Noah, Yannick

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    Forty Years After French Open Win, Yannick Noah Endures as a Star

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    Yannick Noah was nervous.He was on familiar and, for him, sacred ground at Roland Garros, in the stadium that has been so central to his life, where he has watched, played and won so many matches, including the biggest of his life, and served as the ultimate tennis talisman and guru for his countrymen.There was even that night after the finals, long after he had retired, and it was late, and after many drinks had been consumed, he convinced the staff to keep the lights on just bright enough and let him and his friends play some tipsy, barefoot tennis on the red clay.But he had never performed on Philippe Chatrier court like this, which is to say, never given a concert as the version of himself that has for the past three decades dominated his life: the African-pop-reggae star of sorts. But then the band was waiting on the stage, and the public address announcer was calling his name, and nerves be damned, Noah, barefoot on the court once more and pulling off pedal pushers as gallantly as any 63-year-old man possibly can, was walking across the red clay, with the microphone to his lips waving and singing his opening song.“I lived my best moment here,” he said later, during a news conference more packed than it would have been for any active player. “I have memories everywhere here, including my first kiss.”Sorry, he did not drop a name, though wouldn’t we all like to know.Books on Yannick Noah and his triumphant victory at the French Open in 1983 were on sale at Roland Garros. Yannick Noah and Caroline Garcia cut outs stood by the Philippe Chartrier court.Forty years ago Noah etched his name into the history of France, winning the French Open men’s singles title. That victory, which stands as the only title by a Frenchman at the French Open in the past 77 years, is one of those sports moments that is part of the broader French consciousness, a precursor of sorts to France winning the men’s soccer World Cup in 1998 with a team filled with stars with African heritage.Everywhere else, Noah is known as the swashbuckling and effortlessly athletic Cameroonian-French player who won that big tournament a while back. Tennis fans of a certain age smile at the mention of his name.In France, his legacy and life loom over every man who has played tennis since as something nearly impossible to live up to — French Open champion, and the winner of 23 ATP titles.Then there is his post-playing life: international music star; the winning captain at the Davis Cup, which he celebrated by leading his team in an epic version of the African conga dance that accompanies his hit song; a leader of his village in Cameroon. It’s cool stuff.Early last week, on the eve of his debut in a Grand Slam tournament, Arthur Fils, France’s 18-year-old next big thing, was told that Noah had been talking him up. He cocked his head and opened his eyes wide. Fils was born more than two decades after Noah’s magic moment, but he has spent his life watching that match point replay on French television.“Of course he is one of my idols, from a long, long time,” Fils said.Nicolas Escudé, the former top-20 player who is now the national technical director for France’s tennis federation, said he and so many French players have been struggling with the burden of Noah’s legacy for decades. No Frenchman even made the third round this year.“In my position and even before when I was a player listening to this constant, ‘Hey, you know, we need a successor for Yannick Noah,’ listening to this again and again is a pressure,” said Escudé, who is 47.Grand Slam tournaments are tennis’s version of the Star Wars bar — lousy with past champions collecting pats on the back and paychecks to do television commentary or rub shoulders with sponsors. Someone like Noah, on the 40th anniversary of one of this tournament’s biggest moments, would figure to be all over Roland Garros.Noah at a press conference at the site of his triumphant victory at the French Open.Noah held his trophy after beating Sweden’s Mats Wilander and winning the French Open in 1983.STF/Agence France-Presse — Getty ImagesNot so much.He stuck around for about 24 hours after the pretournament concert at Philippe Chatrier, where Mats Wilander, his opponent in the 1983 final, joined him for a rendition of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” The following day he attended the unveiling of a mural at Roland Garros celebrating his title. It was a private ceremony, closed to journalists and most of the public. And then he headed off to a music festival and his other life. On Sunday he performed in Caen, a small city a few hours’ drive west of Paris. . “For me, tennis is like some other time, like another life,” he said. “Once every 10 years, you know, they remind me I was a tennis player.”Like the rest of his life, the origin story involves that magical combination of destiny, talent and fortitude. Arthur Ashe spotted Noah at a tennis clinic during a tour of Africa in 1971, then quickly called his friend, Chatrier (the guy the stadium is named for), at France’s tennis federation. He told him there was a boy in Cameroon that had the makings of a champion.Soon Noah was living in France, and by the early 1980s his huge serve, speed and grace had made him a force on the professional tennis tour. His physique — 6-foot-4 and shoulders made for rebounding — is more common in this era than his own.Then came the dreadlocks that caused a stir in the staid world of an almost entirely white sport. Ahead of a Davis Cup final against Noah and France in 1982, John McEnroe, who was not exactly a creature of the establishment, remarked that he was “more afraid of his new hairstyle” than Noah’s game.The following spring, Noah romped to the French Open championship. He playing career officially ended after the 1996 season, with more titles than any Frenchman before or since.By then he was already deep into his music career. His song “Saga Africa” had become a hit in 1991, leading to a dual focus that soon began to tilt toward music.Noah during his concert at Philippe Chartrier. Noah began his career as a recording artist even before he finished his tennis career.Noah taking some time to sign autographs.