There is a myth that has lingered far too long, one that says a beach vacation has to be expensive to be memorable. That to feel sand under your feet and hear the rhythmic crash of waves, you need a five-star resort, pricey cocktails, or a plane ticket halfway around the world. The truth is …
Houston, September 20, 1973. The Astrodome throbs like the belly of some giant neon beast, and I’m in the middle of it, ears ringing, brain boiling, heart sprinting like a rabbit trapped under floodlights. This isn’t tennis — don’t let anyone fool you. This is bloodsport dressed up in polyester whites. This is a carnival, …
