Culture
He Ran Marathons in Prison. Boston’s Was Easier.
BOSTON — Out of all of the runners within the first wave of the Boston Marathon on Monday, there was one lean, muscular marathoner with skinny ankles from Northern California for whom all of the nervous vitality had profound significance. Markelle Taylor, a former lifer at San Quentin State Jail, was working free for the primary time.
Only a week earlier, Taylor — who was launched from jail in 2019 — obtained phrase that after three lengthy years through which his actions had been severely circumscribed and touring required particular permission, he was lastly off parole. He stepped off the aircraft along with his working gear at Boston’s Logan Worldwide Airport a free man. “Man, that was a gorgeous feeling,” he stated, a hint of his Mississippi household roots evident in his accent.
On the fantastic morning of April 18, the coolness and crystalline skies paying homage to his Bay Space residence, Taylor, 49, felt higher and extra relaxed than he had in years. In his orange shorts, matching Nike Alphaflys and the tank he selected in honor of his Tamalpa working membership in Marin County, Calif., he set out decided to satisfy his purpose — working a 3rd consecutive marathon in lower than three hours. The “threes” had been significant for him: Parole listening to No. 3 resulted in his launch after 18 years of incarceration for second-degree homicide, and it took three years to get off parole.
Taylor, who earned the nickname the Gazelle, regarded like he’d been out for a stroll as he crossed the end line in 2 hours 52 minutes. He maintained a gentle tempo of 6:33 per mile and “didn’t go loopy” working too quick initially. He was ebullient as marathoners who seen his efficiency requested him to pose for selfies. “You had been like a metronome, man,” stated a fellow runner who used Taylor as his unofficial pacer. “So constant.”
Texts from his coaches, supporters and working pals from Marin started pouring in minutes later. They nonetheless are. “He’s mentally powerful and pushes onerous even when he’s hurting,” stated Diana Fitzpatrick, who has coached Taylor and is the primary feminine president of the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run. “The assist Markelle has gotten from the group is all due to who he’s.”
The tight group of Tamalpa Runners, who just lately elected Taylor to their board, helps hold him on an excellent keel. He’s proudly 21 years sober and counting. “They maintain you accountable,” Taylor stated of the membership’s members, who’ve accepted him with out judgment from the beginning. “It will get you out of your lazy mode. In case you inform somebody you’re going to run with them, you don’t need to allow them to down.”
Taylor ran his first sub-three-hour marathon in California on the Avenue of the Giants final September, the place, cosseted by redwoods, he completed with a time of two:56:12 and positioned first in his age group and fifth general. He was accompanied by his longtime mentor Frank Ruona, who, because the lead volunteer coach of the 1000 Mile Membership at San Quentin, helped him hone his skills.
Earlier than the emergence of Covid-19 — which ricocheted via San Quentin and curtailed membership actions for over two years — Ruona and different achieved volunteer coaches organized two half-marathons and one full marathon a yr, the topic of a forthcoming documentary.
Taylor was 27 when he was sentenced to fifteen years to life for assaulting his pregnant girlfriend, which led to the untimely start and eventual dying of their little one. He grew up a sufferer of home and sexual violence, was hooked on alcohol and had a historical past of intimate companion violence.
He used that jail sentence as a chance to interrupt out of previous patterns. “It forces you to develop up, mature and be smart,” he stated. “It makes you a greater particular person.”
Taylor was impressed to start out working as an antidote to despair after an in depth buddy died by suicide after his fifth denial of parole. The 5-foot-10 Taylor was by far the quickest runner within the 1000 Mile Membership, incomes the felicitous nickname Gazelle due to his lengthy, clean strides, leg velocity and beauty below strain. “Working was a type of freedom,” he defined three years in the past. “It was my remedy, a manner of escaping. It stored me grounded.”
