the desire. I suppose I can play for several more years, but I don't quite have the same spring in my legs. I'd be the first to admit it. My arm is good, because I never did throw hard. I was never a power pitcher. I was always a curve ball pitcher, control. You don't lose it this quick. But I'm tired of traveling. I'm tired of the hours and I'm losing the zest. When this happens it's time to leave.

People say we're lucky we have airplane travel. It means they can schedule more games. We play 162 games now. Before, we played 154 in the same amount of time. Now we play more night games. Last night we played a game in St. Louis. It was over about ten forty. We had to get dressed and take a forty-five-minute bus ride to the airport. We took our short fifty-five-minute flight to Chicago. We had another thirty-five-minute bus ride from the airport to downtown. We got in here last night around two o'clock. The bags were late coming in. They had a mix-up. Three thirty, we're still waitin' up for our bags. It adds up to a real long night, when we had to play a game today.

There's a rule that says if there's a flight one hour and a half or less, you can schedule a night game and day game the next day. The old umpire who said, "You can't beat them hours"-that was another time. (Laughs.) Another thing, when you travel by train, you don't worry so much about crashes. Everybody-in the back of their mind-thinks about it. There's a little bit of worry, especially in bad weather. We were coming into Milwaukee last year and while we were bouncin' around, comin' in for a hairy landing, Pete Ward said, "Babe Ruth never hit sixty home runs traveling like this." (Laughs.) The tension's really rough. On the train they were relaxed. They talked, they slept. When they came in, they didn't go from one bus to another. I don't think conditions are that much better now.

A longer season, more games scheduled, and longer spring training. We start playing exhibition games right away. Here again, a night game last night, a day game today, a doubleheader tomorrow. We were to have an off-day Monday, but they scheduled an exhibition game Monday night in Minnesota with the Twins. (Laughs.) Then we get on a plane after that game and travel all the way to San Francisco to play the next day. (Laughs.) What's the purpose of this exhibition game?

Money. (Laughs.) Willie Mays once played for Minneapolis and they're capitalizing on his name. The Giants are guaranteed so much money and Calvin Griffith55 is gonna make a bundle. It's gonna hurt us, because we need the rest. Here we are in the pennant race and we're tired. We're goin' rather badly. We were lookin' forward to the day off. Maybe you just want to sleep all day, or just relax and get away from it. But we're playing Monday night just to make extra money for someone. It kinda hurts, 56 For a day game I get to the park about ten. We sign anywhere from one to two dozen baseb.a.l.l.s every day. When I was with the Yankees, we signed six dozen each day. We used to hate that. People in the front office have friends they want to give them to. I don't know where all these b.a.l.l.s go. Six dozen a day! Eighty-one days! That's a lot of baseb.a.l.l.s! (Laughs.) On the road, ball players are great bargain hunters. n.o.body wants to pay the retail price for anything. So we spend time going to our little wholesale places. In each town it's different. In New York it's sweaters. In Los Angeles it's suits. In Atlanta it's shoes. I'll read quite a bit. That's primarily what I do when I'm on the road. My roommate's a great movie fan.

People criticize pitchers. But in the past few years the baseball's hotter. It's wound tighter and can go further. Anybody can hit a home run now. Everybody swings for the fence, and you're more nervous about throwing a strike. Old-timers say they just reared back and threw the ball. Now you get wild because you're hesitant about throwing that ball over the plate. So that makes the game longer.

There's not much talk about the craft any more. Say, you've got a fella who's an outfielder. He's learned in the minors that there are certain ways you catch a ball. You've got to learn which base to throw it to. You've got to know how to scoop up a ball. n.o.body comes to see a fellow because he's a good outfielder. What he comes to do is. .h.i.t. He'll come out early in the batting cage and he'll hit and hit and hit. He won't s.h.a.g flies, he won't catch fungoes. It's not important to him. There's no status in catching a fly ball. I'm sure that's the way it is with a lot of jobs. You work on the things that bring you the most fame and fortune.

The average fan can't understand it. They think you're overpaid and you've got great working hours. They read about the superstars and huge salaries. For most of us the money's not that great, when it's only for a short time and it doesn't really help you when you're out of baseball. There are only six hundred of us, and we're the tops in our profession. To play baseball you've got unique skills. There's a great to-do about our salaries, but no one questions the income of the six hundred top lawyers or top insurance men-the kind who own the ball clubs. I've always wondered about that.

