Only Confidence Keeps Davenport From Glory

The trouble with tennis is, it’s un-American. Think about it. Everybody in the game seems to be named Igor or Sven. Or Hana or Natasha or Claudia Kohde-Kilsch.

Didn’t used to be that way. Used to be American as pumpkin pie. Used to be the men champs were named J. Donald, or Big Bill or Ellsworth or Bobby. The women were Helen Wills or Helen Jacobs or they were named Tracy, or Chris or Billie Jean. Everything but Gidget.

The men Yanks have made a bit of a comeback. We got a Pete and a Jim to give the Borises and Gorans a run for their money. But when you stop to think about it, the Grand Slam events this year have been won by a German named Becker, a Russian named Kafelnikov and a Dutchman named Krajicek.

Still, with the women, the rout is even more headlong. Do you know how long it has been since a home-grown American woman has won Wimbledon? Well, how about 16 years? Ever think you’d see a drought like that? Chris Evert was the last. In 1981. Eighteen of the last 19 winners have been--well, non-Americans. Yet, from 1927 to 1959, every Wimbledon but one was won by an American.

Same with the U.S. Open. Our Open hasn’t been won by an American woman since 1982, when Evert did it. The French Open hasn’t been won by an American woman since 1986. That was Evert too.

Now, I’m not getting into naturalized Americans here. In a sense, we’re nearly all naturalized Americans, but I’m talking about women who learned to play tennis in the 50 states.

Mary Pierce won the Australian Open last year, but Mary was born in Canada. So no native-born American has won the Aussie in 10 years.

But take heart, fellow chauvinists! Don’t be afraid to break out the flag and give us a chorus of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” The West shall rise again.

We have Lindsay Davenport riding to the rescue. The fort is going to be saved. Sound the charge, bugler. The Yanks are coming over here!

Who is Lindsay Davenport? Well, she is just the next Chris Evert or even Maureen Connolly is what we hope. She is just the woman who defeated Arantxa Sanchez Vicario to win the Olympic gold medal and then Steffi Graf--in straight sets!--in the Acura Classic at Manhattan Beach last week.

Is it too soon to hail her as the new Helen Wills Moody? After all, the real Helen Wills won Wimbledon eight times. Davenport has reached the quarterfinals there, once. Wills Moody won the U.S. Open seven times and was runner-up twice. Davenport has never made it past the fourth round.

But we’re desperate here, sports fans. The U.S. Open starts this week at Flushing Meadow in New York and it has been so long since an American woman won--Reagan was in his first term--that the orchestra is going to have to send out for the sheet music to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Lindsay Davenport would be a welcome relief from some of the winners our tennis has produced. I mean, she’s not likely to tell Wimbledon it’s “the pits.” She’s not likely to curse an umpire, throw a racket or even pout. Even Helen Wills Moody stalked off the court once feigning injury because she was facing defeat. The worst thing Davenport does is wear her visor brim up.

She is cheerful, even sunny and not at all impressed with the fact she is our great slight hope.

But, when you beat Steffi Graf in straight sets, you can’t help but make your countrymen’s hearts beat faster. Visions of another Helen Wills, another Mo Connolly, Chris Evert dances in their heads. When you go through an Olympic draw with the loss of only one set against the world’s best, you have got the game at match point.

Davenport is less impressed than her fans. “Steffi wasn’t at her best,” she says earnestly.

Maybe so. But the facts are, Graf, in an iron lung, could still take most other players into a three-set tiebreaker.

Davenport has to realize how good she is. At 6 feet 2, 165 pounds, she could be a dominating force if she went to the net. The only server she has to worry about is the one bringing a double hamburger with everything.

She has all the shots, forehand, backhand, drop volley, lob.

But her game might have one glaring weakness. Ego. Davenport needs to study Andre Agassi, John McEnroe. Not for their ground strokes, cross-court volleys--for their arrogance.

Imagine Agassi noting his opponent was “not at his best,” after Agassi beat him. Imagine McEnroe conceding he was lucky to win anything. He would be more apt to note he had to be great to beat his opponent and four linesmen at the same time.

“Confidence does play a role,” Davenport concedes.

Then, she proceeds to look embarrassed when asked if she sees herself as a modern-day successor to the U.S. female stars of yesteryear.

“Oh, I don’t think of myself in those terms,” she says quickly. “I’m already 20 and Monica [Seles] was only 17 when she won her first Grand Slam [the French Open].”

Of course, at 20, you are not exactly in God’s waiting room, but Davenport has to learn to bluster a little bit. Modesty is becoming, so long as it doesn’t chip away at your own confidence and raise your opponent’s. Many fights are won at the weigh-in, golf rounds at the first tee. The old Yankees used to win World Series games with batting practice. Psyching opponents is an ancient art.

There was a time in this country when winners did not flaunt their talents. Joe Louis used to say, “Another lucky night,” after a one-round knockout. But that was before sack dances, end zone spiking, “I am the greatest!” boasting, the whole panoply of sore winners.

Davenport needs an ego transplant. She needs to remember even the great Helen Wills stalked out before braving defeat. Her self-esteem was too fragile to accept it. To be great, you sometimes have to convince yourself first.