Once a lady athlete, always a lady athlete

PAUL CALLICO

No one can say that Lonny Randall wasn't warned to stay away from lady athletes. He was warned by most of the wiser heads among the old timers gathered at White Sulphur Springs to report the spring tourneys. But then. Anya Tenniel, the woman golf champion of the world, was so pretty that it was a little too much to expect of the youngster that he should listen.

Ben Whittaker, veteran tennis writer for the Sun. said, "A lady athlete is a lady athlete. They're all screwy, or they wouldn't be athletes. They would he working in an office, or making some guy a home, instead of hatting around the country, knocking the covers off tennis halls or (licking a little white pill over pasture land." Still, you can't tell that to a kid reporter on his first quasi-social sports assignment, when he was getting his first look at Anya Tenniel.

She had dark, glossy chestnut hair, as satiny as polished mahogany, and coal-black eyes with rich, creamy whites. By some miracle, she did not have the dry, weather-beaten skin of the average lady golfer, nor the crowsfeet that most of the species acquire after a few' seasons of squinting down fairways in the sunlight and following the (light of the hall. Instead, her skin was a smooth, golden tan that accentuated, by contrast, the black and cream colour of her eyes, the whiteness of her teeth, and the soft redness of her mouth.

She was slender, not too tall, and beautifully formed. She could drive a golf hall 230 yards with a smooth, graceful swing; hut when she drove, there was none of the waving and swaying of wide, ample hips, that so amused the men golfers when her sister players teed off. Anya's power lay, instead, in her wiry, supple wrists, and above all in the steadiness of her eye and the accuracy of her timing. It was this unique sense of timing that made it possible for her to do the sensational things with golf clubs that made her not only the National champion for four successive years, hut also the only girl trick-shot player in the country.

She could, for instance, with a mashie-niblick, drive six golf halls, one after another, without looking up. into a barrel placed some sixty feet away. Another trick of hers was to set up a paper circus hoop at a distance of fifty feet from the tee and drive six consecutive halls through it, making the hoop look as though someone had peppered it with a one-pounder. All six of the balls, after passing through its frame, would speed on down the fairway as though there had been no obstacle to hinder their flight. She could drive a ball off the face of a watch—when a gentleman could be persuaded to part with the family heirloom for the experiment—without damaging the crystal. She wielded a mashie like a rapier, delicately and powerfully. She was a true artist with woods and irons, and practically unbeatable in a tournament.

Lonny was something of a hero worshipper (or he couldn't have been a good sports writer)—and so it was not surprising that he fell head over heels in love with Anya. He was a nice enough looking kid, except for a too prominent nose—a beginner on the Morning Blade, one of the better tabloids. His writing had style, but, more important, it bad the fresh enthusiasm of his admiration for the heroes and heroines he wrote about. When his first report of one of Anya's practice rounds was brought in from the wire room back home to the Sports Editor, the S. E. read it, whistled, and sailed it over to the copy desk with instructions to tone it down and watch future copy closely for such items as: ". . . she stood, her glorious figure outlined against the mountain ridges, on the high seventh, and whipped her mashie through so that the sun splintered from the steel like light from a fencer's blade. Then she ran lightly, a veritable Hebe, to the green, to find her ball six inches from the cup."

"I do not mind the lady exposing her glorious figure against the mountain-side," said the S. E., "hut I do not think our correspondent knows his mythology. Take a pencil and keep his shirt on for him."

* Anya noticed the young fellow with the hawk-like nose and the air of frank admiration who religiously trailed her practice foursomes—instead of covering the Dixie Tennis tournament, which was on at that time, and which he should have been doing. But she paid no attention to him until, on the third day, after she bad sloughed a ball out of deep rough to drop it on the green, a hundred and sixty yards away, Lonny let out a cheer—much to the annoyance of the other three ladies in the foursome-—and then said to Anya, "Gee, what a shot. What club did you use for it, Miss Tenniel? I'm Randall from the Blade."

They walked side by side down the fairway. "Aren't you covering the Dixie?" Anya asked.

"I'd rather watch you play," said Lonny.

"How sweet of you," murmured Anva with a pleased smile, clipping a brassie shot out of a bad lie. "Don't stand quite so close to me when I'm hitting."

Early that evening, stopping in at Ben Whittaker's room, where a few of the sports writers were having highballs, Lonny found Fred Cartwright of the Tribune holding forth excitedly on the day's tennis play. Cartwright, known affectionately to athletes and sports writers alike as "Bumps", was covering up Lonny on the Dixie, while he tagged after Anya.

"Say," he hailed Lonny, "you ought to get a look at the new kid from Georgia— that Mickey Sutherland -before lie's put out of the tournament, He's still a year or two away, but by 1935 nobody'll be beating him. He beat Allison today. Of course he rvon't get by Vines and that bunch, hut he's a comer . . ."

Lonny nodded and stared into his highball.

"Leave him alone," said Whittaker. "He's got a heat on for that lady golfer."

