Roll Out The Barrel

Just how it happened that Jimmy Connors and John Newcombe managed to finish the 1974 professional tennis season as the two best players in the world and win 24 championships between them without once meeting each other in a complete match, no one seems to really know. And at the moment, no one really cares. Their paths finally crossed on New Year's Day before the biggest Australian tennis audience in 20 years.

The occasion was the final round of the $91,000 Marlboro Australian Open, and the first leg of the Grand Slam. Their get-together was to many people the ex post facto 1974 tennis championship of the world, and to a few others simply the best match of the decade: Connors, the awesome young champion and winner of 99 of 103 matches in 1974, against Newcombe, the crafty, charismatic, over-30 champion one year removed. In four sets of superlative tennis Newcombe regained the unofficial title and gave Connors a solid lesson in playing pressure-packed tennis, as well as showing him something about strategy and some good old mix-'em-up and spit-'em-out scrambling and serving. Newcombe saved his best stuff for the end, and kept an ace up the serving sleeve of his untucked tennis shirt. Seventeen aces, to be exact.

Connors, the 1974 Australian, Wimbledon and Forest Hills champion, had stormed into Melbourne's grass-court Kooyong Stadium a week early, lodestar of a tiny troupe that included his mom and his cat. They were joined there by Spencer Segura—the son of Pancho, Connors' coach—who was on his way back to Los Angeles after nine weeks on the Asian circuit. Notably absent was Connors' former fianc�e and last year's women's singles finalist, Chris Evert.

Most of the other touring stars had skipped the tournament in favor of a Christmas vacation, but on hand was a flock of 37 strong and healthy freckle-faced young men of good Australian stock, a few of whom made a point of announcing that they were itching for Connors. Even before his first practice round, Connors made it known he wasn't intimidated. "I don't care how many there are," he said. "Bring them on one after another. I'll beat them all."

Newcombe of course had the biggest itch, although he had been less vocal. "A match with Connors is something I've wanted for a long time," was all he said. To which Connors replied, " Newcombe should do more talking with his racket and less with his mouth. He says I've been ducking him, but I don't need to duck anybody. Every time I reach a final he's missing."

The talk during the week had been when Connors got to the final, and if Newcombe would get there, and for good reason. While Connors' game had remained steadfastly smothering to his opponents, Newcombe's play had been inconsistent and at times uninspired. Connors had never looked more redoubtable than in his preliminary matches. His two-fisted line drives from the backhand side were so powerful he shattered four newly strung rackets in one match alone. His forehand volleys sounded like solid fairway three-wood shots. He says he has a "firm" stroke, but to say Connors has a firm forehand would be like saying Muhammad Ali has a firm left jab.

Connors blew into the final like the cyclone that devastated the northern Australian city of Darwin the day before his opening match. The Aussies came at him one after another and he beat them all, just as he said he would, with a German and a fellow American thrown in for variety. The only set he lost in his five preliminary matches was to the American, Grover (Raz) Reid. Connors' last obstacle in gaining the final was Dick Crealy, an Australian whom he beat handily 6-4, 6-3, 6-4.

Meanwhile, Newcombe was fighting for his life. His play had been disappointing in two previous tournaments Down Under in December, and he had retreated to his spread in Sydney over Christmas to recover. He went on a diet devoid of "tasty brown stuff"—no mean sacrifice for Newcombe—and shed 10 pounds. But it appeared that he may have lost more than a few inches off his slight beer belly. After an easy match against the silver-haired Australian Trevor Fancutt, Newcombe sweated through three five-set matches in his next four rounds.

His first scare came from a cool and fearless 19-year-old named Rolf Gehring, a baby-faced but rock-hard German. Newcombe had never even heard of Gehring until the day before they played, and he arrived for the second day of their rain-delayed match 45 minutes late. After splitting four sets by scores of 6-7, 6-4, 3-6 and 6-2, Newcombe won the final 6-4 when Gehring's inexperience caused him to double-fault his service game away.

"I had to get up at nine in the morning for that match," Newcombe grumbled. "I haven't played that early in 10 years, and I was still punchy."