By John Branston

Fred’s gone.

The man we could least afford to lose died Saturday.

Among many other things, he was a tennis player, and thanks to our mutual friend Pepper Rodgers I was one of his playing partners for 40 years. He called us “the leisure time boys” because, as newspaperman and coach without a team, we could get from downtown to his house in East Memphis by five o-clock most days. The court in his backyard, of course, was “Smith Stadium” and the many children and grandchildren who played in the yard and had to be shooed of the court “Smithereens.”

Fred was usually a minute or two late, and when he saw that I was in the match would shout, “Hey John, what’s in the news?”

Often the honest answer was “You are” but I would mumble something about a trial, public meeting, or gossip I had picked up while loafing through lunch at The Little Tea Shop downtown.

He was a good player when I met him, like all of us are in the fog of memory. Big serve, big crosscourt forehand, crummy lob (“Never ever lob!!!” he would scold himself after hitting one). He both was and was not particular about playing partners, including retired pros Terry Moor, Mike Cahill, Sandy Mayer, Rob Cadwallader, and Donald Dell.

At any age he tried to run down every ball. Once he crashed headfirst into the net post chasing one of my miss-hits. But for the grace of God . . .  Like all of us, he missed a call now and then and would defend his honor forcefully if challenged.

As everyone knows, he was a Marine through and through. After the warm-up, he would say “Captain so-and-so (his partner) will line us up” but he always played the forehand court. Likewise, he deferred to his partner to make the call on the spin of the racquet for first serve, which in the autumn of our years meant making the opposition go first. “Specialization,” he intoned, “is the key to any successful organization.”

His post-match conversation was discreet, topical, informed and usually off-the-record. He loved to talk sports, especially football when Pepper was in the game. He had a near photographic memory for old college fight songs and – prompted or baited — would launch into a verse in full throat. (The Listening Lab at Crosstown Concourse pays tribute to Fred and his high-school buddies John King, John Fry and Ardent Records.)

When the commentary and post-match analysis of some ordinary moment drifted into boastful exaggeration, as it often did, he would crack in mock solemnity, “Ah, yes, where will we find such men?”

Now he is gone. Where will we find such men, indeed?

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To read more John Branston’s posts, go to categories on the right side of this blog’s home page and select his name.   

John Branston has been contributing to Smart City Memphis for four years. Before that he wrote columns, breaking news, and long-form stories for The Commercial Appeal, Memphis Flyer, Memphis magazine, and other print and online publications. He is author of the books Rowdy Memphis (2004) and What Katy Did (2017). He is a journalist and opinion writer.  His stories are based on reporting, interviews and quotes supported by notes or a tape recorder. He has written about people who made Memphis what it is, for better and worse; about sleep issues and depression; about racquet sports; and about travel in the South and West.