Well, I suppose it's a distinction of some sort: Roscoe Tanner is the first Australian Open champ to go to jail.

Although tennis players have generally been reasonably law-abiding types, Roscoe joins a few notable exceptions.

Wimbledon finalist of 1879, Vere (St.Leger) Goold, an Irishman, was convicted of murder, along with his French wife, and died in 1909 on Devil's Island, the notorious prison in French Guiana.

The great American champion of the 1920s, Bill Tilden, did jail time, two short sentences, late in his life on morals charges.

Peaches Bartkowicz, a top ten American of the 1960s, was incarcerated for manslaughter, having killed a man while driving a car.

Perhaps the most prominent was the 17th century Italian painter Caravaggio, better known for strokes with a brush. He, a poor loser who made John McEnroe, Jimmy Connors and Lleyton Hewitt seem meek, had to go on the run after killing a tennis opponent.

Although Tanner was engaged in nothing that serious, his criminal career is startling to those who knew him as a handsome, well-bred young man out of Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, a graduate of a fine university, Stanford. Seeming the proverbial all-American boy, he was an All-American player in college, a faultlessly tailored left-hander with a dynamite serve that earned him the nickname "Bullet Man," and millions in prize money and endorsements.

In winning the Aussie Open of 1977, he beat three Hall of Famers in succession: Tony Roche, Ken Rosewall and Guillermo Vilas. Four years later he collaborated with McEnroe and Peter Fleming as the U.S. seized the Davis Cup.

But that potent left hand would write bogus checks, one of the discrepancies that got him into trouble, and jail in Germany and the U.S. And the terrific smile and conversational ease convinced innumerable women as well as business associates of his sincerity.

Still, to me, Roscoe will always be the hero of a little known tale of his Wimbledon flim-flam that I call the "Water Closet-gate Affair." I'll get to that shortly.

While singles was his forte, Roscoe was also very good at doubles on the tennis court - and beyond, as in a double life. This led to romantic tangles, fathering an illegitimate child, posing as a successful celebrity though broke, and failing to pay child support in a couple of directions.

When I last talked to him, by phone, 18 months ago he was in a Florida jail, extradited from Germany, and extremely contrite. "I was totally wrong and irresponsible," he said. After purchasing a yacht he couldn't afford with a bouncing $ 46,400 check, he sold the boat and fled to Germany to play in a senior tennis league. Arrested there, he did time "in a very tough jail." But, he said that watching an American preacher on TV, he found God, and was determined to repent and lead a Christian life.

A short time later, transferred to a Florida jail, he awaited trial regarding the rubber checks and child support. "I had gotten in over my head, made some bad business deals, and was trying to maintain a life style of a big shot," he told me. "If they'll just give me a chance I'll show them I've reformed."

Facing a judge who was taken by his winning manner and promises to make up for past transgressions, Roscoe was freed on 10-year parole. The condition was that he would make restitution for well over $ 100,000 in debt and child support payments. A friend gave him a club job as a teaching pro, and he appeared headed along a proper path. He even wrote a recently published memoir, confessing all, declaring himself a new man.

But appearance and actuality have been his differing problems. At age 55 he's back in the slammer, a two year sentence for parole violations, no closer to paying what he owes.

Thinking of glib Roscoe in that Pinellas County, Florida, cell, reminds me of his hiding out in a small chamber at Wimbledon before the brightest moment of his life, the 1979 final. That was, the "Water Closet-gate Affair."

It was the first year that my network, NBC, broadcast the Wimbledon men's final live, beaming it onto the East Coast of the U.S. at 9 AM. Thus began a traditional telecast called "Breakfast at Wimbledon."

A splendid idea after years of stale following- day taped presentations. But there were a couple of snags. Bjorn Borg, the stoic Swede, was shooting for his fourth straight title. But neither opponent the network hoped for as his adversary - McEnroe or Jimmy Connors - made it that far. We were left, unimpressed and fearing the worst - a brief, one-sided final - in the hands of Tanner.

Even worse was the refusal of cooperation by the starchy Wimbledon management. Meaning that they wouldn't budge for a mere 10 minutes in the starting time. It was and is common practice of American TV networks (and perhaps Australian) to schedule the times of sporting events. "Precisely at 2 PM" had been the sacrosanct Wimbledon championship round start for generations. Going on the air at 2, we wanted a first ball at 2:10, giving us time for a slickly illustrated lead-in, some introductory babbling by the commentators, Donald Dell and I, and - the all essential - opening commercials.

"Not on," harrumphed the chief executive, a retired army officer named Maj. David Mills. Why?

"Never been done," was his terse final word, despite the heavy rights fee paid by NBC. "My God," lamented our boss, Don Ohlmeyer. "By 2:10 and we're ready, Tanner may have lost the first set."

What to do? Afterwords I learned that Dell, Tanner's agent, had informed Roscoe of our plight. Smooth actor, as he would become known, Roscoe took over. Later I was told the whole thing by Peter Morgan, then Wimbledon's master of ceremonies, the man in charge of getting the players to Centre Court on time.

"I went into the changing room," Morgan recalled, "and greeted Mr. Borg. Time to go, I said. But there was no sign of Mr. Tanner. I asked Mr. Borg is he'd seen his opponent. He shook his head. No.

"So I called out, 'Oh, Mr. Tanner. Time to go.' Many times. No answer. So I began to search. First the shower room. Possibly he wanted to loosen up with a warm shower. Not there. Then the room with the tubs. No luck."

Time was passing. We went on the air and wondered why no players inhabited the court. It was 2, but they hadn't even appeared for the knockup.

Morgan, feeling a little desperate in losing one of his charges, went to the line of toilet stalls, the water closets, and began knocking on doors. "Oh, Mr. Tanner. Please. We're due at Centre. Please, are you there?"

At the last closet, he heard a groan. "Yeah, I'm here. Don't feel too good."

Sounded plausible before Roscoe's date with the Swedish executioner. "But," Morgan said, "I couldn't go in and drag him out, could I."

Presently Roscoe emerged, and we'd had plenty of time to set the stage for what would be his grandest performance. Not only did he accompany Borg in coolly bowing to the Royal Box as the customary prelude but Roscoe refused to bow to Borg. Battling for five sets and damned near beating Bjorn in the fifth (6-7, 6-1, 3-6, 3-6, 6-3, 6-4), Tanner made "Breakfast at Wimbledon" a cordon bleu feast that has since continued as a sporting staple.

NBC, now given some leeway by Wimbledon, should be grateful. Maybe send Roscoe a medal or make sure the bloke has room service as long as he resides in his Pinellas County dungeon.

Imagine this guy on the verge of a Wimbledon final, yet`` with the gall to hold up the show, and con the master of ceremonies. A minor sin, but all the folks he has bilked since would understand.