Lonny felt very young and uncomfortable. "What the devil have you got against lady athletes?" he snorted hack.

"They ain't women," said Whittaker sententiously. "Once a lady athlete, always a lady athlete. Some of 'em look like women, dress like women, act like women—but they ain't. If they were, they wouldn't be athletes. . . . And this, my dear Schnozzle, concludes the lecture for the evening. Take the advice of an old battle-scarred fellow and stav away from them. They will do you no good."

"What do you mean?" persisted Lonny. "What do you expect her to do to me?"

"I don't know," said Whittaker, "but when she does it. you won't like it. They're all alike. Just hang around her long enough and you'll find out."

Curiously, the warning made an impression on Lonny for at least an hour—until he saw Anya come into the dining-room in a white, flowing dress, with a yellow (lower at the bodice, her hair more dark and shining than ever above it. She smiled at him, and later in the evening danced with him. She moved to the music like flowing water, thought Lonny. Except for a few small callouses on the inside of her fingers, her hands were soft. She used an oriental perfume in her hair. They danced again, and then walked a little under the stars. Anya talked about golf, about her last trip to England, when she won the British championship, and about some of her experiences in France. Lonny fell in love.

He did actually cover the finals of the Dixie tournament, but probably only because Anya didn't golf that day. Whittaker commented upon his appearance in the press row. "Ah! So good of you to come. They tell me Vines is using a Number 3 Mashie from the service court and taking his niblick up to the net."

Bumps kicked Whittaker in the leg. "Shut up and leave him alone. It's like chicken pox. He's got to have it."

Whittaker sighed. "He's a promising kid. I bate to see him get it. . . . Oh, well ... I once loved a gal swimmer. . . ."

Anya, of course, won the Women's North and South, defeating her rival in the finals by 6 and 5, after a week of brilliant play during which she was never at any time down. Lonny sent home epic descriptions which the Sports Editor read with considerable amusement and upon which his only comment was; "Good God! What's he going to use for adjectives when this doll wins the National again?"

On Saturday night—the Saturday she won the tournament— Continued on page 48b Anya appeared in a sheath of silver. She and Lonny again daneed together and went strolling. The moonlight was so bright that they could see the hursts of white dogwooil on the mountainsides, and the night air smelled heavily of spring. . . . Anya's hand slipped into his. "Oh, God, Anya . . said Lonny. "I . . . I'm sorry. I can't help it. I love you. . .

Continued from page 40

Anya turned her face up to him and kissed him. After all, he was a sweet hoy, and she had seen some of the things he had written about her.

"Do you really, Lonny?" she asked softly. "I wonder. ... So many men have told me they loved me. . . ." She sighed, and her voice dropped to a whisper. . . . "Rut I don't think anyone really has."

"Oh, God! Anya," said Lonny again, "try me . . . I'd do anything for you. I'd die for you. Darling . . ."

Anya broke away from him a little and looked up at him. He was attractive, and the prominent nose only made his face strong. "Anything?" she asked. "Would you do anything I asked you?"

Lonny went into an ecstasy of devotion. That Anya should make him her knight. . . .

"Anya, darling. . . . Try me!"

Anya reached up and kissed him again. "Let's go in," she said.

The next day. Anya was scheduled to give an exhibition of trick shots in the afternoon. There were some five hundred guests, including two Senators, some New York financiers,' half a dozen society matrons, and His Excellency, the Governor of West Virginia, all gathered around the first tee when Anya arrived. Lonny, who stood inside the lines with Bumps and Whittaker, went over and held her hag of clubs, while the girl went through an amazing series of shots.

She did the barrel trick, and the one with the hoop. She placed a new hall on the grass, inside a white chalk circle two feet in diameter, and hit it a full swing with a niblick, hut with the blade of the club laid so far open that the ball rose thirty feet into the air, and then dropped straight hack into the circle again, spinning like a live thing. She played hooks and slices at will. Then she held a driver, a mashie and a niblick in her slim fingers, placed three halls on the turf, swung all three clubs simultaneously, and sent the three pellets hissing off the tee, each in its proper trajectory. She hit half a dozen drives blindfold, merely by facing the club to the ball. She showed how a hall could he driven two hundred yards with a niblick, and how a niblick shot could be played with a driver. She hit a hall off the top of a ginger ale bottle without touching the glass.

Then she paused. The spectators applauded. Murtrie, the professional at the Greenbrier, stepped to the center and held up his hand for silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "Miss Tenniel will now attempt something that very few men professionals have been able to do. She will drive a golf hall off her partner's nose."

Anya nodded brightly in confirmation, and then looked over to Lonny.

Whittaker said. "Oh, oh!" and nudged Bumps. "It's coming."

"She wouldn't . . ." began Bumps.

"The hell she wouldn't! My gal nearly drowned me once."

Anya beckoned to Lonny, still smiling confidently. There was a murmur of surprise, and a little patter of applause. Someone in hack said quite distinctly, "Well, it's big enough." And someone else said, "1 hope she

doesn't miss."

