Sweet, Sweet Addiction: Pain and Pleasure of a Tennis Playing Family

© 2014 George Howard Newton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  07/23/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2900-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0907-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908000

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Bug Bit Me

Chapter 2 Pineapple Resort: The Tennis Mecca

Chapter 3 Come Over and Help Us

Chapter 4 The Higher the Monkey Climbs

Chapter 5 The Crucian Connection

Chapter 6 Spreading My Wings

Chapter 7 The Escape for Blacks

Chapter 8 Chips off the Old Block

Chapter 9 King of the Hill

Chapter 10 Tennis Wise—Business Foolish

Chapter 11 Different Folks Different Strokes

Chapter 12 A Career Shift

About The Author

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my charming and forgiving wife Rosanna, and my two sons Geoff and Greg who made possible my dream of becoming a decent tennis player in my latter years.

FOREWORD

by Dr. Gary A. Sailes

If you play tennis and are passionate about the game, you will love Sweet, Sweet Addiction! by George Newton. Set in the back drop of the Virgin Islands, this is the journey of a tennis playing educator turned teaching pro who surrendered to his passion for the game and embarked on a journey that transformed not only his, but the lives of his family and friends. George Newton is a self-made man. I admire the fact that he found the courage to walk away from the financial security provided to him as an educator to pursue his dream, employment in tennis as a mentor/coach, manager and player. He made it work and his transformation into a beloved mentor/coach and international tennis champion as a competitor is nothing short of a phenomenal story.

The people in George’s life recognize his uniqueness. He truly cares about his family, students, friends and competitors and it shows. From his humble beginnings as a beginner to his accomplishment as an international champion, his journey as a tennis player is laden with images of competition intersected with the experience of the Caribbean Islands. His story draws the reader into a paradise against the backdrop of palm trees, breathtaking landscapes, oceanic vistas and the language of a culture infused with friendly hospitality and the true meaning of family, joy and the good life. The stories, the culture, the images and the language take me back to my visits to Jamaica, the Bahamas and my tennis playing days. I remember playing with the club pros against panoramic scenes of the ocean contrasting the backdrop of perfectly maintained gray clay courts. I remember tropical drinks, great food, friendly staff, luxurious accommodations and the excitement of island culture portrayed in music and dance. Yes, this book took me back and prompted me to visit again real soon.

George’s journey is not without its distractions. He chose to navigate away from the politics of education and tournament tennis to focus on the development of the juniors and adults he taught, coached, mentored or competed against. His stories about junior and adult tournament players and competitions are revealing and eloquently reminds us of our own similar tennis journeys here in the States. The language he conveys in his book is reminiscent of Island culture and he infuses that dialogue right in the beginning in the biggest life lesson he received as a child from his grandmother. There is more to life than money. There is also joy, happiness and fun… and George made it a point to never lose sight of that very valuable lesson. It guided him well throughout his fascinating journey on the clay courts of the Virgin Islands.

Sweet, Sweet Addiction! is an easy and entertaining read. George does a fine job of pulling us into his world, the world of Island Tennis. He reminds us of our own tennis journeys, the passion we have for this game and the joy it can bring. But more importantly, he reminds us of the life changing potential tennis can generate. It changed George’s life and he opens the door to his life for us to experience. Thanks George!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my friend Penn Cavanaugh who sparked my interest to write my tennis story. I am greatly indebted to the many players at the St. Thomas Racquet Club who were patient with me so that I could learn the fundamentals of the game.

I can’t forget Sandy Kelman (deceased) who took me under his wings and nurtured me to improve the technique of stroke making. Ed Fenton was my hitting partner for many years and helped to prepare me for competition.

Dr. Sydney Sadio’s contribution was invaluable. I appreciated the time and effort he gave to improve the manuscript. I could not have completed the work without his help.

Thanks to my sons, Geoff and Greg. They gave me reason to win matches in the early days. Our experiences on the tennis court together, provided amazing opportunities for bonding.

Finally, I cannot repay my wife Rosanna for critiquing, organizing, and typing the manuscript. I am grateful to her for her sacrifice and encouragement throughout my tennis experience.

PREFACE

I received a call from my good tennis friend, Penn Cavanaugh who had just completed reading my book Out of Zion. Although he expressed that it was an enjoyable experience, he was sadly disappointed. I didn’t mention one word about tennis. Consequently, I credited Penn for sowing the seed for me to write my tennis story.

Obviously, I was a latecomer to tennis. I was compelled to make up time lost and play catch-up. I therefore pursued learning and playing the game with a passion. I was forced to practice tennis like someone driven by an addiction.

Any addiction, however mild, produces some measure of stress and strain especially on the immediate family. In this experience, my wife was initially the victim. I was frequently absent from home and often neglected some domestic chores.

Personally, I grew from tennis beginner to national and international champion in thirty nine (39) years. However, this journey could not have been possible if my wife was not the enabler. She is the protagonist of this story.

Along the way, Bernice tried her best to keep me sober and balanced. Yes, initially she threatened me. But as I developed she accompanied me on court with racquet in hand. She arranged for my travel abroad, and often, she is my only cheer leader at courtside. In my senior years of competition, she became my trusted score keeper. To top it all, she gave me two sons who became College MVP’s for tennis.

