The Collins Cup

There were a few tennis matches at Harvard this week, and where there is tennis, there is, yes, Bud Collins. When I last saw Collins it was at the Longwood Pro championships in July, and he was calmly, totally in control. This week, he was in control again, but not merely as the suffocatingly chic Master of Revels. This time, goddamn, he was running the whole show.

Bud, you understand, is concerned about the future of tennis, especially in Boston. So, with a little help from the Sportsman's Tennis Club, which hopes to start a grassroots youth movement in the city, and Pepsi-Cola, which was providing the prize money and the only beverages in the house. Bud became promoter of the first World Cup Title tennis championships, sort of a Davis Cup.

In fact, quite like a Davis Cup. The Australians walked off with the title, and they were using only two men: Fred Stolle, who is never miserable unless he is winning, and John Newcombe, who just wins. The U.S.A. had four: Arthur Ashe, Clark Gracbuer, Cliff Richey, and Stan Smith.

Aysier in The Doubles

"One Awstryelyun is wuhth abaowt three Yainks," Stolle had said. "We're joost usin Nyewk to myke it a bit aysier on me in the doubles. That's old."

Collins, blissfully aware of the monster he had created, let it run loose. The Boston writers, who aren't quite used to this sort of thing, checked it carefully with Collins to make sure that this was the Grade A, official world championship. Yes, it was, Bud said.

"If they swallow Bruno Sammartino and Gorilla Monsoon at the Garden," Collins confided to me later. "they'll eat this right up." But there was a guy from the Times there, however, and you don't put anything over on those New York writers. Neil Amdur, the guy, has been around. He had been to Longwood and he had been to Forest Hilis. This was no world championship, this was "The Collins Cup."

"Sounds more like a mixed drink." Stan Smith had said. "Hell." Collins replied. "It's from the same jewelry shop as the Davis Cup. But don't name it after me. Call it the World Title Cup." By 10:30 last night, Australia had won it. Newcombe, who had beaten Smith on Tuesday night, beat him again, 6-3, 6-3, to clinch the title. And it was a terrible thing for Bud Collins to see the Cup go to the hinterlands. Just before the final point, he had prayed silently in the press gallery.

Ghettos and Penthouses

"Smith." Bud implored, "all America's behind you, kid. From the ghettos to the penthouses, they're riding on this shot," Smith made the point, and for a moment, Collins was rigid with hope. Later, when it was over, I watched Bud as he filed his story over the telephone, clad in his winter uniform-double-breasted navy blazer, party-dude striped pants, de Bergerat shoes. He seemed calm and in control. But it would have killed him to hear what Stolle and Newcombe were saying just a few feet away.

"Was this a big thrill," someone asked. "Terrific." muttered Stolle. "They named you MVP," Ron Bookman said to Newcombe. "Whoo-cece!," Newk said, unenthusiastically. Poor Bud.