How Bobby Runs and Talks, Talks, Talks
Billie Jean King is one of the alltime tennis greats, she’s one of the superstars, she’s ready for the big one, but she doesn’t stand a chance against me, women’s tennis is so far beneath men’s tennis, that’s what makes the contest with a 55-year-old man the greatest contest of all time. I went to Wimbledon this year to watch her play, I wasn’t scared before, but after watching the girls at Wimbledon I may even be overconfident. You may want to ask me if I have a game plan for Billie Jean. I don’t need a game plan. I’ll let her start something and I’ll finish it. I have such a vast assortment of tennis weapons in my arsenal that I can handle anything she can throw at me. I’ll psych her out a little bit. I’m psyching her out already, she won’t admit it but I can see her coming apart at the seams already …
And that, gentlemen and ladies, as Bobby Riggs likes to put it, is what is known in the trade as hustle. Which is what happens to any man, woman or child who comes within earshot of Robert Larimore Riggs, the most notorious, obstreperous and, a good many women would say, obnoxious 55-year-old adolescent in the land.
Ride down the road with him and he may bet you $100 that you would not jump out of the car and turn a quick somersault. Hole up in a hotel room with him and he will invent a betting game that involves tossing tennis balls over a curtain rod. Ask him to play golf with a tennis racket and he will not only oblige but win. Show up at one of his tennis matches and he may line you up for a side bet. Want to play him yourself? What kind of handicap do you want? A wet Bulgarian bear riding on his shoulders? A felled yak strapped to his side? One foot cemented to the court?
Fun Guy. Bobby just might accommodate. He has gone almost that far already, playing while holding a poodle on a leash (“It’s harder if the dog isn’t housebroken”), while tied to his doubles partner, while running around four chairs obstructing his side of the court, while wearing an overcoat, while carrying a pail of water. In a sunburst of understatement, he says: “I’m a fun guy, I’ll do anything for excitement, I’m a ham.” Ham? Henny Youngman is merely a ham. Bobby is an extraterrestrial peculiarity. At the antic rate he is going, yaks and Bulgarian bears may be only a step or two away.
But first he must act out the grandest trick of all, the biggest piece of action in the 100 years of lawn-tennis history. On the night of Sept. 20 he confronts Billie Jean King, 29, five-time Wimbledon champion and the game’s premier flag bearer for women’s rights, in a three-sets-out-of-five singles match in the Houston Astrodome. If only two-thirds of the stadium’s 46,000 seats are filled—it may be a sellout, though ticket prices go up to $ 100—the contest will still attract the largest crowd ever to attend a tennis match. ABC, UPI which paid about $750,000 for the TV rights (compared with a mere $50,000 NBC put up to cover this year’s Wimbledon tournament) will broadcast the event live in prime time. Bobby likes to call it “the match of the century and the battle of the sexes.” Obvious as his hyperbolic propaganda has been, it has caught on.
Bobby has to win because his mouth has put him way out on the line; Billie Jean must avenge the legions of women in chains, real or imaginary, who consider Riggs a male of supernaturally loathsome porcinity. With the possible exception of a nude tag-team wrestling match pitting Burt Reynolds and Norman Mailer against Gloria Steinem and Germaine Greer, it is scarcely conceivable that any other single athletic event could burlesque the issue so outrageously. A Las Vegas casino is chartering a plane to fly in show-biz folk and high rollers. Ms., the feminist magazine, plans a charter flight to make sure that Billie Jean does not lack for rooters deep in the heart of Marlboro country.
The purse is $100,000, winner take all, but the victor will likely get a minimum of $200,000 and the loser $100,000 because of shares in the ancillary rights—everything from buttons (Bobby Riggs—Bleah!) to popcorn. Thus, the players’ pot will set a tennis record. And, though King is reluctant to join in the hoopla, though she tries to avoid responding to the sexist gambit that has become Riggs’ credo (see box page 56), she is not above capitalizing on the happening. Recently she filmed an electric-shaver commercial with Riggs. Set in a Boeing 747 mockup, the scenario has Billie Jean walking past a row of Riggs look-alikes and muttering, “I think they ought to break the mold.”
