Jack M. Dunmead

I remember Jack very well - and I spent only one day in his presence. Actually, it was less than two hours that we shared the same space, breathed the same air. It was sometime in the 1970s. Jack would be revered as head tennis coach at Brockton High School, ranked high among the elite players in New England. I was sailing along up and down the ladder in the Braintree town tennis tournament, taking on all comers and beating all but two of almost 20 opponents. I lost only one match and tied one other. I thought I was a hotshot when I wound up in the finals against another player with only one loss. So, Mr. Hotshot decided to enter a tennis tournament in Boston's South End. I figured I might draw a player I could defeat, or at least perform well enough to raise some eyebrows. Wrong. As a true amateur, a household name only in my own household and in the office of the Braintree recreation department, I drew a genuine hotshot - Jack Dunmead. I had never heard of him, and he certainly had never heard even a whisper of my name. No matter. We shook hands at the start of the match, all even at 0-0. He served first. I stood back near the baseline as the ball whizzed toward me, took one bounce and, with enormous spin, flew over my head. My racquet, a wooden Wilson Jack Kramer model, never made contact with the ball. Dunmead up, 15-love. Serve number two. Whoosh. Bounce. Spin. Bye-bye, birdie. Dunmead up, 30-love. Next, my serve. A virtual lollipop, which came back to me - rather, toward me - and away, beyond my reach. My second serve. Ditto. Game one, Mr. Dunmead. From that point on, Jack realized what he was facing. Not wishing to embarrass me (any further), he eased up on me and I actually made racquet contact with some of the fuzzy spheres headed in my direction. Jack was respectful of my standing, allowing me to play some tennis with back-and-forth exchanges but maintaining his status as an elite entrant. I didn't win a game, lost, 6-0, 6-0, but walked off the court with a measure of dignity. Dignity and a ton of respect for my opponent. Jack Dunmead beat me good, but he did not crush my desire to play within my own bounds and against players of my own caliber. I walked off that court with my head high and a gleam in my eye, honored to have faced a true talent on a level of which I could never attain. More significant, I admired my opponent for caring about my feelings as much or more as he did the score. I had a racquet with the name Jack Kramer on it. Great player, that Kramer fellow. Truth be told, I'd be as proud or more proud if the name on my racquet read Jack Dunmead.

RIP Jack. I'm sure you're hanging out with our loved members of the great class on 1963.

I was a teammate of Jack on 1961-62 Varsity Basketball team at Springfield. The comradery, memories, and friendships will never be forgotten. Rest in Peace Dunster