The New Yorker:

From 2018: In 1968, the same year that Arthur won the U.S. Open, Johnnie made a decision that he thought would spare his brother from facing the “ugliness” of a devastating war.

By Louisa Thomas

It was not always easy being Arthur Ashe’s brother. How could it have been? “I was constantly being compared to Arthur, being asked why I wasn’t a clone of Arthur,” Johnnie Ashe told me recently. Arthur was born in 1943, Johnnie five years later. From an early age, it was clear that Arthur was special. “Let’s face it: Arthur was a prodigy,” Johnnie said—and not just because of his skill with a tennis racquet. Arthur read the encyclopedia for fun. He talked with the lawyers, teachers, and doctors with whom he played tennis—the well-educated black middle class of Richmond, Virginia—about the events of the day. “Arthur was a sponge,” his younger brother remembers. Johnnie looked up to Arthur, and he revered his principled, disciplined father. But Johnnie was wired differently, and was exposed to different things.

Through tennis, Arthur saw a world outside Richmond. He spent his summers travelling around the United States, boarding with tennis players who hosted juniors, improving his game, and expanding his world view. He got something out of it that many other young men might not have.

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