In January 2019, Taylor earned a qualifying time for the Boston Marathon by powering via 104½ mind-bending loops across the jail yard. He was launched six weeks later. With assist from supporters — together with a high California Division of Corrections and Rehabilitation official who turned out to be a runner herself — Taylor was granted permission to run in Boston if he caught like glue to the coach who traveled with him. He ran with a charity staff within the rear corral however completed with the primary wave in 3:03:52, a private greatest on the time.
When he runs onerous, he’s reminded of the errors of his personal previous within the ache he experiences in his left ankle, which is embedded with steel screws — the results of leaping a wall whereas being pursued by three Rottweilers (“I used to be drunk and I believed I may leap,” he recalled).
“Anger is a secondary emotion to harm, stress and concern,” he stated about his former self. “It’s like a wounded canine. In case you contact it, it can snap at you and chew you to guard itself as a result of it’s hurting. It’s the identical factor with folks.”
A lot has modified in his life since then. A mere three years in the past, Taylor was residing in a re-entry facility within the Tenderloin district of San Francisco the place residents had been required to take a Breathalyzer check, take away their sneakers for a contraband test and go via a steel detector on the door. Right now, Taylor lives in his personal sponsored one-bedroom house in one of many Bay Space’s most coveted and prosperous communities — Tiburon. “Man, you’ll be able to’t beat that,” he stated.
However, the challenges he faces as a previously incarcerated Black man proceed to be formidable. Taylor has held quite a lot of jobs over the previous few years, most just lately working in a shelter-in-place motel for previously homeless folks run by Catholic Charities.
He loved “serving to folks change their lives,” having skilled related obstacles, he stated. When the nonprofit’s contract with the state expired, Taylor was disillusioned to be taught he was all of the sudden out of a job. To make ends meet, he’s now working for minimal wage at a grocery retailer.
The symbolism of marathons isn’t misplaced on him. “Working is humbling,” he stated. “Typically it’s a must to begin from the again, identical to I’m doing now with minimal wage. It’s like making an attempt to go up that hill after 18-plus miles — typically you may get cramps and stuff like that. That’s like being rejected from a job you need as a result of they requested for fingerprints.”
“Being Black and residing with a prison background, irrespective of how profitable you’re at the moment you’re all the time haunted by the previous,” he continued. “Similar to a few of these hills, society typically could be very unforgiving — except it reaches their very own yard.”
But he additionally believes that issues occur for a motive. Had he not obtained a life sentence, he would most likely not have change into a runner, kicked his alcohol dependence or developed into the nice and cozy, secure presence he’s at the moment. This week he advised some new acquaintances that he was working for the next energy, a reference to his religion as a Jehovah’s Witness. He want to discover work as a coach or peer counselor that would conceivably flip right into a profession.
Taylor launched a fledgling athletic clothes line final yr, an concept he had nurtured since his time in jail. Its brand is predicated on a silhouette of Taylor breaking chains whereas working. And this week in Boston, the slogan on the garments grew to become true: “Markelle the Gazelle Runs Free.”
Culture
The Books We’re Excited About in Early 2025
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A new year means new books to look forward to, and 2025 already promises a bounty — from the first volume of Bill Gates’s memoirs to a new novel by the reigning Nobel laureate, Han Kang, to a biography of Rosemary Woodruff Leary, the wife and psychedelic collaborator of the counterculture pioneer Timothy Leary.
On this week’s episode, Gilbert Cruz and Joumana Khatib talk about some of the upcoming books they’re most anticipating over the next several months.
