That first set was one of the strangest I’ve ever played. I should have won it and deserved to lose it. I got what I deserved and Tony took it 9-7, just took it right away from me after I’d been serving for the set at 5-3. He did it with beautiful backhands. I was sloshing and slipping around, and a couple of times I had asked referee Mike Gibson for permission to put on my spiked shoes. I’d wanted to begin the match in them, but he’d refused. After that game, Mike said all right. It meant all the difference to me.

Tony immediately won his serve in four points, but I felt surer on my feet and I knew I’d get going. Especially when I stopped him two points short of the set to keep even at 6-6. But I wasn’t so sure when I lost that first set anyway. I’d had a lot of luck during the year, and I wondered if it had run out at last. Although I’d worn spikes here and there throughout my career, the occasions were so rare during my professional days that they took some getting used to. You consciously changed your movements at first. Picked up your feet. No sliding. It was a new sensation until you were re-accustomed to them.

The slight uncertainty of moving in spikes was gone for good in the first game of the second set when I came through with a big serve at the crucial point of the match. With the first set his, and the pressure on me, Tony got me down 30-40 on my serve. One more point and he’d be up a set and a break, a pretty good edge in that mush.

We both knew this was a huge point. He took his time getting ready to return, and I did the same lining up—not overly so, maybe not even noticeable to the crowd, but we had to be right for this one. I was righter. I threw myself into the serve, and sliced it wide to his forehand. It didn’t come back. He barely touched it, and I could tell it pained him to miss the opportunity. You don’t get too many break-point chances on grass—and he didn’t have another.

It wouldn’t be apparent for a while, but the match turned upside down right there. I won the game and began hitting harder and harder as I got surer of my footing. Then I won the next and the next—five straight. From that break-point chance in the first game, Tony managed to win only five of the last 23 games. He came all apart as I wrapped him up, 7-9, 6-1, 6-2, 6-2. Not even a rain delay of a half-hour at the beginning of the third set could rust my concentration or help him pull his together.

Unlike 1962, I had control of myself all through the final match of the Grand Slam. I was never dazed as I had been against Emmo seven years before during a brief case of nerves down the stretch.

Serving match game, I opened with an ace. I knew what I was about, and wasn’t going to let Tony breathe. It was 40-0 when I did try to end with a grand-slamming flourish on a forehand volley. I blew it. A minor disappointment not to be able to score with a put-away as I had on the championship point at Wimbledon.

It fell to Tony to lose it with a forehand that he hit long. Both of us were glad it was over. Afraid to use spikes, he’d been victimized in sneakers, unable to counteract my better shots, including a number of very good lobs. It was one of my best days with the lob, always a useful shot, but even more damaging that day when running was tough.

Not enough ordinary players realize the value of the lob, and I guess I didn’t until I became a seasoned pro. It’s much more than a desperation measure. As an amateur, even if the odds were against my making a shot, I’d usually let fly anyway. When I became a pro, I couldn’t risk throwing away points like that because the opposition was equal or better.

This meant I had to be realistic. If my chances of making a shot from a difficult position were doubtful, I found you seldom get hurt with a lob.

But there were no more lobs to be hit. Not one more stroke on a chase that began God knows how many strokes ago in Brisbane when I hit the first serve to a fellow I wouldn’t know if he walked into the room, Massimo di Domenico. The others I knew pretty well . . . Andres . . . Arthur . . Emmo . . . Tony . . . Newc . . . Dennis . . . Kenny . . . Okker . . . Smith.

There were 1,005 games in 26 Grand Slam matches, and now it was all over.

Laver captured 11 major singles titles during his career, including Wimbledon in 1961, 1962, 1968 and 1969. After joining Don Budge as the only man to win a Grand Slam by sweeping all four majors in 1962, Laver turned professional where he, along with fellow pros Hoad, Rosewall and Gonzalez, were banned from playing the “amateur-only” major tournaments. When the “Open Era” of tennis began in 1968, Laver netted another five major singles titles, including his Grand Slam sweep of all four in 1969. Laver won nearly 200 singles titles during his career and was inducted into the International Tennis of Fame in 1981.