Lonny's face turned red and he began to perspire. He was sensitive about his nose. "Anya . . . you . . . you don't mean . .

"Now, darling," said Anya soothingly, "don't make a fuss. Just lie down over there between the tee markers and don't jiggle."

"Anya . . ." Horror mounted in Lonny. The girl looked cool and a little mocking. "Anya, you . . . you wouldn't." He shut his teeth with an audible snap. "I won't do it!"

"Lonny! You . . . you said you'd do anything."

"Good God!" said Lonny. "Do you mean that was what . . ."

"Try me!" said Anya, looking him squarely in the eye. Shame swept over Lonny. He knew he was trapped by his posturings. "All right," he acquiesced, and got down on his hands and knees.

There was a little ripple of laughter.

"It's a shame," said Bumps.

"I was lucky," remarked Whittaker. "All my gal did to me was make me play the drowning man in a rescue demonstration at the Lido pool. I was unconscious for six hours when she got through rescuing me."

Anya bent over her golf hag and extracted something from the pocket. She gave it to Lonny. It was long and cone shaped, and made of stiff black rubber. At the apex of the cone was a tiny, shallow, cup-like affair—in effect, a small tee.

"Oh, God," said Lonny, eyeing the contrivance with increasing shame and horror, "what is that?"

"You put it over your nose," said Anya calmly. "It holds the ball. I think it will just fit. When I say ready, take a deep breath and hold it, so you won't jiggle it off."

There was more laughter and applause from the audience, as Lonny lay down on his hack between the two white tee markers.

"It woidd be much funnier if she stuck the ball to his nose with chewing gum," said Whittaker.

As Lonny placed the cone over his nose, a man standing nearby sniggered and said something, and Lonny wanted to get up and fight. But Anya was kneeling at his side, bursting the cover from a shiny new Dunlop.

"Now just hold still and it won't fall off," she said. "I'll tell you when I'm ready."

"If she misses, she'll brain the kid," said Bumps. "We shouldn't let

"Shut up," said Whittaker. "It'll he a hell of a story. She won't miss."

"Luuuuuuuuungh," said Lonny. "I can't breathe."

"1 don't want you to," returned Anya cheerfully. She rose to her feet and pulled a shallow-faced driver from her hag. measured her distance and dug her spikes into the ground.

"Anya," said Lonny nasally, "Anya! Do you realize that if you hit me in the temple with that club you'll kill me?"

"I never miss," retorted Anya posi-

Lonny felt a slight pressure on the cone. He closed his eyes, but then opened them again. He heard Anya say precisely, "Red . . . DEEEEF.EE!" and drew a deep breath. He heard the "Whooooooeeee" of the upswing. Then there was a swish, and a "CRACK!"

"OW!" yelled Lonny. "Gha-Rrice!" A sharp, sickening pain shot up his nose and blinding tears welled into his eyes. He jumped to his feet, hut couldn't see, and stumbled to his knees. The applause hushed suddenly, and a woman cried, "Oh, lie's hurt!"

Something warm and a little thicker than the salt tears was falling onto the hack of his hand. A small boy said, "Papa, lie's blugging."

"Lonny, are you hurt?" cried Anya. "I picked it off clean. I know I did. 1 didn't touch your nose. Lonny . . . say something . . . do something . . ."

Lonny felt gingerly up the long bridge of his nose, but there was no break, and the pain was dulling. He could begin to see again. Evidently the shock of the impact between the cluhhead and the cleanly hit hall had been transmitted through the cone to his nose, causing a hemorrhage. It bled freely. Lonny held his pocket handkerchief, dyed half red, to his nostrils and eyed Anya. It struck him as funny that at that moment he should think of Whittaker's remark "They ain't women."

In the strained silence, a little girl was heard to ask, "Mummy, is that what William Tell was like?"

Lonny walked grimly over to Anya's golf bag and extracted a club.

"Lonny," said Anya, "what are you going to do?"

"Bend this," answered Lonny grimly, "over your goddam head," and started toward her.

"Hey, kid! Lonny!" It was Whittaker. "That's steel. You'll kill her."

"I hope so," said Lonny, and meant it.

Anya saw the look in his eye and ran. She ran straight down the first fairway, blindly, hysterically, with Lonny chasing her. Whittaker, who had been a fast halfback in college, caught Lonny from the rear, and took him out with a diving tackle. Bumps came and sat on his head.

"Lissen," pleaded Lonny, "I just wanna get one belt at her. Just one. Damn you, let me up."

The two men sat on him and roared with laughter. "Say," said Bumps,

"did I ever tell you about the time Helen Wills nearly knocked my eye out with a tennis ball?" Lonny began to laugh, too, so they let him up.

Lonny's follow-up story on the week of sport at the Greenbrier was all about a coming tennis champion from Jk Georgia named Mickey Sutherland. who should be watched. True, he got most of his material for it from Bumps, but the S. E. said it was the best piece he had done.