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Forest Hills stadium this week and next for one of the widest-open tournaments in years will see these and other theories in practice. And they will see a Savitt markedly improved over the player who was beaten in the semi-finals last year by Larsen. They will see a well-provisioned athlete (salt tablets, extra wristbands, a strip of toweling hitched to his waist), who handles his heavy (15-oz.) racket as if it were an extension of his huge right hand. Savitt has the virtues and defects of his build (6 ft. 3 in., 185 Ibs.), with a fullback's shoulders and driving power. He is necessarily slower-footed (shoe size: 13) than a smaller man; and he develops too much momentum, after he gets under way, to change direction quickly. But in the strict limitations of a tennis court, a tall player who hits hard has one great advantage: power. If he can control his power, and smack the ball where he wants it to go, that advantage can be overwhelming. Savitt's new game has power; and on the big occasions he has shown control too.
Savitt has not got the devastating backhand of a Don Budge, the whiplash forehand of a Bill Johnston, the tantalizing volleying touch of a Vincent Richards, or even the smashing serve of a Bob Falkenburg. He certainly does not possess the all-court finesse of Bill Tilden, nor the classic shots of Sidney Wood. What he has got is a simple, overpowering attack; a smashing serve and deep, hard-hit ground strokes that keep his opponent scrambling in the back court, on the defensive. Says ex-U.S. Champion Ted Schroeder: "He hits a heavy ball, which comes over at you like a cannon."
Talbert's "make him run" theory is good as far as it goes; but it does not answer the overwhelming power of Savitt's attack when the attack is really rolling. Trabert's "hit 'em harder" thesis is valid only for somebody who—like slashing Trabert himself, and possibly Australia's Frank Sedgman—can actually outhit Savitt. Mulloy's idea of "mixing him up" has worked—with considerable help from Savitt himself. Just a fortnight ago, in Savitt's own bailiwick (Orange, N.J.), Mulloy beat him in the semi-finals of the Eastern Grass Court championship. But Savitt was stale and edgy; he let himself be disturbed by footfault calls, deliberately dropped the last game of the fourth set and lost the match by losing his control.
"I Want a Rest." Unlike most of the extraverts he competes with, Savitt burns inwardly, and he has not yet learned to convert his bottled-up steam into more power for the boilers. When the gallery at Orange booed him for protesting a linesman's decision, and for the obviousness with which he threw the final points of a hopeless set, he admitted afterwards in the lockerroom: "I was a poor sport ... I don't know what's the matter with me . . . I can't get going ... I don't get mad anymore when I lose a point... I'm over-tennised ... I want a rest. I used to be so eager, but I never had tennis coming out of my ears before."