You can be traded any time they want to trade you. There's no guarantee. You may just move your family and you get traded again. You've got seventy-two hours to go from one club to another. We feel the player should have some say-so over where he goes and where he leaves. Let's say a kid comes up from the minors. He's here a month and they s.h.i.+p him back. He's brought his whole family with him . . .

"I have two girls and a boy. In about six months we're gonna have another one. If you don't take your family to spring training, there's six weeks right there. Before they come and join me in the season, there's about five more weeks. They're here for about three months in the summer. But I'm gone for a month and a half.

"I miss my family. My wife had to be head of the household. She has to do everything. If the sewer breaks down, if the commode doesn't work, she has to take care of it. She pays all the bills. She does it all. I'm not the head person any more."

In the last ten years baseball has changed a lot. We're getting more college boys. When I first went into the game, they used to get on me, call me "professor," because I had a college education. Today more of 'em are thinking about what they're gonna do when they get out of baseball. Sometimes they're criticized for being too conscious about later life. It's crazy not to. I've seen guys over thirty playing minor leagues. They'll play baseball in the summertime and work nonskilled labor in the wintertime. They've got no future at all. There's nothing they're trained to do. You'd be amazed at the number of ballplayers that have no means of income and are in bad shape. Most of 'em are old-timers and some of 'em are pretty famous.

You hear so much about welfare. How do you get around it? They've criticized our Players' a.s.sociation for not helping old ballplayers. Why should the onus be on the modern player? Why not the owners? They played for them. They made the money for them.

"I was players' representative with the Yankees for five years. I was the American League rep for four of those years. In the early days, someone took the job Because no one else wanted it. There was a big problem. We really had no permanence. To keep the Players' a.s.sociation in turmoil, all you had to do is keep trading player reps. I couldn't prove it, but I know player representatives' life expectancy was fairly short. We were always in a state of confusion."

You always hated to say anything against the owners because you were made to feel you were lucky to be playing baseball. You should be thankful for it. Never mind you're not getting a fair shake, you're lucky to be there and you shouldn't ever, but never, criticize the major league owners or the administration. One of the first things my coach in college told me when I went into pro baseball: "Don't be a clubhouse lawyer."

A clubhouse lawyer was a troublemaker. Don't make waves, man. Don't rock the boat. Just go play, do your job, and be happy, you hear? That stuck with me. I was a good boy. There were very few clubhouse lawyers. They were branded right away as being loud-mouthed hotheads who didn't care about the game. It seems to me a person who speaks out against injustice is not a clubhouse lawyer. He's just exercising his rights.

"The good of the game" is what you hear so much about. Everything owners do is for "the good of the game." They talk about baseball as a sport. But they move teams around from city to city strictly for money. A new team in Seattle two years ago cost the people about five million dollars. It sold for a tremendous amount. Here's a club that's supposed to be losing a lot of money. Yet there was an interested buyer. No club in baseball loses money. Every club makes money. I don't see how you could call it a sport. It's big business.

Company owners.h.i.+p has replaced the individual owner. This became apparent to me when we signed the first agreement with the owners. There wasn't one baseball team that was called, say, the Boston Red Sox. It was Golden West and CBS and Charles Finley Enterprises. They're all parts of corporations. This is how they make money. It's a super tax write-off. There's no way that any club that's part of a corporation can lose money. Finley's Oakland team is part of his insurance company. The Yankees are CBS. The Giants are part of a land corporation. It's impersonal.

A lot of owners don't really want to know players. Then you become more than a name. You become more than a piece of paper they can trade or sell or release. They insist on knowing you as a thing. It's easy for them to manipulate. But when you become involved with somebody, it's difficult. The only way to run a successful baseball operation is to treat the players as things.

Or as children. This bed check, watching players. Why would you check on men over twenty-one? Call their room, make sure they're in bed? It makes you feel funny. You're an adult and yet they do this to you. Your phone rings. You're asleep. Say it's twelve thirty. You've gone to sleep at eleven. They call, "Hey, are you in?" (Laughs.) You wake up out of a deep sleep. Okay, now you can't go to sleep until four in the morning. (Laughs.) Blacklist? I have no proof, but-Clete Boyer was one of the best defensive third bas.e.m.e.n in baseball. He was released by Atlanta for criticizing the management. You've got teams in the pennant race who can use him. He wasn't picked up by a single club. I've a hunch there's collusion between managements. He's now playing in Hawaii. If this wasn't a blacklist, there never was one.