“When I was losing tennis matches, I was telling people I was a singer,” he said.He moved back and forth between Europe and the United States, appearing in the stands of basketball games while watching his son, Joakim, became a college and N.B.A. star. Noah may not be around Roland Garros much this year, but Joakim was often in the player box of Frances Tiafoe, an American who is the son of African immigrants and is one of the tour’s few highly ranked Black players.Noah spends much of his time in Cameroon now. The photo that accompanies his mobile number shows him standing in front of a turquoise sea, sipping through a straw from a full martini glass, peering out from under the brim of a baseball cap.The dark dreadlocks are gone, replaced by tidy and appropriately thinning salt-and-pepper hair. There are lines across his forehead and bags under his eyes. But the gap-tooth smile, the soft voice, his “there-is-more-to-life-than-tennis” ethos, and that combination of swagger and approachability, it’s all still there. In the middle of the concert, he took a lap through the stadium, singing into the microphone in one hand, high-fiving and embracing the crowd with the other.The growing distance between the public and tennis players troubles him, he said, especially when social media is supposed to get them closer to fans. He has little use for the game’s code of conduct, which he said stifles players, preventing them from showing emotion on the court.Those emotional outbursts from McEnroe and Jimmy Connors, and even Noah on occasion, once helped draw the common sports fan to an elite game. Also, emotions are at the core of the sport, he said. Ask the players he coached to the Davis Cup title what he talked about with them, he said. He rarely mentioned tennis, just emotions.He worries about the future of French tennis. The are no coaches who have won at the highest level, so young players have no true expert guidance. Escudé dismissed Noah’s point of view, and said he’s not so available anyway, but Noah said he is around for occasional chats.“If the players call me, I’m here. But time is passing,” he said.For whatever time Noah has left, he will always cherish June 5. He looks at the video of the winning point and imagines people watching it when he dies. People stop him every day and tell him where they were when he won. Some have said they flunked their exams because they watched the match instead of studying, but they cherished being a part of the country’s cultural history.“For them it was a day that counted,” he said. “And I was there. I was at the core of that.”Noah walking barefoot on the court, a texture he described as being “like velvet.” More

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      At Roland Garros, the French Get Behind Their Own

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      Had you been at Roland Garros around supper time Wednesday evening and heard the crowd of nearly 10,000 fans chanting Lucas Pouille’s name at a near deafening level, you would have assumed you had just missed a triumphant performance.Not even close. Pouille, a 29-year-old Frenchman, on the court named for Suzanne Lenglen, the French tennis star of the 1920s, lost in straight sets to Cameron Norrie, a Briton to add insult to injury, in less than two hours.No matter.For 105 minutes, the French faithful had serenaded Pouille and met his every winner with rousing roars. A four-piece band with a horn and a bass drum tooted and banged away between points. If you are French at the French Open, it’s what you do.Each of the four Grand Slam tournaments has its unique charms and intangible quirks, rhythms and characteristics.Fans waited for the Frenchman Arthur Fils to sign autographs after his first-round match on Monday.Pete Kiehart for The New York TimesFrench flags fluttered in the stands during the Fils match.Pete Kiehart for The New York TimesThe Australian Open is a two-week summertime party held when much of the world is shivering. Wimbledon has its mystique, the sense that the grass, especially on Centre Court, is hallowed ground, and the hear-a-pin-drop silence of the most proper of crowds. The U.S. Open delivers noisy chaos, the rattle of New York’s subways and the teeming crowds that joyfully ignore the idea that big-time tennis is supposed to unfold amid quiet.Roland Garros’s signature is the near limitless abandon with which the French fans unite behind anyone who plays under the bleu-blanc-rouge as the French standard is known. There are spontaneous renditions of the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” as though they are at Humphrey Bogart’s cafe in “Casablanca.”This happened after Pouille, once ranked 10th in the world and currently 675th following struggles with injuries and depression, beat Jurij Rodionov of Austria in the first round in waning light Sunday.