Of course there is no mold. Bobby is, first, an excellent athlete, one of the best tennis players the game has seen. But more important to his present endeavor, he is also an original—a garrulous, demonic elf, a street-shrewd promoter who has finally found a way to satisfy his gargantuan appetite for both action and attention.
It all began, James Thurber would probably say, in the Garden. Bobby Riggs, somewhat less cosmic, says that it began two years ago. He had been on the road gambling, hustling, playing in senior men’s tennis tournaments. Upon winning a seniors’ tournament in La Jolla, Calif., he received a telephone call from his second wife, Priscilla, who was in Florida. She told him much the same thing after 20 years of marriage that his first wife, the former Kay Fischer, had said after 13 uneven years: Where have you been all our wedlock?
“We had long had our problems,” Riggs says of Priscilla. “My wife thought I ought to spend more time looking after my family instead of playing gin and hustling golf and tennis. She didn’t think it was dignified. Once she made me go to a psychiatrist to try to cure me of my addiction, but after a couple of sessions I had him flicking cards into a hat. Then we spent time playing gin rummy.”
What had set Priscilla off? According to Bobby, “She began reading books about Women’s Lib, and she had liberal friends. I began to get all that stuff about ‘I want to discover who I am,’ etc., etc.” Priscilla Wheelan Riggs refuses to reply, but says privately that she is no radical of any kind. Women’s Lib seems to have been the least of their problems, and in fact the parting was rather amiable. The Wheelan family was then sole owner of American Photograph Corp., where Bobby occupied an executive chair for many years, and Riggs unchauvinistically walked away from the marriage with a $1,000,000 settlement from his wife. He and Priscilla have three sons and a daughter —there are two sons from his first marriage—and the second Mrs. Riggs still keeps an up-to-date scrapbook on Bobby for future grandchildren. They keep in touch with each other; she remembers Bobby as a “gentle” husband and is rooting for him to beat King.
Such soft truths can scarcely tarnish Bobby’s hand-tooled escutcheon (a razorback rampant on a field of Pampers). In search of a new role, he discovered that statements like “a woman’s place is in the bedroom and the kitchen, in that order” got him publicity, so he kept repeating them. Then he aimed the chauvinist pitch at women’s tennis. Billie Jean King and a few other leading players had been attracting attention with their demands for better treatment and larger purses for women. King, in particular, became something of a heroine of the women’s movement, although, like Mrs. Riggs, she is no ideologue. So Bobby teased King: “You insist that top women players provide a brand of tennis comparable to men’s. I challenge you to prove it. I contend that you not only cannot beat a top male player, but that you can’t beat me, a tired old man.” Billie Jean refused the gauntlet the first time around because, she says, “we didn’t need him, we were making it on our own merits.”
Margaret Court, the gracious Australian ace, made the mistake of picking up Bobby’s challenge, and the result was this year’s Mother’s Day massacre. Bobby rattled her by presenting her with a bouquet of roses before the match started. He neutralized her normally sharp attack with frustrating spins and lobs. Court did not merely lose, she disintegrated. Final score: 6-2, 6-1. Says King: “When I finally saw the film of the match and watched him present her with those roses and Margaret curtsy, I yelled ‘Margaret, you idiot, you played right into his hands!’ If that was me, I would have grabbed him and kissed him. He’s not going to jive me. If he gets too dirty, I can get tough too.”
Jive and the quest for big action have been Bobby’s game since his earliest days in Los Angeles. How did he get that way? Does anyone really know if there is a real Bobby Riggs to stand up? Possibly not. Riggs is a persona constantly reinventing himself. Other men, like Hemingway and Waugh, have done that, but with more substance and perspective. It is arguable whether anyone —including his ex-wives, whose views of him run counter to contemporary mythology—has ever really known him. That figures. Someone who can spring forth as a full-blown pop hero in his sixth decade is bound to be elusive.
