The more tennis I play, the more I appreciate my sense of humour.
I seldom play a match when I do not get a smile out of some
remark from the gallery, while I know that the gallery always
enjoys at least one hearty laugh at my expense. I do not begrudge
it them, for I know how very peculiar tennis players in general,
and myself in particular, appear when struggling vainly to reach
a shot hopelessly out of reach.

Two delightful elderly ladies were witnessing Charles S. Garland
and myself struggle against Mavrogordato, and Riseley at the
Edgbaston tournament in England in 1920. One turned to the other
and said: "Those are the Americans!"

"Oh," said the second lady resignedly, "I thought so. The tall
one [meaning me] looks rather queer."

During the Davis Cup match against the French at Eastbourne, I
went on the court against Laurentz in my blue "woolly" sweater.
The day was cold, and I played the match 4-1 in Laurentz' favour,
still wearing it. I started to remove it at the beginning of the
sixth game, when the gallery burst into loud applause, out of
which floated a sweet feminine voice: "Good! Now maybe the poor
boy will be able to play!"

For the first time I realized just what the gallery thought of my
efforts to play tennis, and also of the handicap of the famous
"blue-bearskin" as they termed it.

My favourite expression during my Davis Cup trip happened to be
"Peach" for any particularly good shot by my opponent. The