Word: hoadly
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Australia's Lew Hoad, 22, and Harlem's Althea Gibson, 29, are the power hitters of amateur tennis. Despite his occasional lapses, mostly charged to a youngster's sulks, Lew Hoad is the finest amateur in the world. But because of her lapses, generally charged to a lack of confidence in herself, Althea Gibson, the first Negro to crash big-time tennis, has only hovered on the edge of greatness. Last week, day after day, crowds of 20,000 packed the stadium at Wimbledon, England to see if Hoad could still lick the world, and to wonder...
Sponge Tosser. While Althea was slamming her way through 6 opponents to the title, Hoad at first performed more like a talented but moody schoolboy than the defending champion. In early matches, played on the far reaches of Wimbledon before standing galleries of only a few hundred, he snarled at himself when a shot went astray, grimaced when his booming serve missed by millimeters. Asked one newspaper: "Can Hoad beat the sulks?" Against Sweden's Sven Davidson in the semifinals, Hoad fretted some, but still won in a breeze...
...practiced hard, played his way back up to the salary scale, last year made $40,000 for demoralizing ex-Wimbledon and ex-U.S. Champion Tony Trabert, 74 matches to 27. He pushed his game to such a high peak that when Kramer tried to talk Australian Lew Hoad into turning pro this year, Hoad snapped back: "I don't think I'm ready. Pancho probably would chew...
...Australia's Ken Rosewall and Lew Hoad hardly worked up a sweat making a clean sweep (5-0) of the challenge round for the Davis Cup. They breezed by the worst U.S. team in years, got no real opposition from Pennsylvania's Vic Seixas or California's Herb Flam, had only momentary trouble with an up-and-coming Texan named Sam Giammalva. With the big silver punch bowl lost to the Aussies for the second successive year, wishful-thinking U.S. fans salvaged some consolation from Giammalva's performance and the fact that Ken Rosewall decided right...
...against Hoad in the finals, everything worked. When necessary, Ken found he could command the net himself. His long, flat drives flicked baseline chalk so often that overworked linesmen seemed to make more errors than he did. He pulled Hoad up with sneaky drop shots. He sent him scurrying toward the baseline after deft lobs that his beefy blond adversary seemed to have forgotten how to handle. He ran Lew Hoad off the slippery green court...