It wouldn’t be the U.S. Open without a gala opening-night ceremony to celebrate how devoid of greed and bursting with diversity the sport is, how it’s played by shiny happy children from every park and street around the country. This year it was a tribute to “athletes who give back,” the most prominent of which was Andre Agassi, who has devoted much of his non-playing time over the years to building a school for underprivileged kids in Las Vegas.
These ceremonies are also designed to broadcast the continuing health of U.S. tennis, the promotion of which is the USTA’s stated mission. Whatever you may have heard to the contrary, the health of the sport here isn’t all that bad at the moment, as America’s across the board success at Wimbledon demonstrated. Beyond our homegrown players, this country can take at least half-credit for the success of Maria Sharapova, Jelena Jankovic, Tommy Haas, and Dmitry Tursunov, among many others.
Still, the question dogs the organization, and people like me who work in the sport: What’s wrong with American tennis? I hear it from players at my local club and relatives looking for a conversation starter, any conversation starter, with me. I have a few answers—we’re not as hungry as the Eastern Europeans; we play too many other sports; we don’t learn footwork playing soccer; we’re too fat. But really, none of these hold up when you think about the sheer number of people in this country and the sheer amount of money available for it compared, say, to a place like Serbia. And really, are the Swiss hungrier than we are?
And while we had a good Wimbledon, and while Serena Williams will likely remain the most dominant woman player for as long as wants to, there’s legitimate fear for the future in this country. Where’s the next Serena? Where’s the next Agassi? While it’s his post-career legacy that was on display tonight, Andre also served as living proof that not very long ago U.S. tennis was dominant on the men’s side as well, and that it still benefits from old-fashioned immigrant desire to carve out an identity in an adopted country. Agassi's father, Mike, was an Olympic boxer for Iran, and he transferred all of his vicarious drive for success to his kids. Andre, as we saw tonight, is the shiny product of that drive, a remarkably polished man in his late-30s who looked completely at home in a suit on a huge stage speaking at length about his by all accounts very successful foundation. You wouldn’t have known Agassi had ever been a tennis player, except for the little hop step he did, in his dress shoes, right after he blew kisses to the crowd, the same way he always had after a win.
Agassi was equally poised, and even inspiring, in his press conference afterward. Asked about his evolution from peroxide punk to tennis’ resident life coach, he began with a joke: “not only did I drop out of 9th grade, but 8th grade was the best three years of my life.” Then he pulled a 180 and made the room go quiet when he said that he wasn’t done yet, that we’d need to talk to him in the future about where he was, that he would “continually ask the most of myself.” I have to say, I found myself vowing to do the same thing as I walked out of the presser.
But Agassi or no Agassi on court, the first few days at the Open are still the best chance all year to see the current state of U.S. tennis—like the other Slams, the tournament gives the lion’s share of its wild cards to natives, most of whom will be gone by end of the first week. So, thinking of the Agassi legacy, both on-court and off, I spent the day catching up with four Americans.
First up on Court 7 this morning is Donald Young. He’s facing No. 14 seed Tommy Robredo, who looks more imposing and more explosive from this close-up vantage point. The place is packed, but the pressure in the air is less intense than it once was for Young, when he first made the jump from the juniors to the pros four or five years ago. He hasn’t changed much since then. He’s still a little undersized, even though he’s listed as 6-feet tall, he still doesn’t get much extension or weight transfer on his serve, and his strokes still aren’t as heavy or penetrating as someone like Robredo’s. But he’s as quick as anyone around, and he’s learned to use that quickness not just to defend side to side, but also to transition all the way to the net off of virtually any forehand.
All of which should be enough to earn Young a better ranking than his current 185. His biggest problem is the simplest: an inability to win. He routinely goes up 30-0 in games only to lose them; he follows up an excellent serve by missing a forehand by an inch; he drills a stunning backhand volley directly at Robredo, who pokes it away for a winner; and down 3-4, with Robredo serving, he briefly goes up 0-30 only to have the chair umpire overrule a call in his favor. Instead of it being 0-30 and having a half-chance to break, Young starts over at 15-15. Robredo serves two aces and a service winner to hold. This, in the end, is what separates Robredo from Young: The Spaniard gets free points on his serve; the American doesn’t. Though I also get the feeling, like I always do watching DY, that he’s just a little unlucky.