The a.s.sociation has helped us in contracts. I'm not a businessman, so they really rip me up. Now we have someone to help us. The minimum was five thousand dollars in the beginning. Then it was seven thousand until three years ago. Then it went up to ten. It's going up to $13,500 next year. This was a super battle. When you consider how much the cost of living's gone up, it's not out of line. And you don't stay long in baseball. You've got to recognize it.

You've got a lot more freethinking players today. They never thought much of it before. We all had the att.i.tude: Don't question it. There are a lot of guys trying to take your job and they're all pretty good, so you're lucky to be here. If you're a big star, you don't worry about it because you're making a hundred thousand dollars a year. You could care less. I don't blame 'em. If I have $125,000 a year and lived in one town, I'd be more reluctant to criticize a ball club. The owners treat the star very well because he's their meal ticket. Those guys usually don't kick. But a lot of that's changing now. Today ballplayers are more concerned with helping each other. The young fellow is more aware also of world events and what's going on. We talk a lot more of social problems.

"When I first. started playing in the Southern a.s.sociation in 1960, they didn't even allow black players. We were lily-white. Now the relations.h.i.+p is pretty good, but I couldn't say there's no racism. I had a player take me out to the field this year and say, "Now there's a real n.i.g.g.e.r." It appalled me. I felt bad afterwards that I didn't say anything to him. I just walked away. I'm as guilty as he was."

With some guys, winning is everything. It's the whole ball of wax. If you don't win, it's a waste. I do my best, but if you judge your life on winning, you're hurtin'. I know we play for money. These guys say, "If I don't win, I don't make any money." But if I go out and play, there's a certain satisfaction in knowing I've done as good as I can. No matter how hard I try, I could never be a Sandy Koufax. But if I can be as good as Steve Hamilton, I feel I've been successful.

I might tell you things about myself I really don't want to know. When I was in the minor leagues I used to hope guys in the big leagues would do bad, so I could get up there. I didn't know the guys. Some days it'd bother me. I used to wonder if it was right. I used to wonder if it was sinful. It's almost like saying, I don't know whether I've got the ability, but if he fails, I'll have a chance. I have seen guys really happy when other people do bad on their own team because it makes them look better. It's a sign that he's insecure. It's a bad thing to see. I can't say I ever rooted against a pitcher.

I see guys that come back-you watch 'em come in the clubhouse. n.o.body recognizes 'em. The fans don't know 'em any more. I set back and watch the front runners come and grab ahold of the guys that are doin' good and are big stars. They want to grab ahold of their s.h.i.+rt tail. I've seen too many guys get a false sense of importance. People always saying good things about you and treating you like you're something special. You start believing you're something special. Now they're out of baseball. They feel, "I was great." But n.o.body remembers them. It doesn't make any difference what your name is. I've seen people really have a hard time coping with it.

You find out people no longer want to be a.s.sociated with you when you're no longer in the limelight. I've seen these people come into the locker room at Yankee Stadium. And I've seen 'em quit coming. When we went to sixth place then to last, I didn't see 'em around at all. Last year we got back to second place. I saw them comin' back. (Laughs.) Yeah, here they come again, the front runners.

A lot of ex-players go into insurance or as car salesmen. I've talked to two or three of 'em: "Yeah, because I was big, it got me in to see a lot of people." Today things are tighter and what you were doesn't mean that much. When I get out of baseball I feel sure I will teach and coach. This is what I want to do. I do lots of Christian work in the wintertime.

(Sighs.) Once you start getting recognized it becomes important to you. I didn't used to feel that way. One day when we were coming off the plane, a guy asked me if I was the traveling secretary. That's not good. (Laughs.) When I came over to the National League, n.o.body asked for my autograph, because I had gray hair. It started to bother me. (Laughs.) I put stuff on my hair and it went sort of medium-brown. But I don't like it and I'm letting it grow out. I just figure it was me. I don't feel right. My legs still hurt, my arms didn't feel any better. (Laughs.) Recognition, fame-I think of all the time I stood outside my house in Charlestown, Indiana, a two-tone brick, and I threw a baseball where the different colors met. I hit it over and over and over again. We caught flies where it got too dark to see, just hours and hours and hours and hours . . . that's what most of us have done.

BLACKIE MASON.