“It made me want to keep working to get back and experience it again,” said Pouille, who stayed and listened to the serenade.When a French player is on the court — any French player, on any court — there is a distinctly louder, higher-pitched and fuller sound that rises from the stands. It’s like the crescendo of a symphony, over and over, hour after hour.Supporters of Alice Robbe of France serenaded her during a qualifying match last week.Pete Kiehart for The New York TimesFils enjoyed the crowd’s backing after winning a game during his first-round match.Pete Kiehart for The New York TimesAmazingly, it keeps going on even though the French have been mostly terrible at this event for a long while — or maybe that’s why it happens. A Frenchman has not won the singles tournament since Yannick Noah in 1983, or made the final since Henri Leconte in 1988. A Frenchwoman has not won since Mary Pierce in 2000, which was also the last time the country was represented in the women’s singles final.Albert Camus, the French philosopher, famously wrote that we must consider Sisyphus, the Greek mythology figure, to be happy, even though he spends his life repeatedly pushing a rock uphill because “the struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.”Camus would have made a perfect modern French tennis fan.The zenith of this tournament for the French came Tuesday night as Gael Monfils, whose Gumby-like athleticism and ambivalent relationship with the sport have made him a tennis folk hero, came back from the brink to beat Sebastian Baez of Argentina in five sets.Monfils, 36, who has been battling injuries and played little the past year, cramped so badly in the fifth set he could barely walk. He fell behind by 4-0, but the crowd never relented and willed him back to life. The roars at the main court, Philippe Chatrier, could be heard more than a mile away. It was obvious what was unfolding simply by opening a bedroom window.Monfils told the crowd the victory was as much theirs as his after he prevailed 3-6, 6-3, 7-5, 1-6, 7-5.The ecstasy ride ended 24 hours later when Monfils called a late-night news conference to announce his withdrawal from the tournament because of a wrist injury.Caroline Garcia, seeded fifth, seemed to be the French’s best hope of having their first women’s singles finalist since 2000.James Hill for The New York TimesGarcia lost her second-round match to Anna Blinkova of Russia in three sets, despite the encouragement of the crowd.James Hill for The New York TimesIt came at the end of an awful day for the French players, who dropped all their singles matches. That included Caroline Garcia, the fifth seed and the only seeded Frenchwoman.Garcia had spoken earlier in the week of trying to capture the enthusiasm of the crowd and use it to her advantage. In the past, she has experienced it as pressure that has caused her to disappoint in front of the hometown fans. She has never made it past the quarterfinals.“I try and take all of this energy,” she had said of the support. “It’s a great opportunity.”No such luck. Garcia was cruising, up a set and a break in her second-round match Wednesday against Anna Blinkova of Russia. But she tightened up and frittered away the lead. The crowd helped her draw even at 5-5 in the third set, rattling Blinkova into double faults as Garcia saved eight match points before she lost, 4-6, 6-3, 7-5.“She managed the crowd very well and kept very calm,” Garcia said of Blinkova.There was more pain Thursday as French players lost their last three singles matches, but those uniquely throaty urgings were an accompaniment all the same. When the last Frenchman, Arthur Rinderknech, lost Thursday night to the ninth-seeded Taylor Fritz, the crowd booed Fritz so loudly he could not hear the questions during his on-court interview. And a year from now, the French fans will push the rock up the hill again, and again, and again.James Hill for The New York Times More

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      A Trip to the U.S. Open Forever Changed Me

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      A father-son tournament gave our columnist almost unfettered access to players at the 1983 U.S. Open, changing the course of his life.There slouched John McEnroe, the top-ranked tennis player in the world, dolefully reading a newspaper in a corner of the locker room.There stood Ivan Lendl, the second-best player in the world, only a few feet from me in the cramped quarters. In a few hours, he would be on center court, but now he talked to another player about golf.I took it all in, a fly on the wall amid tennis royalty. Mats Wilander ambled by. I could hear Jimmy Connors telling his ribald jokes.Was this really happening? Was 16-year-old me in the locker room at the United States Open of 1983? Even today, I pinch myself when I think of it.That year, my dad and I made up a doubles team representing the Pacific Northwest in the father and son division of the Equitable Family Tennis Challenge. We had flown to New York, all expenses paid, to compete against amateur tandems from across the county in the popular tournament. Its championship rounds were held at Flushing Meadows, smack in the middle of America’s tennis grand slam.Kurt Streeter and his father, Mel Streeter, after the Equitable event in 1983.Courtesy Kurt StreeterEver since, the U.S. Open has been special to me in a way I feel down to the marrow. Without it, I would be a different person. And I would not have a cherished memory with my late father.What a different time that was. In 1983, total prize money for the male and female pros stood at $1 million. Fans and players mingled on the grounds. Entering through the gates, nobody checked your bags.As part of the Equitable event, teams of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives and siblings