Books discussed:
“Stone Yard Devotional,” by Charlotte Wood
“Silence,” by Pico Iyer
“Onyx Storm,” by Rebecca Yarros
“Gliff,” by Ali Smith
“The Dream Hotel,” by Laila Lalami
“The Colony,” by Annika Norlin
“We Do Not Part,” by Han Kang
“Playworld,” by Adam Ross
“Death of the Author,” by Nnedi Okorafor
“The Acid Queen: The Psychedelic Life and Counterculture Rebellion of Rosemary Woodruff Leary,” by Susannah Cahalan
“Tilt,” by Emma Pattee
“Dream Count,” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
“Hope: The Autobiography,” by Pope Francis
“Jesus Wept: Seven Popes and the Battle for the Soul of the Catholic Church,” by Philip Shenon
“The Antidote,” by Karen Russell
“Source Code,” by Bill Gates
“Great Big Beautiful Life,” by Emily Henry
“Sunrise on the Reaping,” by Suzanne Collins
We would love to hear your thoughts about this episode, and about the Book Review’s podcast in general. You can send them to books@nytimes.com.
Culture
Grand Slam prize money is enormous. The economics of tennis tournaments is complicated
Four times a year, one of the biggest and most important tennis tournaments in the world sends out an announcement full of dollar signs and zeroes with the words “record prize money” scattered liberally.
The four Grand Slams, the first of which begins Sunday in Melbourne, are the high points of the tennis calendar. Players at the 2025 Australian Open will compete for $59million (£47m) this year — over $6.2m more than last year. In 2024, the four tournaments paid out over $250m between them, while their leaders spent the year aligning themselves with the players who make their events unmissable, whose gravity pulls in the broadcast deals and sponsorships, with their own dollar signs and zeroes.
Led by Australian Open chief Craig Tiley, the Grand Slams led the movement for a so-called premium tour which would pare down the overloaded tennis calendar and guarantee top players always being in the same events, let alone time zones. It would also lock swaths of the globe out of the worldwide spectacle that tennis represents.
The great irony is that despite the largesse and the cozy relationship, the players get a smaller cut of the money at the Grand Slams than they do in most of the rest of the rest of that hectic, endless season — and a fraction of what the best athletes in other sports collect from their events. The Australian Open’s prize pool amounts to about a 15-20 percent cut of the overall revenues of Tennis Australia, the organization that owns and stages the tournament, which accounts for nearly all of its annual revenue. The exact numbers at the French Open, Wimbledon and U.S. Open vary, but that essential split is roughly a constant. The 2023 U.S. Open had a prize pool of $65m against earned revenue from the tournament that came out at just over $514m, putting the cut at about 12 percent. The U.S. Open accounted for just under 90 percent of USTA revenues that year.
The explanations from the Grand Slams, which collectively generate over $1.5bn (£1.2bn) a year, run the gamut. They need to dedicate hundreds of millions of dollars each year to fund junior tennis development and other, less profitable tournaments in their respective nations — an obligation pro sports leagues don’t have. There is a constant need to upgrade their facilities, in the silent race for prestige and primacy of which the constant prize money one-upmanship is just one element.
That dynamic is not lost on players — least of all Novak Djokovic, the top men’s player of the modern era and a co-founder of the five-year-old Professional Tennis Players Association (PTPA).
“I’m just going to state a fact,” Djokovic said during a post-match news conference in Brisbane last week. “The pie split between the governing bodies in major sports, all major American sports, like NFL, NBA, baseball, NHL, is 50 percent. Maybe more, maybe less, but around 50 percent.
“Ours is way lower than that.”
Since 1968, the first year in which the four majors offered prize money as part of the Open Era’s embrace of professional tennis players, the purses have only grown. The 1968 French Open was the first to offer prize money, with Ken Rosewall earning just over $3,000 for beating Rod Laver in the final. The women’s singles champion, Nancy Richey, was still an amateur player, so could not claim her $1,000 prize. By 1973, lobbying from Billie Jean King helped convince the U.S. Open to make prize money equal for men and women through the draws; it took another 28 years for the Australian Open to do so year in, year out. Venus Williams’ intervention helped force the French Open and Wimbledon to follow suit in 2007.
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‘I think we deserve better’: How and why tennis lets women down
Fifty years after Rosewall’s triumph in Paris, the 2018 men’s champion Rafael Nadal took home $2.35million, an increase of over 73,000 percent. The year-on-year increases at each major are more modest, usually between 10 and 12 percent, but that percentage of tournament revenue remains steadfast, if not entirely immovable.