"I'm a s.p.a.ce cadet, a s.p.a.ce thief. I've always s.h.i.+ed away from the term 'public relations counsellor,' the old Madison Avenue cliche. You lay back and extol the virtues of others. Some of the people you're talking about have no talent, some are great. I got into publicity accidentally. I wanted to be a night club comedian. I didn't go to a school of journalism. My education came from life, from the streets of the city."

You hit the pavement, gettin' out, pluggin' every day. If I don't hit a newspaper office once a day I feel I've missed something. I'm not a great one to sit at typewriters and do slick releases. I have to go out and see the fruit of my work-to see my client get out of the second sports page onto the front sports page. Or see my fighter work his way up. What little success I enjoy I owe to boxing.

Today there's nothing more exciting than a world's heavyweight champions.h.i.+p bout. You've been working with one guy for six hard weeks. It's now the night of the fight. There's a certain drama, there's a certain vibrancy. Suddenly a spotlight hits one end of the arena and you see the champeen coming down. Right before your eyes, everything you've toiled for. Millions are gonna be watching this guy. You know him better than anybody sitting out there. You've ate with him, you've slept with him, you know his inner thoughts, you know the magazines he likes to read, you know what type of food he likes. You see he and the challenger come down the aisle. That's when you get goose pimples.

I worked in the camps with the late Rocky Marciano. It's a very important function during the reign of a heavyweight champion. I was the buffer. There were tours of newspapermen that would come up every day. I had to be fully prepared to answer all questions. Why does Rocky put his left shoe on first? Is he superst.i.tious? How many rounds has he boxed, total? What kind of food does he like to eat? People like Ed Sullivan call me and say they want Marciano on his show. I would be able to adjudge, to see that he cannot leave the camp on this and that day. Sullivan came up and did it right from camp. It's a momentous job.

I worked with a sullen, belligerent Sonny Liston, who had a disdain for a newspaperman. He would cause you aggravation because you never knew what he was gonna say. I worked with Muhammad Ali. When he says, "I am the greatest," he is among the greatest. Ali is his own press agent. When I worked in camp with him, I felt I was being paid for nothing. He did all the work. He made it easy for me. He would take over a press conference and forget about you. You would not have to sit there and coach him. He would take over and say, "Gentlemen, you have twenty minutes." They would ask him one question and he would not stop talking until I would get up and say, "Gentlemen, that's it for the day."

I'm up at seven. At a quarter after eight I'm in my automobile heading for the Loop. I'm kind of morose. I'm not one of those cheerful risers that get up singing arias and operatics and tell funny jokes in the morning. I begin to feel better when I hit the fringes of Chicago. The tempo grabs me. I'm hittin' the jungle. The Loop is my domain. I'm away for three days and I'm a lost soul. When I prowl, I'm within my realm. These are my, my, my people.

I don't really begin to function until the afternoon. That's when I can rip and tear. That's when I'm strongest and the adrenaline begins to flow. I'm punching, punching. I'm calling up different media: "I've got a great angle for you." This goes on all afternoon. I'm getting constant, constant phone calls, people asking for my clients for appearances. I'm beginning to feel like a theatrical agent.

Just today, the phone rings. Muhammad Ali. "h.e.l.lo there, you little white devil you." This came out of the blue. This gave me a buoyed up feeling. I suddenly felt this day was worthwhile. He took time to call me and converse with me. "Are you coming out to this fight?" So on and so forth.

I have a certain tempo. You come from your rounds at the paper. You have seven, eight messages waiting. You have lunch, come back-more messages waiting. You go across the street for a cup of coffee-there's more messages. Some days you come in and there are no messages. Who have you offended? Who have you hurt? I can't afford to hurt anybody. It's part of my work. You come hat in hand. You're like a peddler. You're fighting. A client doesn't want to see slick releases. He wants to see the tearsheets from the papers. You fight and you fight like mad.

You're afraid of telling the particular individual what he really stands for. You want to, but you've got to suppress this because he holds the destiny of your future livelihood. It frustrates me. You want to have a feeling of independence.

People are always calling you up. A divorce case: "Can I get a lawyer?" "Can I keep it out of the papers?" You go and do big favors and you never see them people again. When you ask them for a favor, these people will always give you that one cliche: "If I could do it for you, I would. But, gee, I don't know." I don't say they're obligated, but it's a hurt feeling. To have somebody say to you, "I'll never forget you, Blackie, for what you did for me." You see these people later and you get the feeling they're trying to avoid you. I get the feeling they give me a cold h.e.l.lo.