played matches on the same courts where the pros played. We had passes that let us into the locker room, right there with the best players in the world.During the Open’s second week, after playing a match in our little tournament where the big prize was a silver plaque, I showered next to a small clutch of pros in the shower room. There I was — soaping up in the buff — when one of the pros walked in to take his shower. It was France’s Yannick Noah, my favorite player, who had slashed his way to victory at the French Open that summer, becoming the first Black player to win a Grand Slam tournament championship since Arthur Ashe won Wimbledon in 1975.Noah kindly asked about me in his accented English. I explained that I was a nationally ranked junior, one of the few Black players at that level in the United States, and told him about the Equitable tournament. I asked if he was ready for his next big match that night in the quarterfinals. He said he could not wait.“I hope you and your father are there,” he added before wishing us luck.When our columnist met Yannick Noah at the 1983 U.S. Open, Noah had just won that year’s French Open, becoming the first Black player to win a Grand Slam championship since Arthur Ashe won Wimbledon in 1975. Focus on Sport/Getty ImagesAs great and lucky as they were, those rare moments in the locker room were not what sticks with me most about that Open. What sticks out are encounters with two other tennis luminaries. Encounters that changed my life.One afternoon on the Flushing grounds, I spotted Nick Bollettieri, the former Army paratrooper turned supercoach whose Florida tennis academy produced many of the world’s best young players.I sidled up to Bollettieri. I asked about his academy, and told him I dreamed of attending one day but that my family, struggling after my parents divorced and dad’s small business faltered, could not afford the extremely steep price. Luckily, one of Bollettieri’s assistant coaches was nearby. The assistant said he had seen me put up a good fight against one of the top seeds at the boys’ 16-and-under nationals in Kalamazoo, Mich. I needed polish, the assistant said, but I had game.Bollettieri thought for a moment, then he motioned for me to come closer. “Find Arthur,” he instructed, “and ask if he will help.” Bollettieri meant Arthur Ashe, whose Wimbledon win had sparked my tennis ambition. The two had teamed up to help other minority players attend the academy.If Arthur would fund part of it, Bollettieri said he would also help.I ended up asking my father to find Ashe and broach Bollettieri’s idea. It seemed too daunting a task for me to pull off. But dad always pushed me, always looked for ways to help me stand on my own two feet. He had taught himself tennis after his college basketball career ended, and pretty much insisted I learn tennis too. Now he told me it was my job, and mine alone, to make the pitch.So began my search for Arthur Ashe. I was not usually this gutsy, but I waited for him to finish a news conference near center court at the old Louis Armstrong Stadium. When he finished, I tepidly approached.I can still feel Ashe’s welcoming handshake, still sense his patience as he listened carefully to what I had to say. I remember him promising to see what he could do to help.Arthur Ashe after winning the U.S. Open in 1968. He was the first Black male player to win a Grand Slam tournament.Authenticated News/Getty ImagesThe next day, as my father and I played one of our matches on the Flushing grounds, Ashe stopped by to watch a few points.At first, I was so nervous that I clunked a few easy returns. But when it was time to unleash my one true weapon, a left-handed serve I could blast like a fastball or bend in a spinning arc, I cranked it up.Ace. Ace. Winner.My dad and I did not win the tournament, but we won that match. And Ashe knew I was for real.A few months later, at home in Seattle, I received a phone call. “Hello, Kurt,” said the voice on the other end, “this is Arthur Ashe.”He had struck a deal with Bollettieri to help pay for my stay at the Florida academy. I went there for the last semester of my senior year in high school. The place swarmed with tennis talent. My first bunkmate? Andre Agassi.Fate holds a mysterious sway in our lives. If I had not been at the U.S. Open that year, I would not have ended up at Bollettieri’s academy.If I had not attended the academy, I would not have had the confidence to attend the University of California, Berkeley, a perennial collegiate tennis power and the university that shaped my adult life. At Cal, I played my way from lowly recruit to a full scholarship and became the first African American to captain the men’s tennis team.Fate has its way with us all.My brother Jon and I ended up treating dad to a trip to New York for the 2004 U.S. Open, our first time back since the Equitable tournament.It was there that I noticed he was sick. He struggled for breath and had lost not just a step but also a measure of his mental sharpness. On one sweltering afternoon, he wandered off and got lost.Not too long after that, my father lay in a hospice. He was dying of amyloidosis, a blood disorder that attacked his brain, lungs and heart.As he struggled for life, we often held hands. I searched for any trace of his familiar, comforting strength. When he summoned the energy to talk, sports was the cord that once again bound us together.We spoke of memories. We recalled our shared love for the Seattle Sonics and Roger Federer, and all the beautiful years we spent together playing tennis from the time I was a toddler.“We’ll always have the Open,” he told me, gripping my hand firmly.Yes, I assured, we always will. More