and welcomed his trip; another South Af - rican player, Bob Hewitt, said he thought Ashe should mind his own business because the blacks of South Africa were “happy.” Ashe would play and beat Drysdale and Hewitt on his way to the tournament’s final; both times the American was the crowd fa - vorite. The black fans were so enthusiastic that Ashe had to remind them not to cheer for his opponents’ errors. He also demanded that the normally segregated seating at the tournament be integrated while he played, but that was beyond his star power. Whites watched from up close, blacks from afar. Yet four decades later, many people, in - cluding Drysdale, now view the trip as a starting point in the eventual demise of apartheid. Ashe had used sports to crack open a door; over the next 18 years, he would use his powers as an anti-apartheid activist— he was arrested during a protest in Washing - ton, D.C., in 1985—to help push that door wide open. Ten months after Ashe departed Johan - nesburg, Muhammad Ali began his own journey to Africa. The boxer’s excursion, not surprisingly, wasn’t quite as sober-minded as the tennis player’s. Ali went to Zaire to fight George Foreman, the fear-inspiring Texas slugger, in what became known as the Rum - ble in the Jungle. “From the Slave Ship to the Champion - ship” was how the bout was originally billed, until the Zaireans took (understandable) of- fense. But nobody could dampen Ali’s spirits. He had been back in the ring for three years, and was still looking to reclaim his belt; now he had a chance to take it back from Fore - man. Ali spent two months in Africa regaling the press with tales of how “I done wres - tled with an alligator, I done tussled with a whale; handcuffed lightning, thrown thunder in jail.” Ali also injected political drama into the proceedings. He cast Foreman as a symbol
dream: becoming the first black man to play in the South African Open. In 1969, riding high after his win at For- est Hills, Ashe had applied for a visa into the country. Instead, he had been banned by its president. Saying, as he had, that “I just want to take an H-bomb and drop it right on Johannesburg” probably hadn’t helped his cause. Ashe’s 1969 ban only made him more determined to isolate South Africa from the international community. The following year, he succeeded in having the nation sus - pended from the Davis Cup, and he began to travel in other parts of Africa. In 1971, on a visit to Cameroon, Ashe singled out a talent - ed 11-year-old named Yannick Noah for fur- ther attention. Seven years later, they would play doubles together at Wimbledon. Finally, in 1973, talks began between Ashe, the South African government, and the pro - moters of the South African Open about bringing him to Johannesburg. Many peo - ple, believing that the regime would only use Ashe to make itself look humane and rea - sonable, tried to persuade him not to make the trip. But Ashe thought that the sight of a free black man competing with whites, and beating them, would offer hope. Ashe spent the week of the South African Open in a state of wonder, and sometimes fear, at the subtly sinister quality of apart - heid. He visited the slums of Soweto, met with high-ranking officials, and debated his trip with activists. One day Ashe was fol - lowed by a young boy as he walked through the city; when he asked him what he was do - ing, the boy said that he had never seen a free black man before. And at the home where he stayed in Johannesburg, Ashe had the surreal experience of being addressed as “master” by the domestic help. “See, here is little Artie Ashe,” he joked in his journal, “the skinny black kid from the capital of the old Confederacy, all set up in a mansion carrying on jes’ like the white folks, and gettin’ hisself called Master.” Cliff Drysdale agreed with Ashe’s stance
Arthur Ashe after upsetting Jimmy Connors in the 1975 Wimbledon final. ap photo
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