Every morning I get a wake-up call at my hotel. Every morning a woman's voice comes over the line and states the same facts in the same moderately cheery tone: "Good morning, today it will be 72 degrees and sunny. Enjoy your day." Is she real, or a recording? I don't want to risk sounding senile by trying to talk to a tape.
OK, her message is not exactly the same every time. Yesterday she said it was going to be 75 degrees. Can a sunny and warm morning ever become oppressive? I'm never in the desert long enough to find out. All I know is that it beats clouds and rain. Here you wake up knowing the weather won't change your mood for the worse.
I spent yesterday hacking out two long mini-profiles of WTA players. In the meantime, the dog-eared notebook filled up with semi-decipherable scribblings again—phrases like "international aspect actually ends up emphasizing nationality." What could I have been thinking about when I wrote that? Below are my best translations of a few others.
—As a lifelong connoisseur of alienation, solitude, and voyeurism—the three foundations of all writing—I'm always fascinated by the airless socializing that you find in airport bars and hotel bars. I had a beer at the local Hyatt bar last night as I watched the night matches. Also in the room was Marat Safin, wearing a baseball cap that obscured his face. He was sitting and drinking a beer with three older gentlemen and chatting with Svetlana Kuznetsova. He was also very interested in the NBA game on TV, between the Lakers and my Philadelphia 76ers (who won on a buzzer beater, thank you very much).
Two tables away sat new WTA sure-shot Anastasia Pavlyuchenkova, 17 and wearing bright red pants. She was with a woman who I assume was her mother. At one point they got into a tremendous laughing fit. Each of them rolled on the couch, giggling to the point of tears. They would finally settle down on their own, but each time they looked at each other, they'd explode in laughter all over again.
—Fernando Verdasco's only misstep in his win Monday over Richard Gasquet was a literal one: He stumbled chasing a ball and crashed to the court heavily. But he got up quickly and gave Gasquet the I'm-OK thumb's up. The crowd cheered, and kept clapping as Verdasco dusted himself off and got back into his return position. Is this something only American audiences do? It's absurd, of course—imagine tripping on the sidewalk and getting an ovation for standing up. That said, it sounded nice.
—Poor Sam Querrey. He was playing so well, he was in his home state, his friends were watching, and the stadium was packed and pulling for him as he fought Stan Wawrinka through a third-set tiebreaker. Down match point, he hit a fabulous penetrating forehand up the line, but it ended up hurting him. He anticipated getting another forehand, so he moved in that direction. But Wawrinka's stab retrieval spun too far short and crosscourt, forcing Querrey into an awkward position and an even more awkward drop shot. He popped it way too deep. Just when he seemed out of the point, Wawrinka passed Querrey for the match.
Afterward, Wawrinka signed three balls and hit them into the crowd. Everyone screamed wildly as he held them above his head. But when he hit the first two to the same section of the stands, they booed.
—On Saturday I watched Ivan Ljubicic practice his no-look backhand. He would snap his head backward at his coach behind him and still hit a pretty solid and deep backhand at the same time. I thought, there's a veteran playing out the string. Four days and three wins later, I saw Ljubicic practicing his backhand this morning. He was watching the ball all the way.
—Where: Cafeteria at BNP Paribas Open
When: 3:30 the other day
Marion Bartoli is eating lunch with her father. Sam Querrey is punching up a Blackberry or IPhone and talking to the guys at the next table about the NCAAs. Agnieszka Radwanska is eating an ice cream cone. The Italian women players are playing cards. Daniel Nestor is eating the tennis-player's meal of choice, chicken and pasta. At a table in the corner, unnoticed, fiddling with a cell phone, is the central figure in last month's international tennis incident, Shahar Peer.
—Yesterday there was a roundtable press session with WTA chief Larry Scott. In a bow to the literal, it was held at a roundtable. Scott, tall, thin, smooth-talking, and impressive in a low-key way, gave us some news: Venus Williams will do an obligatory promotional video (necessary to avoid a suspension after skipping Indian Wells) on the same day she is in L.A. for the ESPYs—I guess the WTA has to take what it can get.
Scott also hopes to have Dubai back on the calendar, but only if they change their policy toward Israeli players; he defended his seemingly paltry $300,000 fine by saying any amount would have been a drop in the bucket and that the point was not primarily to punish them or run them off the tour but to force a change in the policy.
Finally, all WTA tournaments have held onto their sponsorships this year, but revenue will be down. Scott was honest enough to admit that, despite the sold-out first weekend here, that the BNP would also be down a few percentage points.
—Music played before matches in stadium court: "Where the Streets Have No Name" and "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" (for WTA matches). As someone who went to high school in the 1980s, I never thought I would have to ask this: Why do we love that decade so? Was it the last time when there was pop music that all of us listened to, so we all recognize it now?
—As for my own music, I'm actually staying too close to the site to enjoy much of it. Last night the slow drone of Luna's cover of "Ride Into the Sun" began as I drove out. I got to the turn-off to my hotel just when the song was gathering steam. I briefly contemplated staying on the road and listening some more, but I thought I might get lost. It was sad to have to turn it off. But I listened to the crescendo on the way to the site this morning. Next year I'll find a place that's less annoyingly convenient.
—I saw a woman hitting yesterday who I momentarily thought was Ana Ivanovic. Same black shorts, white T-shirt, and black visor. Then she went back for an overhead and hit it awkwardly as she was falling backward. I knew it couldn't be Ivanovic. It was Sania Mirza. Sometimes you have to see the players ranked just below the top to appreciate how smooth the best pros really are.
—The ranks of security here seem to have been culled from the retired. A white-haired gentleman in a spiffy blue baseball cap sits placidly "guarding" the press room's front door. I walk past him at least 20 times a day. We nod at each other every time. I wonder how many times he nods a day. He must wake up doing it by now.
—John Updike career-Slam update: We've had some developments on this front. Last night I was sitting with Kamakshi, Doug Robson of USA Today, and Matt Cronin of Inside Tennis. Joel Drucker came by. Matt said he thought that each of Updike's Rabbit books counted as a major title. We considered this. Then Matt said he thought John Irving was also a career Slammer. Joel instantly said no, Irving was the Michael Stich of writers. How he came up with that name so quickly, I don't know, but I have to say it makes a good deal of sense when you look at Stich's accomplishments at Slams. Owen Meany or Garp or Cider House could be a Wimbledon, the other two a French final and a U.S. Open final
This morning, upon further deliberation, Joel and I agreed that, if nothing else, Updike was the all-time leader in Masters Series titles.
—Last night I walked out of the elevator at my hotel right into a young couple coming the other way. They stopped and looked me in the eye for a second. As the elevator doors shut, I heard the woman say, "Not a player." I hung my head.
—Updike is all well and good, but I also brought along a book by another writing hero of mine, Lester Bangs (I plan my reading for my trips weeks in advance, just like you I'm sure). I used to sneak my Lester Bangs anthology along with me when I went to the library in college. It was so easy to put down Wordsworth and pick Lester up. I also went through 20 years of bound copies of Rolling Stone magazine in that same library. I guess I learned it well, because after graduating I sent 50 or so applications for internships at magazines in New York. I got one response—from Rolling Stone.
Anyway, Lester has given me my favorite line of my trip so far. Here he is describing how the band sounds on Patti Smith's Horses:
"The general primitivism makes you realize you're a mammal again and glad for it, licking your chops."
My new goal for the week: Write something half that good about a tennis match.
OK, with that inspiration in mind, I'm out to the courts. Going to watch some men's tennis today. Rafa-Nalbo should be a good way to end it. Licking your chops?