Bill Simons
Today tennis journalists around the world are in shock. One of the great writers of our era, the AP’s Howard Fendrich, lost his battle to cancer. He was just 55. Here’s my remembrance.
•••••
It was a mess.
One night, sitting outside in the old press seats at Roland Garros, I was working away in the late night Parisian air, putting the final touches on a story. Little did I know that they’d locked the place down.
I was stuck.
It seemed I’d be out there all night, abandoned in the chilly winds. But as I pounded on a door, trying to gain someone’s attention, one guy had my back.
Howard let me out. You always knew where Howard Fendrich stood – the solid professional, ever curious, gifted, incisive, going the extra mile and putting in the hours.
And I always knew where Howard sat.
Working in a distant corner in the Roland Garros press room, up on the second floor, and not far from the Serbians and Croatians at Wimbledon. At the US Open, he always sat right behind me.
Each year I knew I was in for a two-week existential experience, a deep-dive immersion into deadline journalism at its best – raw, fast, thorough, no excuses, yet always fresh with insights. Oh, did Howard know how to touch all the bases and tell a story.
This was Advanced Journalism 404: Howard and his AP team were always sweating the details. And there were always issues: technical glitches, lost copy, or bigwigs who interrupted and needed to be schmoozed.
Howard rarely hesitated to let it all hang out. When I’d go back to California and had to defend my own intensity and random profanity to my wife, I thought of the classic movie “My Girl Friday,” and Howard – the quintessential, go-for-it deadline journalist of our era.
Yes, I remember being with Howard not far from the Royal entrance, outside portal P at Wimbledon as we waited for Richard Williams or some other dignitary to descend so we could grab some precious quotes.
Howard and I would often do mid-tournament interviews in the tiny back rooms of great arenas: a little room at Wimbledon where a proper portrait of Queen Elizabeth looks down at you, or a claustrophobic cubby at Roland Garros.
In interview rooms, Howard would invariably ask incisive, reflective questions. I loved it when he thought out loud, like Naomi Osaka.
But my favorite Howard moments were when I heard him talking on the phone with his children, his tone soft and kind. You know, it was vintage “Father Knows Best” stuff – praising the achievements of his sons Stefano and Jordan, coaxing them to do their homework – and there was always a sweet moment when he said, “Love you., miss you.”
The life of a road journalist is not always easy.
And now Howard’s gone, and, while my shock still resonates, a reckoning sets in. We’ve lost an icon – endlessly curious, fast, intense, committed, and the epitome of professionalism. Howard – I will miss you in little rooms and grand stadiums. Our trade will never be the same.