There are a few clues to what makes Bobby run. Whole libraries could be filled with psychiatric studies of ministers’ sons as rips and rakehells, and Bobby belongs among them. The son of a preacher of the Church of Christ, Bobby grew up in a house that was never cursed by demon rum or cards. Four older brothers had him running races, pitching baseballs, jumping fences and swinging from trees, usually against neighborhood boys his age, with a Saturday matinee held out as a reward. Says Riggs: “Everything was a contest, everything was a game, and I never lost that early drive to compete.”
When he was twelve and swinging a racket on a court for the first time (barefoot, as he recalls, since he owned no tennis shoes) Bobby was spotted by Dr. Esther Bartosh, a university anatomy instructor and the third ranking woman player in Los Angeles. Yes, Virginia Slimmers, Bobby Riggs got his start in tennis from a woman. In fact, two women: his later instruction was taken up by Eleanor Tennant, who developed Alice Marble.
While still in his teens, Bobby became a steady winner, but he was never fully accepted by the tennis establishment. He was too blatant about breaking the amateur rule against taking illicit payments and too big in the mouth. He claims that he was at first denied a spot on the U.S. Davis Cup team, though his record warranted it. Later, after he had taken the national singles championship twice and swept Wimbledon in 1939 (singles, men’s doubles, mixed doubles), he was still not accorded the respect that contemporaries like Don Budge and Fred Perry received. He just did not look or act like a proper champion. The U.S. Lawn Tennis Association was relieved when he finally turned pro.
He was successful on the pro tour for a while, but finally quit when he realized that he was not going to beat Jack Kramer consistently. He tried tennis promotion, beginning with Kramer and Pancho Gonzales and later with Gussie Moran. When Gussie’s tour went limp, he secretly slit her famous frilled panties with a razor blade and told her about it when she was on the court. “When you stand in front of the press seats, bend over and that’ll start some action.” Riggs was furious when Gussie refused.
Finally he settled down with Priscilla on Long Island, sinking uneasily into obscurity and the corporate life. There was plenty of money and comfort, but no jollies, no applause, no reporters seeking hot copy from him. So eventually he drifted into his orbit of betting and senior tournaments. He is probably as surprised as anyone else at his rebirth this year.
That blessed event was midwifed by the match with Court and the vast interest it created in the Riggs shtik. An ecstatic Bobby suddenly captured the fame that had eluded him even when he was the nation’s top amateur tennis player in the late 1930s. After he signed with Promoter Jerry Perenchio, president of Tandem Productions* (Maude, All in the Family, Sanford & Son), Tandem sent him on a promotional trip to Beverly Hills.
Riggs went gloriously wild, even by his own feral standards. He became a sudden lover about town, acting like a sawed-off version of his old betting crony Errol Flynn. Making the rounds of expensive restaurants, he cuddled, nuzzled and took the phone number of every willing young thing in sight. It was as if he were acting out the fantasy in his after-shave commercial. The scenario has two tennis bunnies leaping the net to embrace him. In the closing shot, Riggs winks, tilts his tennis shade rakishly and says: “Imagine, a 55-year-old sex symbol.”
Imagine indeed. As sex symbols go, Riggs is almost too outrageous even for these confused times. To be kind, if a movie is made of the life of Bobby Riggs, the part will probably not go to Warren Beatty. In fact, it should likely fall to Mickey Rooney—who has already offered his services. Riggs stands 5 ft. 7½ in., and, with that peculiar waddle and a well-tinted Cesare Borgia haircut that verges on the grotesque, he seems unsuited for the role of either athlete or bon vivante. But the girls are around, and, since he travels a lot these days, Riggs keeps one on ice in each section of the country, pledging her the “franchise” for that particular area code. Like every other aspect of his life, sex seems to be a game with Riggs; one can almost picture him inviting a woman to join in amorous combat, two out of three falls, with an anvil tied to his waist and a goldfish bowl on his head.