What advice might Andre Agassi give to this snakebit kid? He might tell him, like so many others have, to get outside coaching rather than sticking with his parents. Andre’s father recognized that early, when he sent his son across the country and gave him a new equally driven second father, Nick Bollettieri.
Next up in the parade of Yanks is Devin Britton, an 18-year-old wild card and NCAA champion from Mississippi who’s laboring inside a breezy Ashe Stadium against none other than Roger Federer. Watching the 6-foot-3 Britton bend low to reach for a backhand, I wish that he and Young could be fused into one player: He’s got the height and a strong serve, and he seems as relaxed as Young does edgy; what he doesn’t have is DY’s speed or ball-striking ability.
Britton has been advertised as a serve and volleyer, but he doesn’t do much of it against Federer, whose forehand, Britton says later, “scares him.” He also says that he hits a few balls toward that side intentionally because he loves to watch Federer hit it (“it’s pretty”), and that after he broke the top seed’s serve in the second set, he experienced the “best 10 seconds of my life.” They ended when he lost the next 12 points.
So what might Andre say to inspire Britton, who is currently ranked No. 1375, but who did reach the semis of junior Wimbledon this year? He might tell him to have the courage and arrogance to stick with what you do best—if that's serve and volley, then serve and volley—no matter who's on the other side of the net. He might also agree that Federer is a beautiful player to watch.
Out on Court 4, an American is winning. California’s Robert Kendrick, 29, is rolling, in fact, up two sets and a break over Martin Vassallo Arguello of Argentina, who is putting up only token resistance. Kendrick, blond, narrow-eyed, and 6-foot-3, looks like he should be playing in cream slacks circa 1950. But it’s 2009, so he’s got a backward baseball cap on instead. However he looks, he’s playing consummate Big American tennis. He’s moving his serve around the box. He’s sticking volleys from below net level. He’s pinning Vassallo Arguello back with his forehand. He’s even taking first serves and knocking off backhand return winners. Kendrick can get negative, and he can overcook simple shots at the wrong moments—like Young, he doesn’t win as much as you think he should when you watch him hit the ball. But for today, at least, he looks like the modern, updated, less-well-dressed version of California legends like Jack Kramer and Ellsworth Vines. Long live classic American tennis. How long will it last? He’s got a half-American next, Tommy Haas.
!Gb There’s one more American on the side courts, a teenager from Brooklyn via Ukraine named Gail Brodsky. Here’s immigrant desire—her father came to New York with nothing, delivered pizzas, and taught Gail tennis—in the flesh. Brodsky, yellow-haired and tan, looks and acts more Russian than she does American, until her flat New York accent comes out when an overrule goes against her: “Wha?” she asks the chair umpire. But her intensity is pure Eastern Europe—she screams at the sky, slaps her thigh, fist-pumps vehemently after each winner, and levels the ball with a flat two-handed backhand every chance she gets. She also, alas, loses in straight sets to 20th seed Anabel Medina Garrigues. Brodsky has the intensity, but looks like she lacks the weapons. Unlike, say, Serena or Maria Sharapova, when she levels a ball with everything she has, it doesn’t fly past her opponent all that often.
What does any of this prove? For one, the U.S. is too diverse to pigeonhole one problem with its young players. Young is an African-American with immense talent; Britton is a jocky but gawky Southerner; Kendrick plays vintage California tennis without quite enough polish or consistency; and Brodsky is a few inches short of the American dream. Which takes me back to Andre. For all of his classy sparkle tonight, he came up tough and foul-mouthed, a mulleted punk. He may disavow everything about his original self—he said today that “he’s not terribly thrilled with the decisions he made as a kid or my understanding of anything”—but his vulgar and arrogant side was what originally made him a great tennis player. Agassi was pushed by his father, the way so many other kids are. But then so were his siblings; only Andre had the raw talent and physical skills to make use of his dad’s thwarted, overweening desire.
Like Agassi said tonight, there are 300 million people in this country; there’s no excuse for us not to have our share of top tennis players at all times. Then again, his unique life journey only proves the real truth about raising tennis players, a truth proven again by both Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal: Every champion is an aberration. U.S. tennis fans should have known it all along—there’s only one Andre Agassi.