ABA Section of Business Law
Business Law Today
March/April 1999
From a distance
Retirement kindergarten
By James C. Freund
Freund is a retired partner at Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher & Flom LLP, in New York City, and is now of counsel to the firm.
"So Jim, what are you doing to occupy your time in retirement?"
That’s the question I invariably get asked by lawyers in active practice. And my answer can vary a good deal, depending on what activity has most recently occupied my attention — teaching, photography, piano, writing, mediation, etc. A few months ago, though, my reply did raise a few eyebrows: "I just got back from sleepaway camp."
I can already hear the scoffing from some who regard early retirement as nothing less than second childhood. Well, they couldn’t be more off base. Much like the author who claimed he’d learned everything worthwhile in kindergarten, I stand in awe of my recent eye-opening camp experience. ’Twas there I came face-to-face with my inner stuff, gleaned insights about the virus of hubris and the virtues of humility, and — a great lesson for lawyers — saw first-hand the danger of unchecked inference.
I attended a tennis "fantasy" camp, featuring the legends of the game — the great Aussie and other stars of the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s. It took place at John Newcomb’s Tennis Ranch in Texas; and, in addition to Newk (that’s what we called him — get the picture?), there was Fred Stolle, Tony Roche, Cliff Drysdale and other idols of my formative years. But the most notable presence was Australia’s Roy Emerson ("Emmo" to us), who still holds the world’s record for most Grand Slam singles titles (12) — the record that Pete Sampras has been trying so hard to beat in recent years.
There were around 75 campers — men of substance and achievement in other walks of life, hailing from across the United States and even more distant points — who shared a passion for tennis. Many of them returned year after year, to be coached by the legends during the day and to drink Fosters Lager with them at night. It was rousing good fun in an old-fashioned masculine environment, chock full of camaraderie and misty memories. Our enthusiasm was only slightly dampened by week-long rains causing floods in the nearby town of New Braunfels, which made the nightly evening news. On several occasions, I had to call my mother (a devotee of The Weather Channel) to assure her that the camp wasn’t floating away.
The keynote of the week was competition. The campers were divided into four teams with names like "Mongrel Kangaroos," each led by several legends and containing players of differing skill levels. At the first-night dinner when the captains announced the assignments, I was delighted to learn I’d landed on Emmo’s squad, known as the Wankers — a perennial winner. This (I was told) reflected our captain’s dogged competitiveness, shrewd drafting of talent, and insightful observations about the foibles of the opposition. (After all, I reasoned, you don’t win 12 grand slams sitting in the locker room listening to Lite-FM on your Walkman.)
We worked out in the covered shed the next day — the rains making the open courts unplayable — while the coaches looked us over, especially the first-time-at-camp rookies like me. Now, I consider myself a pretty good tennis player, albeit somewhat inconsistent, but — was it simply my imagination? — I always seemed to flub a shot just when one of the legends walked by. Once, as Emmo appeared on the scene, I blew a quite makeable overhead. Seeing my distress, Emmo offered a generous reprieve, remarking that "The lighting’s very tough in here." But yours truly — anxious to display for the peerless leader the mettle of his newest recruit — was having none of it. As if from some distant place, I heard myself growling back at him through a stiff upper lip, "No excuses."
After a while, I loosened up and fared better. I hit 25 forehands in a row with Newk, although not without a twinge from my old tennis elbow. But that was the apogee of my hubris. Just before the first challenge matches the next day, Emmo gathered the team around him to announce the lineup. Although softening the blow by conceding he had too little time to evaluate the rookies and after carefully noting that the rankings weren’t fixed in stone, he then proceeded to deliver his bombshell. Suddenly I found myself, lodged with a few other geezers, down at the bottom of the ladder.
Well, I thought (reverting to primordial self-protective mind tricks), it’s not as if I were being sued for malpractice — life goes on. Shaking off the ignominy, I played capably, and we won a doubles match against uninspired opposition. Then later that afternoon, I played low-rung singles against an overweight fellow with a bothersome calf injury and prevailed rather easily. The match proved to be a significant cog in our narrow team victory over the other squad. Unfortunately, Emmo had been watching the higher-seeded matches and thus missed my hour of triumph.
It was still raining hard the next day — New Braunfels was again featured on the national newscasts — and we were back in the covered shed. I had been raised a notch on the basis of yesterday’s good performance. But now, my new partner and I found ourselves in a tough doubles match against two guys who lobbed very effectively. After belting a dozen or so overheads, my long dormant tennis elbow went into spasm, making it hard to even hold the racket. My partner, observing me in visible agony, said, "If you want to stop playing, Jim, it’s OK with me" (but I strongly suspected he didn’t mean a word of it). Anyway, I knew damn well that true Aussies played through pain. So I bit my lip and kept going — although making sure that Emmo and his lieutenants understood that a serious injury was responsible for the puffball overheads that now flowed from my dangling racket.
Well, we lost the first set, but came roaring back to take the second and then outlast our foes in the climactic tie-breaker. I smiled in spite of my physical distress. It had been, if I must say so myself, a gritty performance on my part, in which I could take real pride. And sure enough, here came Emmo, out of the rain and striding across the court to offer me his highest accolade — to admit me into the pantheon of uncomplaining heroes in the great Aussie tradition harking back probably to Gallipoli. As Emmo neared, I noticed he had a slip of paper in his hand. After mumbling something that sounded vaguely congratulatory, he handed me a telephone message slip from the front desk, on which the operator had written those immortal words (from summer camps of yesteryear): "Call your mom."
At lunch that day, Emmo told me that due to my injury, I wouldn’t be playing in the matches to be held that afternoon. Call me a cynic, but I figured that the coach wasn’t too worried about the condition of my arm; rather, as a fierce competitor, he just didn’t want the Wankers to lose my match and jeopardize the overall score.
I underwent some treatment on my arm that afternoon to ready myself for the next day’s matches. But then at dinner Emmo voiced the same refrain: "You won’t play tomorrow with that elbow." I didn’t argue, because I was really hurting, but I couldn’t silence an inner voice — hey, this guy Emmo really wants to win; that must be why the Wankers come out on top most years.
So there I was, reduced to the status of an injured observer for the final day of the competition, while the Wankers vied for — but ultimately missed out on — the coveted title. I was standing at courtside behind Emmo, watching one of the last matches, my elbow swaddled in ice secured by an Ace bandage. The camp director walked over to Emmo, and I overheard what he said. "Emmo, that was very good sportsmanship on your part — to concede the matches your guys couldn’t play because of injuries — even though it cost the Wankers the championship." Emmo promptly replied, " Oh well, it was the right thing to do. The other team came out ready to play, and we couldn’t field a full team."
It was a moment I’ll never forget. How I had misjudged the man! Emmo was not only a legend, but a true gentleman, hailing from a time and place that’s almost impossible to replicate today.
And I — the big-shot lawyer with the frail forearm — had not only ignored the peril that lurks in drawing an unwarranted inference, but had been instrumental in Emmo’s beloved Wankers failing to repeat as champions. Quite simply, I wasn’t "ready to play" — a grim self-image that (as you might guess) required some determined fending off of possible analogies to other aspects of life.
So listen Buster, don’t give me any of that baloney about second childhood — I’ve just come back from retirement kindergarten!
