Nonsense at the net

The rise and fall of Jim Westhall and the Volvo Tennis Tournament

There are, perhaps, a couple of hundred locals who consider themselves insiders to the Volvo International Tennis Tournament, the biggest event ever held in North Conway, with the exception of the arrival of Hannes Schneider at Cranmore in 1939.

As volunteers, they manned the concession and ticket booths, called the lines, ushered the fans, ferried the players to and from the courts, and did every conceivable task to guarantee that the tournament ran smoothly for its ten-year run from 1975 to 1984. It was also a chance to rub elbows with the rich and famous— a fun deviation from relative obscurity of small-town life.

I am not one of them.

As a cub photographer in the early 1980s, my experience at Volvo was basically limited to sitting on the court in the hot sun snapping photos, attending a few press conferences, rubbing elbows with other journalists and eating free food in the press building, and ogling the pretty girlfriends of the players who hung out in a cordoned off area near the South Slope of Cranmore, where the tubing park is now located.

Unlike the insiders, I did not know tournament director Jim Westhall, and my general impression of him was that of a top-shelf promoter, organizer and schmoozer, and a guy with a pretentiously full head of hair. So when I accepted an invitation to a weekend-long book signing and promotion recently at the Mount Washington Hotel to unveil his book, Nonsense at the Net, I was expecting surface-deep glitz, and a big-print, 200-page press release-like memoir of the good ol' times at Volvo.

Instead, I found that the event reminded me just how the special the tournament was, a bit like going back home, when long-repressed memories are rekindled. And surprisingly, I discovered Westhall's book to be a candid, in-depth, balanced portal not just into the Volvo but to the sport of tennis.

The Volvo, played on the same red clay courts at Cranmore that hackers like myself still play on today, had its detractors for sure. The event made bad traffic jams worse, and it tapped into an underlying strain of class envy and warfare.

After all, Volvo fans were generally affluent, and as the leading wave of what were later known as Yuppies, they looked the part, dressing in Lacoste shirts and, driving, well, lots of Volvos. I remember the average family income of the typical fan was something like $37,000, and thinking, "these guys are rich." And to most locals, they were.

The Volvo kicked off a boom in real estate and commercial development that continues today that many people resent. For better or worse, nothing has rivaled the Volvo in recent history for putting North Conway on the map.

The press conference had the feel of a reunion, and many people with a little encouragement (including yours truly) recounted fond stories. And there were touchstones to the past like the Pepi Herrmann cut crystal whisky glass (double-sized) attendees received as gifts. (It was always a big deal at the tournament that the winner received a Pepi Herrmann-created trophy.)

Faces were familiar. To the right of me at dinner sat legendary Russ Adams, considered the best tennis photographer in the world. (He has spent so much time looking through the viewfinder that his left eye is semi-permanently half shut. If you don't believe that affliction exists check out Sun photographer Bruce Bedford.)

To the left was the Ear's Tom Eastman, a genuine Volvo insider and a long-time friend of Westhall (although not yet a legend). Among others at the table was Mount Washington Hotel's PR master Bonnie MacPherson, who deserves a plug for not only putting on a great event but being a great hostess. And of course, Westhall, as host, was genuinely gracious and heartfelt in his words of gratitude as he made the rounds from table to table.

The book is loaded with great photos and stories about North Conway. There are those goofy volunteer shots with the likes of Jackson Selectman Dee McClave and marketer Lydia Lansing,

There's the story about the zillions of sandwiches made by former North Conway Community Center director Kim Perkins, his wife, Ellie, and friends, that over the years netted the community center $120,000; and interesting tidbits, like how when the weather was bad and the jet carrying tennis great Ivan Lendl was low on fuel, Wylie Apte, like in a old B movie, talked the pilot through a landing at White Mountain Airport (now site of Settlers' Green.)

But much more interesting is Westhall's pull-no-punches reporting of what went on behind the scenes. He minces few words describing his difficulty dealing with Cranmore stadium developer Howard Hatch, and details his many Houdini-like escapes to avert disaster. In one instance, Westhall borrowed (begged) $75,000 from the Volvo car company to build the wood grandstands that were completed just 15 minutes before the start of play of the first tournament in 1975.

Only about a third of the 313-page book is about North Conway, as it traces the tournament's humble beginnings in Bretton Woods through its demise in New Haven, Conn. Though it is clear, despite a few years of block-buster success at Stratton Mountain in Vermont, that the heart and soul of the Volvo tournament was, and always will be, in North Conway.

In North Conway, Westhall created magic: a special tournament with a small town feel and big time players. That was lost as Westhall was both forced to adapt to a rapidly changing sport and chased the Holy Grail.

The Volvo was more than just a cute little tournament in the mountains, it was the vanguard of tennis tournaments and its rise and fall closely shadowed the sport of tennis as it became dominated by big money and a few powerful people.

Up until the late 60s, "professional" tennis players, the best in world like Rod Laver, were not allowed to play in amateur events, including the four majors — the U.S., French and Australian Opens and Wimbledon. Once they were allowed to play, tennis exploded and players like Jimmy Connors became household names.

With Volvo in North Conway, Westhall both helped create and then rode that wave. Connors, or course, played here, and the 8,200-seat Cranmore stadium when it was built in 1975 was the second biggest in North America, after Forrest Hills, the site of the U.S. Open.

Westhall confesses to have written no more than some press releases in his life and readers will be grateful that the book is edited by Peter Bodo, considered one of the best tennis writer anywhere.

But it is all Westhall. And it is obvious that it is written with the candor of a person who has figured out who his real friends are. Westhall, as one of tennis' all-time heavy hitting promoters has no doubt kissed more backsides than one cares to imagine, so turn around is fair play and his book leaves some blood on the floor. It is not vindictive — that's not his nature — but Westhall clearly had a lot to get off his chest. As he says, he had "to get it out of his system."

The book's only weakness is the title. And it is a bit too contrived, and not necessary, when scattered throughout the book, Westhall feels compelled to tell the reader that something was more "nonsense at the net." The stories are strong enough to stand on their own.

But that's not really a complaint as it is an insight on how Westhall came to name the book and how it reflects the roller coaster ride tennis became to him and helps explain his mixed feelings about the sport.

Westhall says that that the working title was "Twenty-Six Summers Lost," a recognition of the summers he spent away from home. That sounds too dour, yet Nonsense at the Net, although clever and perky (and conceived by his wife Vera), is equally one dimensional.

At times, readers will get the sense that Westhall still hasn't completely come to terms with his experiences. An example is the title of one of the last chapters: The Tennis Court that Ate Jim Westhall. A reader might expect some cute little anecdote, but instead it is account of an unbelievably humiliating and damaging experience in New Haven.

In 1992, in what could have been the tournament's crowning year, the centre court in the 15,000 seat stadium bubbled up after heavy rain. Play was delayed for a couple of days as the asphalt court was replaced and the tournament nearly cancelled. (Rain has dogged Westhall throughout his career, and readers may remember when a finals match in North Conway between Jose Higueras and Ivan Lendl was delayed 57 days. It took Lendl seven minutes to finish off Higueras when they finally returned.)

In a way, the book is a Greek tragedy with Westhall as the protagonist and hero suffering undeserved misfortune and betrayal. Yet, like Westhall, the book is optimistic, and what comes through is what he truly values most since he was forced out of the business — his friends.

Last summer, the old wood-plank grandstands at Cranmore — long an eyesore and a hazard — were taken down. Westhall, who now lives in Hales Location, went over to see them one last time. He said it started to rain and that it was "maybe my tears."

I believe him.