Mac and The Volvo

Andy Bourne on The Volvo International.

I grew up as a tennis player, easily playing more than twenty hours a week. As the years went by, I lost interest, probably due to some age-related injuries—shoulders, knees, back—you get the idea. As my hours on the court dwindled, so did my time spent watching tennis on television. I tell you this for context.

Recently, I took my family across the country to celebrate a friend’s milestone birthday. We flew into Boston and then drove up to Bretton Woods, New Hampshire. A couple of dinners and skiing were on the agenda for the weekend, and we were staying at the iconic Mt. Washington Hotel, now the Omni Mount Washington Resort. A grand structure steeped in world history; it served as the venue for the talks centering on reconstruction in Europe post-WWII. It looks like something out of a Wes Anderson film, you know the one. 

After checking in, we headed up the central staircase en route to our room. On the landing of the first set of stairs, we found ourselves gazing out a giant picture window that overlooked the grounds behind the hotel. As we stared out onto a snow-covered field that framed Mt. Washington, I heard someone say, “It’s a shame they took out the tennis courts, I miss the Volvo.” I was immediately hit with a wave of unexpected nostalgia. The Mt. Washington Hotel used to host a tennis tournament called, “The Volvo International.”  It was a smaller event that always attracted a great draw of players.  It was also a tournament in search of a permanent home—having moved several times from Mt. Washington, to North Conway and finally to Stratton Mountain. It was the Stratton version where I witnessed true tennis brilliance firsthand.

I recounted the 1985 match to my wife as if I had just witnessed it yesterday. It was the artistry of Johnny Mac versus the cold precision of a Cold War-era warrior named Ivan Lendl. For a little under two hours, I watched McEnroe serve the ball at impossible angles, attack the net, and be perfectly positioned to meet Lendl’s return. An effortless volley would follow at an even more impossible angle to put the ball out of poor Ivan’s reach. Not only was McEnroe truly brilliant at his craft, but he was a showman who knew how to ignite a crowd. He would look to the audience and groan after a missed shot and needlessly fall to the ground to punctuate a point. If an umpire missed a call, a seismic eruption would occur. It was high-theater by way of catgut and wood. That was the moment I fell in love with the sport.