I am delighted that THE EDUCATION OF A TENNIS PLAYER is back in circulation and available for a new generation of tennis fans,” said Laver. “Winning the Grand Slam for a second time in 1969 seems just like yesterday and this book brings back a lot of memories of the great matches and exciting times. I hope people enjoy reading my story.

Collins, himself a 1994 inductee in the International Tennis Hall of Fame, first met Laver in 1956 at the Longwood Cricket Club in Boston during the U.S. National Doubles Championships. Thirteen years later, the two collaborated on the book that was only to be published if Laver won the Grand Slam. Collins is best known for his colorful television commentary – and his colorful wardrobe – as well as his columns in the Boston Globe. Collins currently works as a commentator with ESPN2 and Tennis Channel.

Rod Laver is one of the greatest treasures we have in tennis and THE EDUCATION OF A TENNIS PLAYER is one of our sports most important literary works,” said Collins. “Rod was always so humble and gracious, but he could play tennis like a hurricane. He was as a great a champion as we have ever had in tennis and one of the all-time nicest guys.

New Chapter Press is also the publisher of THE BUD COLLINS HISTORY OF TENNIS by Bud Collins, THE ROGER FEDERER STORY: QUEST FOR PERFECTION by Rene Stauffer and BOYCOTT: STOLEN DREAMS OF THE 1980 MOSCOW OLYMPIC GAMES by Tom Caraccioli and Jerry Caraccioli among others. More information on New Chapter Press can be found at www.NewChapterMedia.com.

The following is an excerpt from the new Skyhorse Publishing bookFaith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets by Greg W. Prince.

If you’re a Mets fan, you know me. How could you not? I’m you. Maybe a little older or perhaps younger, probably a bit heavier, no doubt substantively more weighed down by facts, figures and occasionally accursed memory, but I’m essentially you.

That is if you’re a Mets fan. ‘Cause that’s what I am. And that’s what I’m here to talk about.

I can talk about being a Mets fan from the moment they open Gate C for batting practice (if, in fact, we still have a Gate C) ’til the tarp covers the field. I can talk about being a Mets fan through an entire homestand and a couple of road trips. I can talk about being a Mets fan when I’m supposed to be talking about or thinking about anything else. I don’t know if it’s something to brag about, it’s just what I do.

I’m you. I’m a Mets fan. What the hell else are we going to talk about? And this is my life, see? There are other aspects to it, but when disconnected from the Mets, few of them are significant to me, not really. Don’t pity me, however. I like being this guy. Actually, I like being “That Guy.” You know …

That guy from work who has all that Mets stuff on his desk and who you can’t stump on baseball trivia and always remembers who was traded for who and when.

That guy from down the block who’s always going to or coming back from Shea; I swear he must have like ten different Mets jackets.

That guy at that thing who we thought was hard of hearing and wore an amplification device. Turned out it was an earplug for a radio. He was listening to WFAN the whole time.

That guy. The Mets fan. He’s the biggest Mets fan I know.

I don’t mean to declare myself a bigger Mets fan than you. That would be impolite and unknowable on my part. I’ll give you yourself. You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t think you were the biggest Mets fan you know. But if you exclude yourself, I think you’ll find I’m decent Met company.

Yes, I have my share of bobbleheads and tchotchkes, enough overpriced licensed Mets crap to pay for at least one of Johan Santana’s warmup tosses. I could probably arrange to function an entire day and never go without seeing orange or blue. But it’s not my merchandise that makes me a big Mets fan. Other people have more stuff.

And I am pretty good at remembering the obscure Mets and Mets happenings, partly from a memory which I’m told is exceptional (I wouldn’t know; it’s the only memory I’ve ever had), partly from my conviction that nothing about the Mets should be considered obscure. But it’s not the knowledge that makes me a big Mets fan. Other people know more stuff.

Can’t even say it’s because I’ve been to more games than most Mets fans. I’ve been to a lot, but I’ve never been a season ticketholder. I do go out of my way to keep up, pitch by pitch, but it’s not my commitment to staying current that makes me a big Mets fan. Other people have seen more stuff.

