Close to two hours, an hour and fifty-three minutes to be exact, was required for a decision in this titanic struggle between the player who formerly stood as the invincible monarch of the courts and the youth who has succeeded to his position. Many a five-set match has been finished in far less time that that, but no five-set struggle that Tilden has lost or saved with one of his dramatic climbs to unassailable heights under stress has surpassed yesterday’s harrowing battle between age and youth in the desperateness of the conflict and its appeal to the emotions, or in the magnificent quality of the play.
Stadium Is Packed
A gallery of 14,000 spectators, a gallery that packed the Forest Hills stadium to the last seat and that stood at the top of the last tier and in every other available space, looked down upon this terrific struggle, and at the end it knew that it had been privileged to see one of the most ennobling fights a former champion ever made to regain his crown.
Tilden, in the years of his most ruthless sway, was never a more majestic figure, never played more upon the heart-strings of a gallery than he did yesterday as he gave the last ounce of his superb physique to break through a defense that was as enduring as a rock, and failed; failed in spite of the fact that he was three times at set point in the first chapter, in spite of the fact that he held the commanding lead of 5-2 in the third set and was twice within a stroke of taking this chapter.
He failed because youth stood in the balance against him—youth in the person of an untiring sphinx that was as deadly as fate in the uncanny perfection of his control, who assimilated the giant Tilden’s most murderous swipes and cannon-ball serves as though they were mere pat balls and who made such incredible saves as to have broken the spirit of nine men out of ten.
But the spirit of Tilden was one thing that never broke. Long before the end of the match, yes, by the end of that agonizing first set which had the gallery cheering Tilden madly and beseeching him to put over the one vital stroke that was lacking, those marvelous legs of the Philadelphian were slowing up.
By the second set the fires of his wrathful forehanders were slumbering, and the third set found him a drooping figure, his head slunk forward, so utterly exhausted that not even the pitchers of ice water that he doused over himself could stimulate his frayed nerves, which must have ached painfully.
Gallery Is for Tilden
It was a spectacle to have won the heart of the most partisan French protagonist, the sight of this giant of the courts, once the mightiest of the mighty, flogging on his tired body in the unequal battle between youth and age. If there were any French partisans present, they did not make themselves know. One and all those 14,000 spectators were heart and soul for Tilden as he made his heroic fight to prevent the last of the world’s biggest crowns go the way of all crowns.
How they cheered Tilden! And when he went on to win the fifteenth game at 4-1, with his cannonball service, to lead at 8-7, the crowd was fairly wild with delight. Visions arose again of victory for him, at least in this set, but they speedily vanished when Lacoste won the next two games, breaking through in the seventeenth as Tilden lost all control.
Once more the American aroused the gallery to a wild pitch when he broke through for a love game with two placements, but that was the end. Dead on his feet, Tilden fought Lacoste tooth and nail in the nineteenth, which finally went to the younger player at 8-6, as he scored on three placements in a row, and then, utterly at the end of his rope, he yielded quickly in the twentieth through his errors, to bring the match to an end.
It was a match, the like of which will not be seen again soon. As an exposition of the utmost daring and brilliancy of shot-making and equally of the perfect stage to which the defense can be developed, it has had few equals in the history of tennis.
On the one side of the net stood the perfect tactician and most ruthless attacker the game probably has ever seen, master of every shot and skilled in the necromancy of spin. On the other side was the player who has reduced the defense to a mathematical science: who has done more than that, who has developed his defense to the state when it becomes an offense, subconscious in its working but none the less effective in the pressure it brings to bear as the ball is sent back deeper and deeper and into more and more remote territory.
…. The defensive player won, but in no small measure it was because youth was on his side. As perfect as was Lacoste’s defense, Tilden still might well have prevailed through the sheer magnificence of his stroking had not fatigue set in an robbed him of the strength to control his shots.
.... The day has passed when Tilden can maintain a burning pace for two full sets. He knows that as well as the next man, and so he plans his campaign to go “all out” in the first, coast in the second and come back strong in the third, relying upon the rest period to regenerate the dynamo for the fourth.
Had he won the first and relaxed in the second, it is hardly conceivable that he could have failed to make good his 5-2 lead in the third, which would have given him a 2-1 lead to work on after the intermission, with the psychological advantage on his side.
.... There are moments when Lacoste has had bad spells, when he is human, if to err is human, but those moments are rarer than an American victory over France. When he is in the hole and sets himself to the task, such moments are practically non-existent. You can drive away at him all the day long, mix chops, slices, drives and volleys in a mad mélange, run him to the corners until he is dizzy and always you get nothing for your pains but the chance to hit the ball again. It always comes back like no champion ever does.
The gallery, as partisan as it was, as whole-heartedly as it favored Tilden, could not help but be carried away by the incredible feats of Lacoste. Unmindful of the cheers for his opponent, playing a lone hand, the youthful invader concentrated upon his work and kept the ball in play—kept it in play when Tilden was sending his terrific service straight at him, kept it in play when he had to scramble to the far corners of the court for a blistering drive to his back-hand, and kept it in play when the American was loading his shots with such heavy spin that a spoon would have been needed by another other player to dig it out of the turf.
A defense so impregnable as that, a defense which confounded all of Tilden’s ingenuity as he brought all of his artifices to bear, along with his devastating speed and power, should have undermined the morale of any opponent. That Tilden stuck to his guns and fought on as he has seldom fought before, in spite of the fact that he was on his last legs, while his adversary was flitting nimbly about the court on his toes, is to the American’s glory.
In victory Tilden was never more magnificent a figure than he was yesterday in defeat, and Lacoste, in his years of triumph, was never greater than he was in the victory at Forest Hills.
This whole passage is about Tilden's spirit. The starting point -- really the whole foundation -- of Danzig's view of the match is that Tilden was no longer at the peak of his physical powers.