Forty Years After French Open Win, Yannick Noah Endures as a Star

To the world, Noah is the last Frenchman to win his country's Grand Slam tournament. In France, his legacy and life loom over every man who has played tennis.

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By Matthew Futterman

Photographs by James Hill

Reporting from Paris

Yannick Noah was nervous.

He was on familiar and, for him, sacred ground at Roland Garros, in the stadium that has been so central to his life, where he has watched, played and won so many matches, including the biggest of his life, and served as the ultimate tennis talisman and guru for his countrymen.

There was even that night after the finals, long after he had retired, and it was late, and after many drinks had been consumed, he convinced the staff to keep the lights on just bright enough and let him and his friends play some tipsy, barefoot tennis on the red clay.

But he had never performed on Philippe Chatrier court like this, which is to say, never given a concert as the version of himself that has for the past three decades dominated his life: the African-pop-reggae star of sorts. But then the band was waiting on the stage, and the public address announcer was calling his name, and nerves be damned, Noah, barefoot on the court once more and pulling off pedal pushers as gallantly as any 63-year-old man possibly can, was walking across the red clay, with the microphone to his lips waving and singing his opening song.

"I lived my best moment here," he said later, during a news conference more packed than it would have been for any active player. "I have memories everywhere here, including my first kiss."

Sorry, he did not drop a name, though wouldn't we all like to know.

Forty years ago Noah etched his name into the history of France, winning the French Open men's singles title. That victory, which stands as the only title by a Frenchman at the French Open in the past 77 years, is one of those sports moments that is part of the broader French consciousness, a precursor of sorts to France winning the men's soccer World Cup in 1998 with a team filled with stars with African heritage.

Everywhere else, Noah is known as the swashbuckling and effortlessly athletic Cameroonian-French player who won that big tournament a while back. Tennis fans of a certain age smile at the mention of his name.

In France, his legacy and life loom over every man who has played tennis since as something nearly impossible to live up to — French Open champion, and the winner of 23 ATP titles.

Then there is his post-playing life: international music star; the winning captain at the Davis Cup, which he celebrated by leading his team in an epic version of the African conga dance that accompanies his hit song; a leader of his village in Cameroon. It's cool stuff.

Early last week, on the eve of his debut in a Grand Slam tournament, Arthur Fils, France's 18-year-old next big thing, was told that Noah had been talking him up. He cocked his head and opened his eyes wide. Fils was born more than two decades after Noah's magic moment, but he has spent his life watching that match point replay on French television.

"Of course he is one of my idols, from a long, long time," Fils said.

Nicolas Escudé, the former top-20 player who is now the national technical director for France's tennis federation, said he and so many French players have been struggling with the burden of Noah's legacy for decades. No Frenchman even made the third round this year.

"In my position and even before when I was a player listening to this constant, ‘Hey, you know, we need a successor for Yannick Noah,’ listening to this again and again is a pressure," said Escudé, who is 47.

Grand Slam tournaments are tennis's version of the Star Wars bar — lousy with past champions collecting pats on the back and paychecks to do television commentary or rub shoulders with sponsors. Someone like Noah, on the 40th anniversary of one of this tournament's biggest moments, would figure to be all over Roland Garros.

Not so much.

He stuck around for about 24 hours after the pretournament concert at Philippe Chatrier, where Mats Wilander, his opponent in the 1983 final, joined him for a rendition of "Knocking on Heaven's Door." The following day he attended the unveiling of a mural at Roland Garros celebrating his title. It was a private ceremony, closed to journalists and most of the public. And then he headed off to a music festival and his other life. On Sunday he performed in Caen, a small city a few hours’ drive west of Paris. .

"For me, tennis is like some other time, like another life," he said. "Once every 10 years, you know, they remind me I was a tennis player."

Like the rest of his life, the origin story involves that magical combination of destiny, talent and fortitude. Arthur Ashe spotted Noah at a tennis clinic during a tour of Africa in 1971, then quickly called his friend, Chatrier (the guy the stadium is named for), at France's tennis federation. He told him there was a boy in Cameroon that had the makings of a champion.

Soon Noah was living in France, and by the early 1980s his huge serve, speed and grace had made him a force on the professional tennis tour. His physique — 6-foot-4 and shoulders made for rebounding — is more common in this era than his own.

Then came the dreadlocks that caused a stir in the staid world of an almost entirely white sport. Ahead of a Davis Cup final against Noah and France in 1982, John McEnroe, who was not exactly a creature of the establishment, remarked that he was "more afraid of his new hairstyle" than Noah's game.

The following spring, Noah romped to the French Open championship. He playing career officially ended after the 1996 season, with more titles than any Frenchman before or since.

By then he was already deep into his music career. His song "Saga Africa" had become a hit in 1991, leading to a dual focus that soon began to tilt toward music.

"When I was losing tennis matches, I was telling people I was a singer," he said.

He moved back and forth between Europe and the United States, appearing in the stands of basketball games while watching his son, Joakim, became a college and N.B.A. star. Noah may not be around Roland Garros much this year, but Joakim was often in the player box of Frances Tiafoe, an American who is the son of African immigrants and is one of the tour's few highly ranked Black players.

Noah spends much of his time in Cameroon now. The photo that accompanies his mobile number shows him standing in front of a turquoise sea, sipping through a straw from a full martini glass, peering out from under the brim of a baseball cap.

The dark dreadlocks are gone, replaced by tidy and appropriately thinning salt-and-pepper hair. There are lines across his forehead and bags under his eyes. But the gap-tooth smile, the soft voice, his "there-is-more-to-life-than-tennis" ethos, and that combination of swagger and approachability, it's all still there. In the middle of the concert, he took a lap through the stadium, singing into the microphone in one hand, high-fiving and embracing the crowd with the other.

The growing distance between the public and tennis players troubles him, he said, especially when social media is supposed to get them closer to fans. He has little use for the game's code of conduct, which he said stifles players, preventing them from showing emotion on the court.

Those emotional outbursts from McEnroe and Jimmy Connors, and even Noah on occasion, once helped draw the common sports fan to an elite game. Also, emotions are at the core of the sport, he said. Ask the players he coached to the Davis Cup title what he talked about with them, he said. He rarely mentioned tennis, just emotions.

He worries about the future of French tennis. The are no coaches who have won at the highest level, so young players have no true expert guidance. Escudé dismissed Noah's point of view, and said he's not so available anyway, but Noah said he is around for occasional chats.

"If the players call me, I’m here. But time is passing," he said.

For whatever time Noah has left, he will always cherish June 5. He looks at the video of the winning point and imagines people watching it when he dies. People stop him every day and tell him where they were when he won. Some have said they flunked their exams because they watched the match instead of studying, but they cherished being a part of the country's cultural history.

"For them it was a day that counted," he said. "And I was there. I was at the core of that."

Matthew Futterman is a veteran sports journalist and the author of two books, "Running to the Edge: A Band of Misfits and the Guru Who Unlocked the Secrets of Speed" and "Players: How Sports Became a Business." @mattfutterman

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