Sometime in the late 1970s, sports fans in this country got fed up with their commentators. This might not seem like a particularly unique event—I’m ready to hit the mute button after about 15 minutes in front of any game—but it helped inspire the NFL and its TV partners to try one of their less-successful experiments. In December 1980, NBC broadcast a meaningless regular-season game between the Jets and the Dolphins without announcers. I can remember watching a few minutes of it and wishing that someone, anyone, would start talking. There was no rhythm or flow—no significance—to the actions of the anonymous helmeted men pushing each other around on the field. The commentators, while hardly beloved, were back the next week. I’ve periodically had tennis fans ask me, “Why do we even need announcers for matches?” I’ve always answered by referencing that football game and asserting from that evidence that talking heads are necessary—a necessary evil at times—for all sports. But in the last two days I’ve come to think that tennis may be an exception to that rule.
On Monday and Tuesday I tuned into Key Biscayne on TennisTV.com at work. The website has been carrying men’s and women’s matches from the two main show courts at Crandon Park (right now my account allows me access only to the ATP's). Some of these matches are being called in the normal way, by two guys in a booth; others, to my initial surprise, have no announcers at all.
Like I said, I regularly mute tennis broadcasts in favor of a soundtrack from my IPod. The upside of this is that it keeps me from having to hear anyone talk over the play; like TENNIS Magazine’s editor, James Martin, who wrote an anti-blather polemic on our website last year, I’m strictly less-is-more when it comes to commentating. The downside is that I don’t get to hear the ball hitting the racquet, or any of the other ancillary sounds that are part of attending a tennis match. The announcer-less matches on TennisTV let me hear those sounds—the pop of an ace, the frustration in a player’s voice after he misses, the sound of a single, lonely set of hands clapping after a routine error early in a match; the quiet milling around that goes on during changeovers—better than I can when I’m watching on television and there’s someone chattering over them. The experience of seeing a tennis match live has been returned. You don’t feel like you’re there, exactly; you feel more like an invisible spy (or butterfly, if you wish) inside the arena.
Today we got to witness Tsonga-Simon and Roddick-Monfils in fabulously surreal silence. What’s strange is that the rest of the broadcast’s production remains intact. The view, as it does on TV, shifts between the camera at the top of the stadium, which shows us the points, and those at court level, which give us the close-ups of the players. Without voices to accompany these shots, the camera becomes a silent and omniscient spectator. It shows you what’s happening from every angle without telling you anything about it. The interpretation is yours.
The first thing I noticed is that the players seemed less like stars and more like players, or even regular guys, to me—maybe it’s the fact that I didn’t hear their names nearly as often. Whatever the reason, without hearing about their histories or records or reputations, I tended to judge them by what I saw of them in front of me. Roddick lost some of his strutting veneer; he just seemed like a guy trying to take care of business out there. Ditto Tsonga. Monfils’ physique and absurd length struck me more forcefully than usual. You're being fed less information about each person, which paradoxically gives you more perspective on them.
Even better, you don’t have to listen to any advice for, or criticism of, the players. No frustrated cries of “why doesn’t he follow that to the net” or boilerplate about “getting more first serves in.” In between the two silent matches, I watched a little of Murray-Troicki, which had announcers. After Murray raced out to a 3-0 lead, one of them said, with mournful disapproval, that this “was just an awful start” for Troicki. I watched Troicki get ready to hit his next serve. I would have said from looking at him that he was behind, but that he was still trying his best and trying to figure this match out, like anyone else, and that there was no cause for despair. On the whole, I felt more negative, more worried, when I watched with announcers. The sport, and the spectating, felt more like work. During the silent matches, I found my own way of thinking about what I was seeing, and that relaxed me.
Beyond that, it was clear to me now that harping on tactics, which all commentators do, is unrealistic. If you’ve ever played a tennis match, you know that many, many points involve no strategy whatsoever. They involve reactions, improvisations, muscle memory, and luck, all things that can easily be observed without having to be explicated.
On Saturday, Justin Gimelstob pointed out how much of the power Juan Monaco gets into his backhand came from his left hand, and how that gave him more natural crosscourt angle on the shot. I thought I would miss this kind of technical talk, that it made me more aware of individual players’ little strengths and weaknesses. I didn’t miss it at all. As with the strategy chatter, this stuff now seemed like a distraction from the wider aesthetic enjoyment of a tennis match that I get on my own. Watching live, with no one else in your head, is the best way to appreciate the simple, face to face format of the sport, as well as the many varieties of athleticism and personality that are showcased within it—what else do we need?
I'm not prepared to say that I want to see the Wimbledon final in silence just yet. Some things deserve to be hyped and babbled about (though I wouldn't mind having the option of tuning out certain Grand Slam announcers selectively). And who knows, we might get lonely being on our own during tennis matches. But at the end of the Tsonga-Simon match today, as they approached each other for their handshake, I noticed for the first time in my life how the camera went out toward them. The lens—or the guy carrying it—moved forward along a straight line and at a smooth pace that still managed to convey urgency. The bright white of the net cord, which was on the camera's right, made the perfect frame for the shot. (And the handshake is urgent. The camera must capture it or, as every true tennis fan knows, a match will feel incomplete emotionally.) After three sets in the sun, the two Frenchmen ambled up, smiling, and shook hands with the playful, sheepish respect that comes from being old friends who must also be adversaries. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what to think about that.