In a recent session for promotional photographs, Riggs posed as legendary masterful males. He mugged in turn as Rudolph Valentino swishing a sword, Tarzan swinging with Jane, Henry VIII brandishing a turkey drumstick. Divers bosomy blondes sprawled at his feet, including two of his new friends, Sandra Giles and Susan Holloway. When Susan observed that “these pictures aren’t very sexy,” Bobby agreed and asked Susan to take off her clothes. She complied to the last thread, and Bobby Riggs Tudor began pawing like a satyr. “Wow! This is more fun than turkey legs. Turn around, honey, let them see more of you. All right. Everybody get undressed. Now the party starts.” Said Susan later: “Bobby can be so persuasive.”
Steve Powers, 29, a friend of Bobby’s son Larry, agrees. When he got to Los Angeles six weeks ago, Riggs invited himself to stay in Powers’ home. He phoned, Powers recalls, and asked, “You play tennis up there on Sunday?” Yes. “Will there be girls?” Yes. Riggs moved in and within a few days took his host and several friends for more than $2,000 in betting tennis.
Duck v. Pigeon. “He’s a natural egomaniac,” says Powers. “But he’s been a great help in picking up girls in Beverly Hills. I get out of the car, then he comes up and babbles a lot of nonsense, and the girls figure that anyone who knows anyone that mad can’t be all bad.” One such incident, however, turned out to be costly. Bobby, who had been drinking, fell asleep, and the girl walked off with $1,800 in cash from his trousers pocket. “There wasn’t even any sex,” says Riggs.
In all his mad peregrinations, Riggs never neglects the main business at hand, which is to promote the match with King and, if possible, to get King’s goat. He recently appeared in a pro-celebrity tournament at Forest Hills, N.Y., playing in granny rags. He even has gone so far as to call King a “loudmouth,” which is rather like Linda Lovelace calling Alice Cooper an exhibitionist. Riggs promises to “psych her out of her socks.” Ah, he gloats, how about this: “I get the biggest funeral wreath you ever saw, and I wear black crape all over during the match and put a casket on the side of the court with a dummy in it. After she loses, I’ll bury her once and for all.”
When King said, “I don’t care if you show up in a jock strap,” Riggs had pictures made of himself clad only in a supporter. If it has contributed nothing substantial to the history of sexism in the ’70s, the Riggs-King repartee has at least lent some much-needed humor. Billie Jean cannot resist getting into the spirit occasionally. She calls him “Roberta” and mocks his duck-footed waddle. “I’m pigeon-toed,” she says, “so maybe this match should be billed as the duck v. the pigeon.”
Neither player, of course, is an easy mark. Riggs has a number of strengths, including total concentration when he plays seriously. His slight deafness helps filter out distractions. He also claims to have an inner eye, a kind of instant pre-play that, he says, allows him to imagine every shot in his mind beforehand. “I’ve played Billie Jean a dozen times in my mind,” he says. “Nothing she can do will be unexpected.” A more tangible asset is his complete control over the racket. He can return any shot that he can reach. But, he admits, “If I’m sluggish, she can give me trouble.”
Last week Riggs went into full training in San Diego, swearing off liquor and girls for the duration. He is in a regimen of roadwork and practice sets with his Boy Friday, Tennis Pro Lornie Kuhle. He is also on a vitamin-based, high-protein diet planned for him by a Los Angeles nutritionist before the Court match. The program calls for Riggs to take approximately 450 pills a day: 100 black pellets of soybean-wheat germ concentrate, 75 liver-extract pills, 75 plastic phials of pure powdered protein, smaller quantities of vitamins E, C, Bl, B2, B complex, one vitamin A pill and several calcium pills.
While claiming that “there is no way she can beat me,” he also delights in ticking off King’s ostensible advantages: “A better serve, more quickness, better overhead, backhand and forehand volley, more stamina.” He enjoys appearing to be the underdog who cannot lose. Because the format was changed from two sets out of three to three of five—a seeming advantage for the younger player—he claims that the betting odds should drop from 8 to 5 on him to even money. (In Las Vegas, Jimmy the Greek gives Riggs the edge, 5 to 2.)
