To this day I have no idea where our mum found the money for her, my younger brother Glen and me to catch a train to Melbourne from Perth in the summer of 1976.

We were dirt poor so I can only imagine she sourced some cash from her rich sister, our Aunty Nancy or her mysterious Uncle Bill, who we never met and lived a solitary life in a bedsit in St Georges Terrace, Perth.

Whatever the case, we were grateful for the opportunity to leave the isolation of WA and see our sister Pam, whom we adored and still adore, and who had married a Victorian some five years prior and moved interstate.

Pam always made our lives richer on the rare occasions she came home. Selfless and kind like our mum, she left school at fourteen to help with the disfunctional nature of our family.

Dad, the ten pound widower Pom with three kids. Mum, divorced with four of her own coming together and having two more was challenging. Being stuck in the middle for Glen and I was at times confusing but Pam was always unconditional in her love to the point that she changed her maiden surname to Wilson from Troode to feel more connected to us.

Pam worked for thirteen years in a very profitable café in Albert Road, Melbourne, just near The Shrine. She managed a team that pumped out hundreds of sandwiches for the local office workers during the day, commencing before dawn.

I fell in love with Melbourne that trip. I liken it to the only time I visited New York for a few weeks as an adult. The multi-culturalism, the noise and that sense of anonymity. I don’t mean that in a self-conscious or vain sense, more-so I just enjoyed the fact that no one barely paid you any attention and Melbourne has always been like that for me.

Then there’s the sport. Pam took us to the MCG with eighty thousand others to see a test match, Australia versus Pakistan. Glen and I being the footy and cricket nerds we were, almost spontaneously combusted with joy. It cemented in my mind that I would be back to Melbourne as soon as I could, that being the summer of 1986.

Pam’s boss and owner of her café was a Greek guy named Ross. Very confident and gregarious was Ross, and he was keen to take Pam and us three pilgrims out to a posh dinner.

Glen and I were thirteen and ten respectively and had never been to a restaurant before and never would up till we left home (Red Rooster doesn’t count).

Ross decided to take us to The Hilton at Jolimont adjacent to the MCG. Mum, Glen and I quickly realised we were out of our depth but nodded our heads in an orderly, compliant fashion when Ross ordered drinks and food.

Suddenly a very tall African American man wearing denim bib and brace overalls walked towards me with another man. His gait was so effortless it looked  like he was on a travellator.

If he wasn’t so handsome and instead had mirrored sunglasses on and was smoking a cigarette, he could have been mistaken for a Harlem pimp.

I immediately recognised him as the great Arthur Ashe, the previous year’s Wimbledon men’s singles winner and to this day the only black man to win singles titles at Wimbledon, The US Open and Australian Open.

He sat at a table with his friend facing me about ten metres away. Everyone in true Melbourne fashion, ignored him but I couldn’t.

“Mum, Glen, don’t look now but that’s Arthur Ashe”, I whispered unable to contain myself.

For the next twenty minutes I glanced at him, and he glanced back occasionally acknowledging that he was being stalked by a child. Pam grabbed a serviette, pushed it across the table and said, “go get his autograph. If you don’t you’ll regret it.”

That was enough for me. Pam gave me a pen and I walked straight at him when he was in mid conversation. He seemed relieved that I’d finally made the move and smiled warmly as I approached. He could see how nervous I was so I didn’t have to say anything. He simply signed, smiled and shook my hand.

So I was going through some old stuff in the garage last weekend and found the serviette. My mum had kept it in some old flat jewellery case she picked up at an op shop and it’s been there for fifty years.

Ironically I’ve just finished reading John McEnroe’s entertaining autobiography called Serious.

I loved Mac. I didn’t approved of his maniacal on court behaviour but I loved his tennis nonetheless. I should be angry with him because I didn’t get to see him live until the round of sixteen in the 1990 Australian Open.

It was centre court versus Pernfors from Sweden. He was up, then a bad line call. He swore at the referee and was defaulted, sent home in disgrace. I screamed, “you cannot be serious!”

Anyway the book is great and it’s a fascinating insight as to why he lost his ‘blob’ so often. Mac was a team person. He starred in doubles and Davis Cup when other top five players refused to do so. He was always uncomfortable in a solo environment.

There were only two people who Mac never remonstrated with due to their even temperament. Firstly Bjorn Borg of course. Utmost respect and to this day close friends.

Secondly Arthur Ashe. Mac says in his book and I quote, “It was match point for Arthur (an ATP final). I served and he hit an unplayable forehand right past me. It was in but the linesman called my serve out. Arthur dropped his shoulders – for him the equivalent of a ten minute tirade.”

Mac would go on to play lots of Davis Cups under Arthur when Arthur was non-playing captain and whenever Mac would reach the precipice of madness playing singles, he would look across to Arthur on the sidelines and miraculously chill out!

Arthur sadly lost his life at forty nine but left behind an enormous legacy both on and off the court. How I can still so vividly remember meeting Arthur is perhaps testament to his greatness because I’ve forgotten what I had for breakfast.