Day 1: America's Game

Somewhere along the way tennis ceased to be thought of as a quintessentially American sport—it’s “international” now, for better and for worse, like swimming, cycling, track and field, soccer, and a dozen other games no one cares about here. Yes, tennis is played around the world, and no, it can’t match NASCAR’s regional homogeneity, but no country has a longer or stronger tennis tradition than the U.S. Tilden, Wills, Budge, Kramer, Gonzalez, Connolly, Gibson, King, Evert, Connors, McEnroe, Sampras, Agassi the Williams sisters—that’s a history.

If that list of champions is impressive to us, it must also be a little daunting for a young U.S. player. It’s a lot to live up to—in our minds, an American is supposed to be No. 1. Andy Roddick still can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that he wasn’t able to continue the tradition of dominant No. 1 U.S. men begun by Connors and extended by Sampras. Fittingly, the first day of the U.S. Open offered a variety of examples of today’s U.S. players and how they’re measuring up to the tradition of excellence that hovers over them. I’ll start with the final, and most obvious, example and work back from there.

Venus and Serena Williams

At first, the idea of having the Williamses play back to back after a tribute to Althea Gibson seemed like overkill, something better reserved for an exhibition. But it ended up having a unique appeal—put together, they make for a star-studded evening. And they were a bracing tonic after the ahistorical feel-good singalong of “Respect." The Williamses walked out one by one and showed, as they have for 10 years, what it really takes to get respect in tennis (and pretty much anywhere else): a harsh and overt dedication to destroying their opponents. Last night Venus looked good—fresh and eager, she hit a 129 m.p.h serve—in continuing that tradition, while Serena struggled against a surprisingly game lefty from Germany named Angelique Kerber. Serena was bottled up most of the night in a dress with a bow, and earrings that could have been taken off a muffler service-award plaque; she finally ripped the bow away (I hope the poor designer wasn’t watching) and put Kerber away.

Donald Young

The Williamses are the embodiment of the U.S. tennis tradition at this point. Two years ago, it was thought that Young would become the male version. A smooth and talented black kid trained by his parents, he was the No. 1 junior in the world at 15. He earned a wildcard into the Open in 2005, was leveled by a journeyman in straight sets, and went into a year-long tailspin, eventually losing the first 11 matches of his pro career.

Yesterday, DY was back in the same spot, on the same court, against another journeyman, 6-foot-7 Aussie Chris Guccione. This time he was ready for the Show. Young was very good in every department. He returned Guccione’s serve with ease, placing it at the big guy’s feet, followed those returns up with impressively pinpoint passes, and made a few ridiculous gets off Guccione’s volleys.

OK, Young’s defense has never been a problem; it’s his offensive weapons that have been questioned, and he's still undersized by pro standards. But his serve is now a respectable, Nadal-like, 115 m.p.h., and he can pounce on a short ball with his forehand as quickly as anyone in the game. But you got a sense that Guiccone, a serve-and-volleyer, was the right guy for DY to play because (a) he gave him a target to hit past at net, and (b) he didn’t force Young to create or play much offense. Now the American gets Richard Gasquet, which is an intriguing match-up of former golden boys who have taken their knocks on tour. This time Young will have to slug it out from the baseline and create openings against a quick and talented shot-maker. By the end, we may have a better idea of what this particular future of U.S. tennis holds.

Alex Kuznetsov

Young has always been a media darling; Kuznetsov, on the other hand, while also a hotshot U.S. junior in his day (he lost to Gael Monfils in the French a few years ago), has labored in side-court obscurity since turning pro in 2004. The 20-year-old Ukrainian turned Pennsylvanian has never been ranked higher than No. 158 (he’s currently No. 186) and had to rely on a wild card from the USTA for his spot in this event, and a first-round match-up with talented wild man Nicolas Almagro of Spain.

Kuznetsov, small at 6-foot-0, 168 pounds, is the definition of workmanlike. He plays straight-ahead, north-south, power-baseline tennis without a lot of flash or angle. Sweating profusely under his baseball hat and walking with a forward hunch, he makes tennis look like hard damn work. Almagro was clearly the better—the more casually varied and creative—player from the beginning, but Kuznetsov would not give in. He managed to scratch his way into a tiebreaker in the third set.

There he began to shout, loudly and in Almagro’s direction, every time he won a point, including when his opponent made an error. Almagro, as you might expect, didn’t take to this; he stared back at Kuznestov with a sarcastic smile, then walked intentionally and perilously close to him on the changeover at 3-3, saying something under his breath that made Kuznetsov look back. It was getting nasty out there; the American kid seemed to have reached a point of desperation. This was his last shot at his home Slam, or likely any Slam, for another year, and perhaps the last main tour match he would see for months.

I looked around at the sparse and scattered crowd that had gathered in the late afternoon. Kids were slumped forward between points, staring at the ground. Three teenage boys looked shot after a full day of tennis and sun; their baseball hats were turned sideways. Older married couples were trying to figure out what country these guys were from. Applause was perfunctory. Meanwhile, as I said, an intense little war was taking place on the court in front of them. But with no real rooting interest for the spectators—there was a shout of “Go Alex” here and there, but he’s too unknown to have anything approaching a fan base—the battle seemed to rage at a distance from us. This is the way many pro tennis matches play out. Is this entertaining, I wondered. Watching Kuznetsov was like watching someone try to do something as brutal and basic as scale a wall or pass a test. Only a serious fan of the sport itself could have found it as fascinating and dramatic as I did.

In the end, Kuznetsov didn’t make it. At 4-4 in the breaker, he rallied well and set himself up for a big midcourt forehand, then drilled it four feet wide. At 5-4, Almagro reached back and casually hit a kick serve for an ace in the ad court, a shot Kuznetsov simply can’t match. After winning the final point, Almagro let loose with a long, wild, celebratory scream and pumped his fists. The two players didn’t make eye contact when they shook hands.

John Isner

After witnessing that hard, obscure moment, I wandered into its opposite, a love fest for an American Cinderella in Louis Armstrong Stadium. Big (as in 6-foot-9) John Isner, recently of the University of Georgia, was about to finish off Jarrko Nieminen—a very solid win for the 22-year-old American. Isner looks like a circus act in person; he’s taller than the wall around the court, and he barely had to reach upward to shake the umpire’s hand after the match. He’s also loose as a goose, bouncing the ball between his legs when he serves and moseying around between points. As with Sam Querrey, the mellow attitude (call it tall-man’s syndrome) seems to help Isner in the clutch. He has no trouble belting his second serve 115 m.p.h, slugging his forehand into the corner even after he's just hit it 10 feet out on the previous point, or coming to the net behind nothing. That last "tactic" paid off when he was serving for the match at 5-4 in the fourth. At 30-30, Isner popped up a half-volley; 99 times out of a hundred, Nieminen would have knocked it past him. But this time the match was on the line, and he knocked it straight into the tape.

Isner had lucked out. The packed stadium (to see a qualifier vs. Jarkko Nieminen!) loved every minute. The new Cinderella spoke after the match like an awed Southern kid in the big city. If Alex Kuznetsov was watching in the locker room, he may have wondered what he would have to do to ever make that happen. Go to college? Come to net? No—just be nine inches taller. It may be goon tennis, or it may be a new American tradition.