Review of John McPhee's The Levels of the Game
Deutschlandfunk, May 6, 1994, Buchenmarkt editorial office There is no question that the tennis match between Arthur Ashe and Carl Graebner on September 8, 1968 did not go down in the annals of sport. Absolutely nothing exciting from today's perspective. Ashe beat Graebner in four sets. 4-6, 8-6, 7-5, 6-2. The finale, on the other hand, would have been perfect for first-class reporting: no American had won the US Open since 1955, and Ashe could have been the first black person ever. And yet, John McPhee chose to cover the semifinals. Anyone who reads "Levels of the Game" knows why. The levels of the game lie somewhere between good and evil, between Democrats and Republicans, between heroes and villains. Even if it is primarily about the existential conflict between serve and volley. Ashe and Graebner , two players of the same age, Davis Cup buddies, the black number 5, Graebner number 7, in between the net, which not only separates sportingly: it separates different styles, skin colors, cultures, it separates political opinions, and that all amidst the roar of fourteen thousand spectators. John McPhee has written 23 books to date; about oranges in Florida, the Swiss army and hermits in New Jersey. I personally consider "The Pine Barrens" from 1968 to be his best book. Not necessarily because of McPhee, but because of the main characters: a bunch of hermits living in an impenetrable pine forest in New Jersey, one of the most densely populated areas in the US McPhe e is a specialist in off-the-beaten-track subjects and a master of structure: each of his books has a structure that corresponds to the topic. For example, a report on tennis could imitate the contrapuntal actions of the game: back and forth, from one player to another, like in a cinema parallel montage between the pursuer and the pursued. The story could also be designed in a straight line, starting with the first serve, then slowly increasing the tempo and serving the match point as the climax. McPhee chose a mix of both. First he studied the televised match, alone, then with the two players. Emotions and thoughts for every rally. An inexhaustible source for a book. But McPhee plays the backhand cross himself with his main actors: First, the roles, i.e. the stereotypes, are clearly assigned. The longer the game, the more diffuse they become. Of course, Graebner is bigoted, brutal, a guy who, according to McPhee, looks like a "Lieutenant Colonel of the Wehrmacht." Like a bodyguard promoting a correspondence course in muscle building. A guy like that just has to lose. If Richard Nixon appears on TV, then Graebner cheers: "I'm a fundamentalist. Arthur is a bachelor. I'm married and conservative. I am interested in shops, the market and children's clothing. That's noticeable in the game." Ashe about Graebner: "He hardly makes any mistakes, plays stubborn, fat, republican tennis." Ashe is personable. And critical, as he says, "When you walk into church and you see this picture of a blonde, blue-eyed Christ, you wonder if he's on your side." McPhee comments, "The ceramic Christ on the wall of Gum Spring is blond but has brown eyes." Even during the game, Ashe always dreams about his favorite food. Fried chicken, rice and baked beans. His opponents know that. But they also know that he never dreams long enough. Graebner also favors them every night "Same power food - a vodka martini and a shrimp cocktail, a roast potato without salt and butter, and a roast beef or steak." As always, as in all his other books, McPhee is passionate about details. The importance of the little things: that before Graebner drinks from a Coca-Cola bottle, he always sticks his finger in the neck of the bottle to rub it clean. Graebner also recognizes a pair of Gucci shoes three kilometers upwind. But Graebner, whom everyone thinks is an arrogant swine because of his strutting gait, reveals McPhee that there really is one thing: Graebner is a hypochondriac who spent months in a brace because of a real back problem. And now strut. Ashe, on the other hand, carries his birth certificate in his wallet. The "Levels of the Game" were written twenty-five years ago. It's snobbery to bring something like this onto the German market today. If only because no bookseller knows under which category to sort this author. Ashe has since passed away, and who knows Graebner. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is antiquated in this study. Not only every sports journalist should know what McPhee writes about quota tennis, the power of the backhand, and about tennis as a character struggle. And how he supposedly made tennis so noble Ordinary gladiator event dismantled, that's lonely class.Sport as aiming, hunting and hitting, as an instinct that has not only been saved from prehistoric times on the tennis court of Forrest Hills.McPhee: ¸The pauses between the points are long compared to the Points themselves - short, sudden bangs, sporadic single fire on a calm front (...) Some players complained after encounters with Ashe or Graebner saying they 'didn't have enough tennis'. Where reformers mourn the old game and feel something needs to be done, they suggest doing away with the first serve altogether or moving the serve several feet behind the baseline. (...) But many people love tennis the way Ashe and Graebner play it. It's the ultimate, with a ghostly charm, like Joe Louis sneaking up on Billy Conn and then knocking him out with a few thuds.” Ultimately, who knocks who out in tennis isn't a question of aesthetics. The levels of the game are dominated by the sleek, cold-blooded dude with the tank. The soldier. So the winner was not the potential lieutenant colonel of the Wehrmacht. The winner was the US Army lieutenant who left the light on in his closet at West Point Military Academy day and night. And a guy like that just had to win the USOpen the next day too.
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