The Grand Slams argue that there are plenty of hungry mouths at their table, many more than just the 128 players that enter each singles draw each year.
“Tennis Australia is a not-for-profit and a business model built on significant investment into delivering the event and promoting the sport to drive momentum on revenue and deliver consistently increasing prize money,” Darren Pearce, the organization’s chief spokesperson, said in a statement this week.
Money from the Australian Open also helps fund tournaments in Brisbane, Adelaide and Hobart, as well as the United Cup, the combined men’s and women’s event in Perth and Sydney. Pearce said the prize money increases outpace the revenue growth.
The Grand Slams also point to the millions of dollars they spend on player travel, housing, transportation and meals during tournaments, though team sport athletes receive those as well. Eloise Tyson, a spokesperson for the All England Lawn Tennis Club, which stages Wimbledon, noted that overall Grand Slam prize money had risen from $209million in 2022 to $254m last year, a 22 percent increase.
“Alongside increasing our player compensation year-on-year, we continue to make significant investment into the facilities and services available for players and their teams at The Championships,” Tyson wrote in an email.
Officials with France’s tennis federation, the FFT, which owns the French Open, did not respond to a request for comment.
Brendan McIntyre, a spokesman for the United States Tennis Association, which owns the U.S. Open, released a statement this week touting the USTA’s pride in its leadership on player compensation, including offering equal prize money and the largest combined purse in tennis history at the 2024 US Open. A first-round exit earned $100,000, up 72 percent from 2019. Just making the qualifying draw was good for $25,000.
“As the national governing body for tennis in the U.S, we have a broader financial obligation to the sport as a whole,” the organization said.
“The USTA’s mission is to grow tennis at all levels, both in the U.S. and globally, and to make the sport accessible to all individuals in order to inspire healthier people and communities.”
None of the organizations outlined a specific formula for determining the amount of prize money they offered each year, which is roughly the same as a percentage of their parent organizations overall revenues. That may be a coincidence, though the Grand Slams also have the benefit of not facing any threat to their primacy.
The USTA’s statement gestures at how the structure of tennis contributes to this financial irony. In soccer, countries and cities bid to host the Champions League and World Cup finals; the Olympics changes every four years and even the Super Bowl in the NFL moves around the United States, with cities and franchises trying to one-up one another.
The four Grand Slams, though, are the four Grand Slams. There are good reasons for this beyond prestige: the infrastructure, both physical and learned, required to host a two- or three-week event at the scale of a major year in, year out is available to a vanishingly small number of tennis facilities around the world. There is no opportunity for another organization or event to bid to replace one of the Grand Slams by offering a richer purse or other amenities.
GO DEEPER
A year ago, tennis was broken. It’s more broken now
This dynamic has been in place for years and has become more important in recent months. The PTPA has hired a group of antitrust lawyers to evaluate the structure of tennis. The lawyers are compiling a report on whether the the sport includes elements that are anti-competitive, preparing for a possible litigation with the potential to remake the sport.
The ATP and WTA Tours, which sanction 250-, 500- and 1000-level events as well as the end-of-season Tour Finals, give players a larger share of revenue. There is some disagreement between players and officials over how much it is and the methods of accounting; some player estimates hover around 25 percent, while tour estimates can be in the range of 40 percent. Both remain short of the team equivalents in the United States.
On the ATP Tour, the nine 1000-level tournaments have a profit-sharing agreement that, in addition to prize money, gives players 50 percent of the profits under an agreed-upon accounting formula that sets aside certain revenues and subtracts certain costs, including investments the tournaments make in their facilities. The WTA does not have such an agreement. It outlines a complex prize money formula in its rule book with pages of exceptions, not based on a guaranteed share of overall tour revenues.