You say to yourself, That's the story of my life. Why can't I be like that individual? Use a guy, then walk away. You felt like you've been used and totally discarded for what you have just done. I'm sensitive. It stays with me, and then I find myself becoming vindictive. I only hope this man comes to me for a favor again and I'll hurt him bad. These situations have turned me into that kind of an individual. I came out of a tough neighborhood and a favor was the big thing. We believed in the buddy system. Too many people I've met are constantly using you as a stepping stone.

There's been a change in the element in twenty-seven years, since I broke in. The people now are a different breed. They are the Madison Avenue-PR-type. The Brooks Brothers suit, attache case, and let the cookie crumble if it will and all these cliches. These three-hour lunches. Big corporations have these people knifing each other, backstabbing, jockeying for position. Oh, it's become very commercial, cold and impersonal. It's now: "We'll have an eyeball to eyeball confrontation," and they come in with structures and surveys. This leaves me very confused. It must be impressive to a board, when somebody walks in with facts and figures and so on and so forth. I can take pride without going through this phony rigamarole.

How do I feel about my work? I wouldn't be doing anything but. I'm happiest in this field of endeavor. If somebody took me out of this and offered me twenty-five thousand dollars a year more-"You're the manager of a men's clothing department"-I would say no. I'd be miserable. I'd be like a caged lion, pacing. I'd growl at everybody, because the money wouldn't be worth it. I do not want to demean the man that sells clothing, because these people are necessary too. But I could never visualize a challenge selling a man a tie for three dollars, ringing that cash register, and saying, "I accomplished something today." Within thirty days I would be taking psychiatric treatment. I would be cornered. This would not be my cup of tea.

When a fighter walks in, or a basketball player, you say, "I'm gonna sell that guy." You pick up the papers and you see the results of the work you put in. There's the challenge. This work is meaningful. It gives me happiness.

I think I'm the last of the breed. I'm the last of the real hustlers. I can accomplish what I want with you in an hour. I don't have to sit over four martinis. Nor can I deal with an account who says, "Get me a broad." The era I came out of-the great teachers-they're all gone now. I learned from the greatest of them all, the late Jack Kearns. He was my mentor, G.o.d rest his soul. He said to me many, many times, "Kid, you're a throwback to the old days. But there's one thing you haven't got-larceny. I gotta teach it to ya." Well, I never took a full course. That's why I haven't made the big score. I do the best I can. I gotta be me.

JEANNE DOUGLAS.

She is a professional tennis player. She is twenty-two. She travels nine months of the year as a member of the Virginia Slims Professional Women's Circuit. "It's Women's Lib, you've come a long way baby. Yeah. There's been quite a discussion about a cigarette company sponsoring a sporting event. What can you say? Some of the girls smoke, some don't. It's just a way of promoting tennis. We're not promoting smoking."

When the women organized their own circuit, they were blacklisted by the United States Lawn Tennis a.s.sociation. "The officials of USLTA are very well-to-do businessmen, who've never paid their way to Wimbledon. I always paid my way. It's like the tournament is run for them, not the players." The schism occurred because "women's prize money was less than half of the men's. For Forest Hills men were getting six thousand dollars and the women would get sixteen hundred. Billie Jean57 is Women's Lib. She hit the roof." It was touch and go until Philip Morris came along. "They own Virginia Slims. They couldn't advertise on TV any more, so they put money into Virginia Slims tennis circuit."

The circuit: Long Beach to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., to Miami to Richmond. "People in town come out. Married couples. The blue collar will come maybe once a week. The upper cla.s.s comes every night. Tennis is spreading. But I'm getting tired of living out of a suitcase and having my clothes wrinkled. That I hate. I love playing tennis.

"I started playing when I was eleven years old. My whole family plays. We're a huge tennis family. My uncle was like ten in the United States. My mom took it up after she was married. She got ranked twenty-fifth in southern California, which is one of the best places to play tennis. She works in a pro shop at our tennis club. She pushed me and I really resented it at first. But she made me play to the point where I was good enough to like it."