Yet after forty years as “That Guy,” I can’t believe anyone takes it more personally than me; that anyone embraces it more fervently than me; that anyone gives it more thought than me; that anyone, even after the final loss of 2007 yielded its mass quantities of devastation upon my psyche, was less willing to disavow it than me. I may grow tired of the Mets at the nadirs when they are less than Amazin’, but I never tire of being a Mets fan. And I do love to talk about it with other Mets fans, other baseball fans, anybody who’ll listen.

If I’m true to my own self, it’s my life. It’s how I interact with those I care about most, whether it’s my family, my friends, my cats sometimes. It’s what I do. It was the case when I was six; it’s been the case throughout the long season that’s been in progress ever since; it’s the case right now. I never got the memo that I was supposed to outgrow these Amazin’, Amazin’, Amazin’ Mets.

I guess I’m just easily amazed.

You can order a copy of Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets by Greg W. Prince (foreword by Jason Fry; afterword with Gary Cohen) from Amazon. You can read more about the Mets from Greg and Jason at their blog, Faith and Fear in Flushing.

The cover of Heavyweight Armageddon

Lucia Rijker:  “The other great fight in history – Louis-Schmeling – was political. The fight of Lewis and Mike was almost light against darkness. Good against evil. And, to me, Mike needed the lesson to be humbled, he needed the lesson to realize his causes and how he lived his life were wrong. And Lennox was the one to show him. And, to me, the fight represented that good wins always over evil, eventually. Light wins over darkness. That gave me hope…that there is justice in life. Because I thought $50 million in the hands of a man that doesn’t show responsible causes, would be dangerous. If Mike Tyson would have won against Lennox, he could have been a very dangerous influence. And if the world is like that, like Mike Tyson, where would the world go? It would be the world’s destruction.”

Lennox Lewis:  “It will be a battle of good versus evil. The way I look at it, the good guy has to win. And the good guy will win.”

Mike Tyson:  “I’ve known Lennox since I was 16. I have mad respect for him. Everything I said was in proposition for promoting the fight. He knows I love him and his mother…This guy, there’s no way I could ever beat him. He’s just too big and too strong. He’s just a consummate fighter.”

Book Excerpt: Heavyweight Armageddon: The Tyson-Lewis Championship Battle

“Our main focus on the day before and during the fight is certain points, certain things,” said Courtney Shand. “We might see Lennox get up and do something. When he does it, you remind him of certain things. If he gets up and starts moving around, okay, remember when you do that? Do this. And as soon as you do that, do that. Positive reinforcement. If you push Tyson a certain way, we know what he’s going to do before he resets himself to throw a punch. So, capitalize on that. When Mike does things a certain way, expect this. Positive reinforcing. We don’t just go in and jump on him. As soon as Lennox shows us that fire, we’re on him. Keep drilling it in.”

“Again, it’s when he gets up and turns on the TV, he watches a certain section of the fight, okay, remember do this when you see this. What do you do if…? Sometimes we put questions on him. Okay, you saw what Buster did right there, okay what do you gotta do when that happens? When you get him off you, what do you have to do? Just keep his mind stimulated.”

“‘Cause he has to read it. He’s like a quarterback in a football game. He gets up there, he sees the defense lining up, just before he huts the ball and they shift – he’s got to read what Tyson is gonna do. Read from his body language. Read from the way he’s setting his feet. Because Tyson’s, like, a deliberate fighter.”

“We watch our fights too. Because we gotta analyze what the other guy is trying to analyze about us. See what things we’re doing that they might try to take advantage of. They’re smart and we think we’re smart. They’re trying to match wits.”

***

Lewis emerged from his vehicle inside the Pyramid looking perfectly relaxed. HBO cameramen were there to greet him. He was wearing a red sweatsuit, black ragamuffin hat and black shades. He was chewing gum. Tyson arrived just before Lewis in a giant Rolls Royce limo wearing a tight-fitting blue short-sleeved muscle shirt. He was looking cool too, except for the huge sweat stains on his shirt.

…Then Mike Tyson strode out of his dressing room, to the beat of rap music by DMX’s “What’s My Name?” Iron Mike had his gloves together in front of his heart, with the customary white towel covering his body. At first glance, he looked slightly apprehensive, even reluctant for the fight, in contrast to how he seemed at the weigh-in. His posture looked a bit slumpy and droopy. He banged his hands together as he neared the ring.