The tours have argued that because media rights payments constitute a lower percentage of revenues than at the Grand Slams, and because the costs of putting on tournaments are so high, a 50-50 revenue share would simply turn some tournaments into loss-making entities and make tennis unsustainable as a sport.
James Quinn, one of the antitrust lawyers hired by the PTPA, said he saw serious problems with the model, describing a structure that prevents competition from rival tournaments.
Some events outside the 52-week program of tournaments — which see players earn ranking points as well as money — have official status (the Laver Cup is sanctioned by the ATP). But the remainder, such as the Six Kings Slam in Riyadh, which debuted this year and offered record prize money of over $6million to the winner, are not sanctioned, for now providing only a peripheral form of competition to ruling bodies’ control of the sport.
The Grand Slams, ATP and WTA insist this is for the best. They see themselves as caretakers of global sport trying to bring some order where chaos might otherwise reign.
Djokovic doesn’t totally disagree. He understands tennis is different from the NBA. He’s led the Player Council at the ATP, which represents male professionals, and he has seen how the sausage gets made and how complicated it is with so many tournaments of all shapes and sizes in so many countries. At the end of the day, he still thinks players deserve more than a 20-percent cut, especially since the Grand Slams don’t make the kinds of contributions to player pension plans or end-of-the-year bonus pools that the ATP does, nor do they provide the year-round support of the WTA.
“It’s not easy to get everybody in the same room and say, ‘OK, let’s agree on a certain percentage,’” he said of the leaders of tournaments.
“We want more money, (but) they maybe don’t want to give us as much money when we talk about the prize money. There are so many different layers of the prize money that you have to look into. It’s not that simple.”
(Photos: Kelly Delfina / Getty Images, Steven / PA via Getty Images; design: Dan Goldfarb)
Culture
6 New Books We Recommend This Week
Our recommended books this week tilt heavily toward European culture and history, with a new history of the Vikings, a group biography of the Tudor queens’ ladies-in-waiting, a collection of letters from the Romanian-born French poet Paul Celan and a biography of the great German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. We also recommend a fascinating true-crime memoir (written by the criminal in question) and, in fiction, Rebecca Kauffman’s warmhearted new novel about a complicated family. Happy reading. — Gregory Cowles
One of Europe’s most important postwar poets, Celan remains as intriguing as he is perplexing more than 50 years after his death. The autobiographical underpinnings of his work were beyond the reach of general readers until the 1990s, when the thousands of pages of Celan’s letters began to appear. The scholar Bertrand Badiou compiled the poet’s correspondence with his wife, the French graphic artist Gisèle Lestrange-Celan, and that collection is now available for the first time in English, translated by Jason Kavett.
NYRB Poets | Paperback, $28
Wilson’s biography of the German polymath Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) approaches its subject through his masterpiece and life’s work, the verse drama “Faust” — widely considered perhaps the single greatest work of German literature, stuffed to its limits with philosophical and earthy meditations on human existence.
Bloomsbury Continuum | $35
Through a series of vignettes, Kauffman’s fifth novel centers on a woman determined to spend Christmas with her extended family, including her future grandchild and ex-husband, and swivels to take in the perspectives of each family member in turn.
People love the blood-soaked sagas that chronicle the deeds of Viking raiders. But Barraclough, a British historian and broadcaster, looks beyond those soap-opera stories to uncover lesser-known details of Old Norse civilization beginning in A.D. 750 or so.
Norton | $29
Fifteen years ago, Ferrell gained a dubious fame after The New York Observer identified her as the “hipster grifter” who had prowled the Brooklyn bar scene scamming unsuspecting men even as she was wanted in Utah on felony fraud charges. Now older, wiser and released from jail, Ferrell emerges in this captivating, sharp and very funny memoir to detail her path from internet notoriety to self-knowledge.
St. Martin’s | $29
In her lively and vivid group biography of the women who served Henry VIII’s queens, Clarke, a British author and historian, finds a compelling side entrance into the Tudor industrial complex, showing that behind all the grandeur the royal court was human-size and small.
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