It's pure luck that I was born when I was born. Now there's professional tennis. There wasn't before. It's a business now. Just like a dentist. You go at it training-wise, exercises, running. Match-wise, girls are now cheating. (Laughs.) It's not maybe really cheating. We have umpires and linesmen. The other day an umpire made a call against my opponent. It was very close. He called it "out." I'm not gonna go against the umpire. Maybe in amateur days I would say, "Hold it. I thought that was good." I may have said, "Play two, take it over." I'm not gonna do that now and n.o.body's gonna do it. When you were amateur, you were more open. Winning now is everything.

The first time I encountered it, I was just out of the juniors.58 It was doubles. There was no way we were gonna beat the others, they're world cla.s.s players. Okay, I hit the ball down the center. On a clay court it kicks the back line. It's taped. You can see it shoot off. It's the first game of the whole match and they spend five minutes looking at the mark. "It's out! It's out!" My partner says, "If it's that close, let's play two." No. This was typical of the whole match. They were top players. It wasn't even gonna be close. But n.o.body's giving away one little inch.

Players tend to be more superficial now. Before you were more friendly. You'd write back and forth and have a good time. Now you don't have good friends. You're on the court and people are just having fits, losing tempers. People are now so compet.i.tive for money you just don't want to get involved personally. You get on the court and how can you beat your best friend type of thing. Kind of a lonely life.

I want to be good, and this is the only way. But when there is money, the compet.i.tion is so tough. There are like sixty-five women in the world, beating their heads against the wall every week, just playing against each other just week after week after week. It's really a hard life and getting a little shaky. Quite a few girls have gone home. The tops are getting the glamour-Billie Jean says, "We're the ones who bring the crowds."

That's why I've got to keep improving. I'll never be a tennis b.u.m. We have them among the girl players, too. Someone who's not making it and just won't let go. They go to tournaments . . . They're kinda down on themselves. It's a sad life to be not advancing. When I stop improving I'll go into something else. Something better-like about six-foot-three. (Laughs.) "I grew up fast, I was very awkward. I really didn't like the game. My mom paid me twenty-five cents an hour to play. There's five children in my family. We all play tennis. My oldest brother's been number one for UCLA two years in a row. He's twenty-third in the United States.

"We subscribe to World Tennis magazine. You see pictures of people in Wimbledon. I said, "I'd never see those people in my life." I got pretty good and I started to travel. I was on the Junior Wightman Cup Team for three years. I quit school-I was gonna major in design at UCLA-and went to Australia, South Africa, France, Italy, and I played in Wimbledon. Financially it was tough. You pay your own way. You get token prize money. Then Virginia Slims came up. It's just lucky timing.

"My mom wanted it for me because she never could play tennis. She's been to all the teas and just felt she accomplished nothing with her life. I go to these houses and stay with these housewives and it blows my mind that all they do is plan dinner and take care of the kid. They don't do anything, these ladies. I do want to get married and have a family, but I do want to do something."

There's zero social life. I get romantically involved about twice a year and wreck my tennis to death. There's this French girl who was like number three in the world a couple of years ago. When she's having a great love life she's just playing fantastically.

My brother goes on the circuit too. We compare notes all the time. It's different for men. The townies come out. It never ceases to amaze me how they can sit and watch a tennis match in ninety degrees heat with false eyelashes on, make-up, hair spray, and not one drop of sweat. The guys pick'em up. It's harder for girls to go out on a one-night. It's gotten to a point where I only go out with guys that I've met before. You can be friendly and have a good time, but you hate to be put-upon. I'm just not that kind of girl. I'm not a prude, but I'm not going to go to bed with some guy just while I'm in town.

Male athletes are just big studs. The girl tennis players used to laugh. A couple of Australians got this little game they play. They'd pick up girls and they'd rig it up so one guy would watch from the next room-and give points. They kept track. They made it a contest. These townies had no idea what these guys were pulling off. They would just pick up one girl after another after another. It was a mechanical-type thing.

Through tennis I've met fantastic people. When I'm home I teach fantastically wealthy people in Rolling Hills. They live behind gates, they have guards, they have private courts. I'm teaching a man who owns his own jet, and he's giving me a ride home from New York so I don't have to pay the airfare type of thing.

I have a sponsor, he's paying my way. Last year I barely made it. My mom has paid for all of my tennis. A lot of parents support the girls, work. It's much better with a sponsor. Last year, before each tournament, I calculated how far I had to get and my next plane ticket and everything. I was so uptight. We have to pay our own airfare.

Why can't Virginia Slims pay your fare?

They can't afford it at this time. The only thing we're guaranteed is to be able to play in the tournament. And maybe win prize money.