This book is an encouragement for all those people (in all walks of life) to pursue their passion. It does not have to be limited to sports or athletics. It is never too late to acquire the skill for music, painting, craft etc.—just get started and follow through to mastery.

Who knows? That passion can lead to a second career. In this new venture, you’d never work a day after retirement; you simply enjoy the journey and experience your passion.

INTRODUCTION

I ran through the rugged field, across the paved road, and up the rocky pathway. I leaped as fast as my eleven year old bow legs could take me. I smiled and shouted intermittently. As I approached our house,

Mama, Look! Look!

Look what?

Look what I got. I juggled the green paper between my innocent fingers. I dangled it boldly as in show and tell.

What that? That look like Amerikin money, Mama suggested.

Aha! Mama we could buy something good, I declared. We have money now.

Where you get it? Did you rob bank?

I suspected she was joking. No banks were in the neighborhood. The only bank was in Charlestown about six miles away and even if a bank was next door, I’d never harbor such a thought. Mama would kill me.

Just look close Mama. It has a picture of a man’s head and below it says Hamilton. You see the head, right? I asked.

I’d heard of the green paper money made in abundance in America. I’d never come face to face with this dollar bill before.

Me boy, where dat come from? I don’t want policeman come knock at me door, she was adamant.

"The man . . . . the Yankee man . . . . the man. He had on a three piece suit . . . . blue with shoes to match."

"Wait a minute. He just get up and pass out paper money to you . . . just like that. Tell me the honest truth," Grandma demanded.

"This is what happened. I was playing ball . . . bat and ball. The boys had a pick-up game with wind ball." I informed my grandmother. (The wind ball was an old tennis ball without the fuzz.)

So what? she inquired.

"I bat . . . I bat real well. I hit balls over the wall. I hit ball across the road, all over the place. The boys couldn’t get me out. So fast the bowler send the ball, it is so fast I pelt it pass them." I admired the green paper and I fondled it.

Go on. Are you done? My ear ain’t stopped up yet, go on, she warned.

The strange man in the blue suit walked alongside. He stopped, and looked on. He clapped and cheered when I hit a ball over the wall. Then he stopped the game.

Come here, young fellow, he beckoned with both arms.

Who is your family? I mean your relatives, he sounded like real American; he was yanking.

I rattled off the names of parents and grandparents, aunts, uncles. By now, the friendly stranger nodded with a broad smile. He acknowledged that he knew my old folks well. In fact, he claimed that he was a cousin on my father’s side of the family.

The stranger dug deep into his back pants pocket. He removed a bill fold. He sorted some green notes carefully and handed me the one marked Hamilton.

Take this, sonny, he paused, and I politely accepted the gift. He leaned forward and leveled off with me, eyeball to eyeball.

I like what I see, he kept on repeating the chorus. I like what I see.

As I related the story, my grandmother showed no real excitement. However, I thought that my account of this unusual and unexpected event was well received. I was so happy. I hoped that some of my merriment would rub off, at least on my grandma.

So what is the man’s name? He ain’t got no name? she seemed inquisitive. Yet, I sensed a tinge of disbelief and caution.

It is the truth, Mama. I tell you the truth. I run all the way to put it in your hand, I assured her.

You say thanks? she inquired.

Well . . . she pondered and hesitated. "You know something. Take it back. Go . . . give it back to whoever man you say gave you. she insisted. Take it back," she repeated.

"But . . .," I was about to advise her that I wouldn’t know where to find the stranger. He was long gone!

Mama interrupted.

It ain’t everything you do for money. Some things, you just have to do for fun. I don’t want you to grow up with the idea that because you hit some balls, somebody owe you something. You can play for fun, and love what you play.

As I grew up, I pondered my grandmother’s advice. I hear her say . . . Play ball . . . play hard . . . there’s value engaging oneself in playing. Making money should not be the motivation to learn or play any sport, be it cricket, tennis, or baseball.

We (Grandma and I) scheduled a day for business. We had a transaction to make. We took the six mile walk from Gingerland to Charlestown. We went to find Barclays Bank. We left home in pitch darkness so that at the crack of dawn, we would be near enough to town and avoid the intense morning heat.

We had reason to walk. My grandmother was skeptical about the currency.

Suppose the bill not real, she expressed her doubt.

Of course, I tried to convince her that Hamilton’s head was on it so the bill had to be good. It had to be the real thing.

Suppose it is play money, then what? she argued.

Truly, she had no way to detect counterfeit. To ride into town, we would risk losing the taxi fare which was almost beyond our means. Then to waste her time . . .

Better be safe than sorry, she’d often remind me.

We were among the first in line to enter the bank. We waited our turn. As we approached the teller:

Good morning, ma’am. How may I help you today?

Mornin’ sir. Before anything, check this paper for me. Tell me if it is real Amerikin money.

The bespectacled bank clerk took the bill. He held it high above his head under a hanging light bulb and flicked it between the index finger and thumb. Soon, he nodded assuredly.

It’s good to go ma’am. The ball is in your court, he smiled.

"It’s all up to you . . . $2.75 to the dollar. I’ll deduct a small fee for service. Are you satisfied?"

Grandma nodded affirmatively. She looked at me with much delight. She pulled me closer to her side in a warm embrace and we walked away.

Chapter 1

THE BUG BIT ME

I was thirty three years old. Before 1973, I had never been on a tennis court. I