The Beard Has Begun

"You get bonus points if you hit that one," Borg says as Bergelin just misses separating a fat lady from her bike.

Because Cumberland is again soaked, Bergelin has arranged practice at the Lensbury Club, an enormous athletic facility in southwest London. There are parrots in the lounge, an aquarium in the sitting room, fountains on the back lawn.

In the cold, misty morning, hardly anyone notices as Borg and Gerulaitis warm up on one of the four grass courts far across the cricket pitch from the massive clubhouse. The workout seldom varies. A half hour of rallying, tentative, to get the feel of the turf. A couple of hours of serious, tough games and sets. Pause for lunch and more black-currant lemonade. Ugh! Then another short warmup and another two hours of points.

Borg's behavior during his private practice regimen is virtually the same as it is at tournaments in front of millions. Billy Martin—the tennis player, not the Oakland guy—has said that on the island, Kattilo, Borg smashes rackets, screams and then breaks up laughing during practice. At Lensbury his single-minded concentration is interrupted only by an occasional giggle. And, oh, how he works. Running for every ball. Crashing into the fence. Acknowledging fine shots from either side of the net with the solitary word "beauty." Borg pronounces it in three syllables, accent middle: be-YOU-tee.

Gerulaitis scores a let-cord winner. Borg turns his back, drops his warmup pants and sticks out his rear end. "Now you know what it feels like when you do that four times a game," Gerulaitis yells.

The eye contact between the two is warm and mirthful, the sportsmanship sincere. Each is trying to beat the other's brains out. Gerulaitis struggles mightily. He wins 12 of the first 16 points in the morning session and serves for the set at 5-3, but Borg fights him off and breaks. In a marathon, no-tiebreaker encounter Gerulaitis earns a set point in the 14th game, two more in the 16th, another in the 18th. Just as if it were the real thing, Borg refuses to give in.

From back at the fence Borg races for Gerulaitis' tricky tap overhead and converts it into a winner. "Bitch," says Borg, smiling at his friend. Laboriously he repeats and repeats his approach-and-volley technique. Out of position, Borg wheels and volleys into the open court with his left hand. "I've seen it all today," Gerulaitis says, chuckling helplessly. "You're moving so amazing."

"Yeah, I'm happy," Borg says.

Finally, Borg breaks to lead 10-9, even though he is behind in points, 54-57. The competition has pushed, pulled and driven him to the heights. And it's only his second day on the grass. He will not be beaten. The champion winds up and fires. One...two...three aces. "Not bad, not bad," Bergelin chirps. "Now how about the fourth?" Borg unloads again, but this time Gerulaitis gets his racket on the ball. The weak return finds Borg on the attack. He closes. The point and set are his. Gerulaitis slams a ball to the backstop. He has lost once more. Borg's thin smile breaks the tension.

Afterward, the players kibitz over their plans that evening. Gerulaitis will party with Majors. Borg will return to the hotel, to room service and to gin rummy with Mariana, his beloved Scumpo.