Suppose you don't win?

You just lose. You don't get anything. You get hospitality. My sponsor gets paid back everything he spent. After he's gotten paid back, we split fifty-fifty. This year I made my five hundred dollars profit so far, so I'm way ahead of the game. One girl has a sponsor who gets ninety percent of every prize money check she gets until he's paid back. At the time I was so excited. But now it's coming out where it's not such a good deal.

My sponsor's a race track driver. I'm so impressed with him. He's been written up in Time magazine. He's such an unbelievable man, and he's so impressed with me.

If I go out with guys that aren't sports-minded, I feel like a jock. The whole conversation, there's nothing to go on. You go out with a baseball player or something, you carry on a normal conversation. But this one guy can't get it out of his mind. A female athlete is just so new. It's just like a kid growing up to be an astronaut. This was never before. It's amazing how little girls come up and ask for your autograph. They say, "Oh, I want to grow up and be a Virginia Slims tennis player, just like you." That just blows my mind. One of the greatest things happened to me. I was at a basketball game and someone asked me for an autograph. I mean, I'm not a Billie Jean King.

I meet these fantastically wealthy people I would never have a chance to meet before. A dentist, he goes to a c.o.c.ktail party, who's gonna talk about your teeth? If you're a tennis pro, everybody can talk. There's a common bond. It's kind of neat to be able to talk to someone instead of having a feeling like a housewife: How do I ever talk to Billie Jean?

In a way it's an ugly wealth, too. Gaudy diamond rings, impressing each other. At Miami Beach I stayed at the Jockey Club. I lucked out, and three of us got to stay like on an eighty-five-foot yacht. They all had such disrespect for each other, but they had respect for us. It's something money couldn't buy.

Before Virginia Slims I was interested in a lot more things. I wanted to travel and learn languages. I can speak Spanish and a little French. Every country I've been in, I stayed in people's homes. You talk to them and find out much more about a country. Now it's making money.

I'm really trying to zero in and make a business out of it, 'cause all of a sudden it's big business. It never occurred to me before. So I'm trying to change my ways. I'd like to be able to endorse some rackets or shoes, do commercials, make a lot of money. I'm not a materialist like my father. He hasn't been in favor of tennis. He'd always say, "Okay, when are you going to be a secretary and make some money?" He's like a sunny day friend. When I'm winning-great! He loves publicity. I'm his daughter. But if I'm losing, "Be a secretary, get the money." He can't even see the way he changes. I couldn't care less about him. I want to be independent. Money means freedom.

If I get married and have a daughter, I would push her into something, like my mom did me. I think kids should be pushed. Okay, pushed is a crummy word. Kids should be guided. I stayed at a house a couple of weeks, the kids were fat. They didn't do anything after school, just watch TV. It's like they were dying. I would prefer athletics. I would push her to the point where she's good. And if she still didn't like it, I wouldn't push her.

"Junior tennis is like a world of its own. The parents usually take the kids, because they can't drive. This is like stage mothers. There's like tennis mothers. There's quite a few fathers that are obnoxious, too. These people sit on the sidelines and coach from behind the baseline. My mom's never come out to see me, though she's watching my little sister . . ."

My second brother, who had a scholars.h.i.+p to Long Beach State, does not enjoy compet.i.tion. He plays an hour a day just to make my mom happy. If he was serious, he'd be really good. He goes out and enjoys playing, and he won't get upset. He'll come home and my mom will say, "How'd you do?" He'll say, "I lost four and four. I should have won." She'll say, "Why didn't you win? Why didn't you start coming to the net?" And he'll just laugh and say, "I didn't think of it." It upsets my mom. He isn't that keen to win. He just enjoys playing. This I don't understand, because I'm very compet.i.tive.

My little sister, who's ten years old, she was on the cover of Tennis World when she was four. She's great. She's been playing since she was two. She's done clinics all over California, with my coach. Usually you begin about five or six. So I started kind of late. I'm thirteen years older than she is, but she has more incentive. She knows exactly where she can go. She's number one in the Ten and Under.

She has not lost a match in her eight years-ever. She started playing tournaments when she was seven years old. It's going to be interesting to see how my little sister takes defeat . . .

ERIC NESTERENKO.

He has been a professional hockey player for twenty years, as a member of the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Chicago Black Hawks. He is thirty-eight. He has a wife and three small children.