Beyond its dubious value as any kind of test of intersex athletic prowess, the entire spectacle is a fascinating display of one man’s ability to exploit the times. Whether Bobby Riggs is one of history’s greatest hustlers conning the world or just a fortunate zany defies a quick answer. He is probably a bit of both. For a guy who would not know Gloria Steinem if she tap-danced across his chest in spike heels, he has gone a long way with sexism. But a true hustler does not depend on luck, and Riggs was awfully lucky to fall into the right game at the right time. Five years ago these superheated matches could not have happened, and five years from now they would not mean anything. But Riggs, properly overaged and frivolous, came along at the confluence of two phenomena: the rise of Women’s Lib and the country’s need, more desperate than ever, to be entertained. Watergate, inflation, shortages—the catalogue of ills is dispiriting to contemplate. Some buffoonery and sex offer a welcome change. In Riggs the public (as well as television and the press, which get as tired of depressing news as anyone else) found just what it needed. Not a hero on the order of Rockne or DiMaggio, certainly, but different moments need different kinds of celebrities.
Further, Americans have always worshiped at the fountain of youth, and here is Riggs, one of the most publicized and highest paid athletes over 50 in history, telling them that F. Scott Fitzgerald was wrong and there are second sets in American lives. Says Perenchio, who also masterminded the Ali-Frazier fight: “Riggs is the Muhammad Ali of the Geritol set.” As Bobby boasts: “I’ve got Bobby’s battalions all over the country, the over-45 guys who want to see one of their own make it big. I know beating a woman isn’t like winning seven gold medals. But how many old guys are there in the world? You think they can relate to Mark Spitz? They relate to me, Bobby Riggs.”
Gussie Moran calls Bobby “an honest hustler.” Bobby agrees. “None of the gambling I do is really hustling,” he says. “A hustle implies that the result is known in advance, that you set it up. But I don’t do that; if it involves games of skill, I’ll take just about anything. When luck is involved I’m more cautious; I never bet on horses, and I don’t like to shoot craps. What I live for is the matching of wits, the game.”
Super Moocher. That self-defense, like so much else he says, is subject to rebuttal. He is full of tips on how to unnerve an opponent, how to arrange for the other person to have the sun in his eyes, how to tease a tired adversary into forgoing a legitimate rest between sets. Perhaps his own favorite hustle of all time took place when he was on a golf kick. He knew that he could beat a particular teaching pro, and so he covertly arranged for the pro to be hired by a Florida club. Then Bobby would show up regularly and challenge the pro, making heavy side bets with spectators who were looking for easy money. When he loses at a particular gimmick, he drops it from his repertory immediately. With Riggs, it is not so much how you play the game but whether you win—and how much. And, much as he loves to play the high-rolling sport, he is actually a compulsive freeloader who mooches lodgings, meals, drinks and anything else he can.
Riggs means to enjoy every moment of his second childhood, grabbing every dollar and goody within reach. He fantasies that it will go on and on. “After Billie Jean,” he says, “it’ll be hot-and-cold running women, it’ll be the Super Bowl or Rose Bowl of tennis, the Riggs spectacular once a year—the best woman player of the year, that’s the one who’ll have to play Bobby Riggs.” He has also raved about crashing the Virginia Slims tour (“How will they keep me out? Do they want to be called female chauvinist sows?”). He wants to run this opera bouffe all the way, until he is 75 or 80. And that, gentlemen and ladies, is what is known as hustle.
*The signing has produced legal problems. Jackie Barnett, executive producer of both the Riggs-Court and the Riggs-King matches, has brought suit against Tandem for allegedly not giving him “due attention.” A more substantive suit has been filed by CBS, which presented the Riggs-Court match and insists that it was not given sufficient time to pick up its option for the upcoming clash. A hearing is scheduled for this week, but no one expects court action to stop the show.
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