The Ulrichs are night people to such an extent that they are better tennis players after the sun goes down. Torben, the elder, can be counted upon to show for breakfast—corn flakes, toast and coffee—regularly at 3:15 p.m., even when he has a 4 o'clock match. This sort of activity is countenanced by the other players, who lead more regulated lives.
The best representative of the norm is Lis Arilla, the little Spaniard. A middle-echelon tournament player, charming and fun-loving but moderate and even properly homesick at times, Arilla is 23 and the second-ranked Spanish player after Manolo Santana. "I am the youngest oldest player on the tour now," he says in the bright English he learned from watching TV.
Arilla is good enough to command full expenses, $28 a day, but even if he were not so good he is personable enough to hang on. His Caribbean tour, in fact, started in February, when he showed up for the Philadelphia Invitational. From there it went to Salisbury, Md. for the U.S. indoor, where he and Santana were defending doubles champions, and then to the Caribbean.
It is an upsy-down life. During the tour Arilla beat Stolle and Frank Froehling, and in Mexico City he got to the semifinals, but more often than not he was out by the second round. Usually it was Ramanathan Krishnan who beat him. Arilla is used to such a high-ranking nemesis. Last year he never was able to escape Roy Emerson.
It was fun sometimes—flying with the pilots in a chartered DC-4 or touring the nightclubs in Caracas—but he also got sick once, and another time he missed the whole Miami Beach tournament because of a knee injury. Faithfully, twice a week during the tour, Arilla wrote home to Barcelona, and by the time he got to the Caribe Hilton he was eager to be home.
Still, the kind of week Lis Arilla spent at the Caribe Hilton is the kind of week people dream about all winter—and pay $100 a day to enjoy. He arrived Monday, and almost before he had unpacked he was beaten in the first round by Roger Werksman, an unranked U.S. player. Philosophically, Arilla shrugged and headed off to a cocktail party that was being given for the players. He had a few local girls to get reacquainted with—one particularly that he remembered, a beautiful, delicate little girl named Marianne Moll, who had been tennis queen the year before.
Tuesday was a soft day for Arilla. He slept and swam and "then, I tell you, I watched the tennis matches for a change." He was in bed by 10 o'clock. Other nights he was a bit more active. Wednesday he had dinner with Marianne and several players and then went up to the casino, where he lost $10 at blackjack. This was not surprising, since Arilla played almost the whole time thinking aces counted 10.
Thursday evening he took Marianne out to dinner at another hotel's supper club, double-dating with the Mexican players Zarazua and Elena Subirats. The Ulrichs, Arilla noted, were the only other players there.
The next evening, Friday, his nocturnal activities were spoiled by the Ulrichs, whom he and Santana had to play. It was much the most entertaining match of the tournament—remember, the Ulrichs play better at night—with the Spaniards winning in three sets. Afterward Arilla dropped in at the party to see Lew Gerrard get his money.
Saturday night, his last, was the Tennis Ball. Arilla was paired with his old summer love, Michelle, but they were both tired and talked little. Still, Arilla said it was an excellent ball. "This one and Monte Carlo, they are the two best," he said, coolly analyzing them all, all the tennis balls the world over.