The Judge Is Reversed Read Online Free PDF Page A

who’ll gobble Wilson. Mears had won, probably got pro offer. Now nope. For God’s sake make up your mind.”
    Pam sorted correctly, since she had had practice. She said, “Even a pro offer?”
    â€œDepends,” Jerry said. “Guarantee’s gone as high as fifty thousand for the first year. Could be, Mears lost that in less than a couple of hours. Irritating, sort of.”
    â€œIt would me,” Pam said. “And blamed Mr. Blanchard. Who seems to get a good deal of blame. Speaking of cats—”
    They spoke of cats, when Jerry was not speaking to other drivers, for some time. They decided to be resolute against pointed ones.

3
    Al Laney, writing in the Herald Tribune , hit the nail most precisely on the head, Jerry North said, and read applicable sections aloud to Pam, who was reading the Times and displayed forbearance and a modicum of attention.
    â€œDoug Mears, one of the most promising of our younger players, lost a good deal yesterday,” Jerry read from the works of Mr. Laney. “He lost a match he should have won easily, his temper and, probably, whatever chance he may have had of a bid to join the professional ranks this year. He revealed that he lacked the one essential of a really good player—the ability to concentrate on the point in play and to remain unruffled by adverse decisions.”
    That there had been cause for young Mr. Mears to become upset, Mr. Laney admitted. More foot faults had been called against him in a single set than against any player in Mr. Laney’s memory, with the possible exception of one famous incident, which Mr. Laney did remember. On the other hand, the calls had been made by John Blanchard, an official of long experience—although more often seen in the umpire’s chair than on a line—and unquestionable impartiality. Relaxed as the foot rule had become, it remained a rule, and not one which could be ignored. “It is the opinion of most observers,” Mr. Laney wrote, “that Mears has for a long time ignored it flagrantly, and that he is not alone in this.”
    It was, admittedly, unfortunate that the calls came on crucial points, at moments when Mears had been close to running out the first set. But this did not justify the young man’s open display of anger, culminating in what looked uncomfortably like a smash directed intentionally at the linesman in question, nor the subsequent collapse of his game. Mr. Laney did not wish to detract from the excellent play of Ted Wilson, but—
    Pam had burrowed back into the Times . Jerry finished the account of the semi-finals at Forest Hills, but finished it to himself. They sat in their apartment, a typical American couple, knee deep in Sunday newspapers. Jerry put the sports section aside and regarded his wife. He could guess about where she was.
    â€œHow’s Reston this morning?” he asked her.
    â€œWonderful,” Pam said. “It’s one of the translations of public statements ones. Sssh.” Jerry sshed. “Simply marv—Jerry!” Pam said. “Here he is again!”
    Jerry ran a hand through his hair.
    â€œReston?” he said, without much hope. “James Reston?” He did not know that the use of Mr. Reston’s given name would bridge this utter gap in relevance. It was worth the try.
    â€œReston?” Pam repeated. “I just finished Reston. Why would I say he was here again? Why again, I mean?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Jerry said, keeping it as simple as he could.
    â€œBlanchard,” Pam said. “In letters to the editor. The ones they save for Sunday because—listen!”
    Jerry listened.
    â€œâ€˜The writer of the following letter, a prominent New York attorney, is widely known as an authority on cats and has written about them extensively,’” Pam read. “At the bottom it’s signed ‘John Blanchard.’ And—”
    â€œRead it,” Jerry