Arthur Ashe - Days of Grace

PASSIONATE AND COMPELLING.

Chicago Sun-Times

The late Arthur Ashe scarcely needed the prospect of his imminent death to concentrate his mind wonderfully. Its hard to accept that this is the last well hear from him.

Newsweek

A genuinely affecting testament A class act.

Kirkus Reviews

What DAYS OF GRACE eloquently demonstrates is that if death is part of living, then self-awareness is part of dying.

The New York Times

No matter how tear-resistant you may think you are, it will take superhuman effort to avoid swelling in the throat when reading the last chapter of this brave and beautiful book.

New York Newsday

Inspirational, eloquent.

Publishers Weekly

A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright 1993 by Jeanne Moutoussamy-Ashe and Arnold Rampersad

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the Howard Thurman Educational Trust for permission to reprint material from Meditations of the Heart by Howard Thurman, New York: Harper & Row, 1953. Paperback edition, Richmond, Indiana: Friends United Press, 1976. Copyright renewed 1981 by Sue Bailey Thurman.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-54919

eISBN: 978-0-307-78820-7

www.ballantinebooks.com

This edition published by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

v3.1

To the memory of my father and mother,
and to
Jeanne and Camera

since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us

H EBREWS 12:1

ARTHUR ROBERT ASHE, JR ., died of pneumonia on the afternoon of Saturday, February 6, 1993, at New York Hospital-Cornell Medical Center, in Manhattan. He was buried the following Wednesday at Woodland Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia.

This memoir began with a telephone call from Arthur to me in June 1992. His call came as a surprise, because we had not been in touch with one another since our first meeting, at a childrens book fair the previous November in Princeton. Arthur called to ask whether or not I would be interested in writing a book with him. In this book, he hoped to express his views on certain issues of importance to him, such as race, education, politics, and sports, as well as to give an account of his experience as a patient with heart disease and AIDS. I immediately agreed to do so. Such was the spirit of cooperation between us, and my sense of urgency, that we worked without a formal agreement from July until November, when we signed our contract with Knopf.

Although this book was nearly complete before Arthurs death, Jeanne Moutoussamy-Ashe has worked heroically since then to try to ensure not only its timely publication but also its accuracy and general soundness. I am grateful to her for her sacrifice in a time of profound bereavement.

My greatest additional debt, as was Arthurs, is to Jonathan Segal of Knopf. Although his interest was intense from the start, he took pains to ensure us freedom to write the book we wanted to write. He edited the text with sympathy and respect, and also suggested the title of the book.

I was truly fortunate to have as a copy editor Stephen Frankel, whose meticulous work on the manuscript improved it from start to finish.

For the transcription of many of my conversations with Arthur, I thank Judith Ferszt of the American Studies program at Princeton University. I also wish to thank Bruce Simon, also of Princeton University, who showed both zeal and imagination in researching a variety of issues arising from the manuscript. At Tennis magazine, Debra Fratoni assisted us enormously by providing many reports on Arthurs career as captain of the U.S. Davis Cup team.

I thank my wife, Marvina White, for her help and support in a time of intense activity.

Not least of all, I am indebted to Fifi Oscard and Kevin McShane of Fifi Oscard Agency, Inc.Arthurs literary representative of many yearsfor providing invaluable advice that helped to facilitate the writing of this book. Although, sadly, Arthur did not live to participate in these acknowledgments, I feel certain I speak here for him as well.

A RNOLD R AMPERSAD
Princeton, New Jersey
March 1993

IF ONES REPUTATION is a possession, then of all my possessions, my reputation means most to me. Nothing comes even close to it in importance. Now and then, I have wondered whether my reputation matters too much to me; but I can no more easily renounce my concern with what other people think of me than I can will myself to stop breathing. No matter what I do, or where or when I do it, I feel the eyes of others on me, judging me.

Needless to say, I know that a fine line exists between caring about ones reputation and hypocrisy. When I speak of the importance to me of my reputation, I am referring to a reputation that is deserved, not an image cultivated for the public in spite of the facts. I know that I havent always lived without error or sin, but I also know that I have tried hard to be honest and good at all times. When I fail, my conscience comes alive. I have never sinned or erred without knowing I was being watched.

Who is watching me? The living and the dead. My mother, Mattie Cordell Cunningham Ashe, watches me. She died when I was not quite seven. I remember little about her, except for two images. My last sight of her alive: I was finishing breakfast and she was standing in the side doorway looking lovingly at me. She was dressed in her blue corduroy dressing gown. The day was cool and cloudy, and when I went outside I heard birds singing in the small oak tree outside our house. And then I remember the last time I saw her, in a coffin at home. She was wearing her best dress, made of pink satin. In her right hand was a single red rose. Roses were her favorite flower, and my daddy had planted them all around the house; big, deep-hued red roses.

Every day since then I have thought about her. I would give anything to stand once again before her, to feel her arms about me, to touch and taste her skin. She is with me every day, watching me in everything I do. Whenever I speak to young persons about the morality of the decisions they make in life, I usually tell them, Dont do anything you couldnt tell your mother about.

My father is watching me, too. My father, whose mouth dropped open when he first saw Jeanne, my wife. She looked so much like my mother, he said. He is still a force in my life. Some years ago, before he died of a stroke in 1989, I was being interviewed by the television journalist Charlayne Hunter-Gault in her home.

Tell me, Arthur, she said, laughter in her voice, how is it that I have never heard anyone say anything bad about you? How is it that you have never cursed an umpire, or punched an opponent, or gotten a little drunk and disorderly? Why are you such a goody-goody?