The entire crowd was mesmerized by the appearance of Tyson, one of the mightiest, most notorious and celebrated fighters the world had ever witnessed. But the fire was not burning at full intensity. To my eyes, he looked like he was more there because he had to be then because he wanted to be. There was a subdued element to his mood.

When Iron Mike stepped through the ropes, much of the crowd applauded him. Love him or hate him, this was a man who defied all odds and achieved unparalleled greatness and distinction in the brutal sport of boxing. Upon hearing the acclaim, Tyson looked around, slightly inquisitive, acknowledging the unexpected warm greeting. He raised his arms about half way – not all the way up – in a muted pose of triumph. He looked a little nervous, even uncomfortable. But it was still Mike Tyson. Iron Mike Tyson was in the ring.

There was no doubt about it, Lewis was the predator. There was a twelve-man wall of security dividing the ring, all attired in yellow shirts and black pants. Lewis’s eyes looked clear and clean and spirited. You could detect not even an iota of doubt in his disposition.

“Tyson came up to the barrier,” Lewis would say later. “Looking at me, looking at my body. I’m beating my stomach, Yeah, I’m ready.”

***

Round Three

Lewis continued the pattern of controlling the range with jabs and right hands. Lewis’s graceful movements conjured the image of a great artist at work, poetically using his fists as tools to sculpt defeat onto this hulking shape of clay. Tyson’s only answers were one-punch-at-a-time attacks, which Lewis easily thwarted. The size and reach advantages were just too much for Tyson

Lewis drew first blood – a small cut over Tyson’s right eye. Tyson looked to be in pain as Shields implored him, “You got to get closer to this man.” But no man in 15 years had ever really done so. Those Lewis jabs and rights were a mighty arsenal to penetrate. Tyson grimaced as his cutman, Ira Trocki, tended to the wound.  Steward told Lewis, ‘He can’t deal with your uppercut. Let’s get it together. The man is tired.”

***

“I remember one summer about six, seven years ago, Tyson rolled up. He used to rise his Harley around Brooklyn. And he was riding around. And some of me and my people were outside, on Crown Street. And a couple of me and my boys was slap boxing, just playin’ around. Tyson rolled up. By himself. And everybody looked. They were wondering if that was Tyson or not. So, he just roll up and he say, Yo, I’ll give whoever knocks the other one out, I’ll give you one hundred dollars right now. So, that just got people hyped. Word! Word! So they just start rumblin’. Next thing you know my boy just catches him with two lefts and a right – boop, boop, boop – and he just dropped him. Boop. Tyson said, Good shit. Gabe him a hundred dollars, got on his bike and left. I said, Oooohh, shit. I say, Yo, that’s too much power for one man to have. It was like straight out of a movie scene. Because we just chillin’ He just comes out of nowhere.”

***

In the fight did Tyson do anything you did not expect? “I’m glad he fought fair,” Lewis said.  “Because I was definitely ready for anything. Even after (the fight) I had respect for him. I was hitting him with some shots. It was the first fight where my hands were a little sore. I said it was because of the size of his neck. He’s like a shock absorber. He’d take it, shake it off and come back at you. Like that Rhino Man in Spiderman.”

At the Cory Spinks-Ricardo Mayorga fight in Atlantic City in December 2003 you and Tyson were at ringside watching the fights in the same area, with him one seat in front of you. I was wondering if you both talked at all that night?

Lennox Lewis:  “Yeah. I don’t know. For me, there’s never any bad blood – unless you do something to me. When we sat there, everyone was tense, looking at us, everybody was tense like that. I could tell. I said, What’s goin’ on Mike? He looks back at me, [says in a high-strung voice] What’s goin’ on with YOU? And that was it [laughs].”

“Heavyweight Armageddon: The Tyson-Lewis Championship Battle” is available at www.amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com and borders.com.

Scoop has written boxing for The Ring, New York Post, New York Daily News, World Boxing Japan, Boxing World South Africa, The Fist (Australia), Boxing Digest, BoxingInsider.com, Boxing Update newsletter, Boxing News (U.K), CBS Sportsline.com, MOVES Magazine, Fightnews.com, Boxingtalk.com and of course NYSportsDay.com.