On Howard

Remembering Howard Fendrich, 1970-2026.

PARIS, France — I first started covering tennis tournaments in 2008 as a self-starting blogger, with no formal training in journalism or sports reporting. So I learned the craft by watching the more experienced reporters around me, trying to distill the qualities that made them so damn good at their jobs.

Liz Clarke, a sportswriter for my hometown Washington Post, was one of the first role models I had. Her dedication to staying on site until the last ball was hit each night at the tournament in Washington was particularly instructive. While many other reporters would leave before the end of an uninteresting-seeming last match, Liz knew she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for failing her bosses and her readers if something crazy or unexpected might happen.

That type of dogged, lighthouse-keeper ethic was most personified on tour by another tennis reporter I met soon after: Howard Fendrich of the Associated Press. As the leading tennis reporter for the country’s biggest wire service since 2002, Howard was entrusted with covering everything that happened in tennis. He kept watch of the entire landscape and condensed it into clear, compact, and concise capsules for newspapers big and small around the country.

I never learned Howard’s gift for brevity—as Bounces readers will know well—but I could at least learn to match his endurance. So often, in the ungodly hours when tennis matches end on a long night, Howard and I would be the last two reporters remaining after the rest of the room had emptied out. If John Isner was finishing a U.S. Open match at 2:26 a.m., Howard and I would be there to get his thoughts on the loss. If Daniil Medvedev no-showed a press conference at 3:30 a.m. after losing to Learner Tien in Melbourne, Howard and I would be the two exchanging glances in the empty interview room.

Howard’s indefatigability was also matched by an industriousness few others could match. Wire reporting for a robust outlet like the AP requires constantly filing and re-filing reports as updates and upsets roll in, somewhat like disassembling and reassembling a plane in mid-air. Howard not only manned that battle station vigilantly, he also wrote insightful profiles and features on top of his basic duties.

While many wire reporters are often content to sit tethered to their desks as results and transcripts trickle in, Howard was out “in the field” as much as any reporter at tournaments. He was a reliable presence courtside, where he usually had his trusty binoculars with him to keep an eye on what was going on around the stadium. Howard also reliably contributed thoughtful questions both at the biggest press conferences and in the small interview rooms, always asking them with his signature halting cadence that betrayed deep knowledge and competence.

His eye for stories extended beyond tournament times. One of the most memorable recent stories of Howard’s was a December 2024 feature on Jenson Brooksby, masterfully balancing an unprecedented story that involved both autism and anti-doping.

Sometimes Howard had AP teammates to help him; just as often, he manned the beat alone at big tournaments, working the long hours required to do it all. As the overall number of traveling tennis journalists shrunk, the visibility and necessity of Howard’s work for the AP grew exponentially. If your hometown paper “only” had AP reports from Howard, you were still doing well.

In a media ecosystem that frequently rewarded being loudest or fastest or spiciest, Howard stewarded his readers along with a calm, discerning clarity, and prose that was always sober while others fell under the influence of one intoxicant or another. Reporters need a finely-tuned bullshit meter to cover tennis successfully, and Howard’s was one of the very best.

Especially in my first years on tour alongside him, Howard could be an admittedly intense, intimidating presence. Particularly at the U.S. Open, where demands on him were highest, getting shushed by a jittery Howard-on-deadline was a right of passage for squirrely young reporters. But with time, both as he got to know the younger crop and as he generally mellowed, Howard’s curmudgeonly exterior melted to reveal a warm, sweet, and playful person, always happiest when discussing his wife and sons (or chatting on the phone with them in his fluent Italian).

To my delight, Howard had recently became more open and eager for trying to squeeze in dinners off-site when possible—after the matches had all ended, of course.

Howard Fendrich, center, presenting Coco Gauff an award on behalf of the International Tennis Writers Association, along with his co-president Simon Cambers.

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I had no idea when I arrived to Paris that I’d be writing about Howard in the past tense here. It wasn’t until Wednesday night that I heard, via another AP reporter who was sent here to cover for him, that Howard was sick. A day later, I heard he’d died. I later learned he’d been ill since the Olympics in February; I felt terrible that I hadn’t seen him in any of those intervening months. I miss him deeply already.

In recent nights, other reporter friends and I have been toasting Howard and sharing reminiscences over wine and beers on warm Paris nights. It’s been lovely, and it’s been awful.

The news of Howard’s death was a gut punch, both because he was a singular presence—and just 55 years old—and because it was another data point to increase the staggering attrition rate in this job in recent years.

There aren’t many people who do this niche full-time profession of writing about tennis, and how the premature deaths have piled up in this small population is frankly harrowing.

Tom Perrotta, a tremendous writer who did most of his work for The Wall Street Journal, died at 44 in early 2021.

Mike Dickson, the longtime tennis correspondent for The Daily Mail, died at 59 during the 2024 Australian Open.

Mark Hodgkinson, a former tennis correspondent who turned into a prolific author of tennis books, died at 46 this February.

All of these men, like Howard, left behind a wife and children.

I can’t pretend to be able to make sense of this horrible pattern. Sure, this job involves a mix of strenuous-but-sedentary hours, stress, and sleep deprivation that can’t be healthy for a person. But it’s also a dream job in so many ways, and I don’t want to let myself think that it’s been killing us.

Nothing about Howard and these others being gone can ever feel remotely fair or correct. But I do at least feel grateful to have been guided by Howard for as long as I was, since he stewarded the rest of us on these choppy, murky seas as well as anyone ever could. I hope I can continue seeing his lighthouse forevermore, shining on as the bright beacon he always was.

Rest in peace, Howard.

Thanks for reading Bounces. -Ben