I had hoped to write a hardcore piece looking into the relative importance of the serve and return of serve in today’s game. Doing text commentary on the Olympics last weekend had forced me to watch tennis in a way I never had before, because I had to think of something to say after every single point. I was shocked by how that experience reinforced the two-decade-old words of my childhood coach in Pennsylvania: “The serve and return are 90 percent of the game,” he told us in no uncertain terms. He was talking about junior tennis, but after the Olympics I would say the percentage is only slightly lower, even in this era of the über-forehand and the rock-solid two-handed backhand, at the pro level today.
But after a day of watching a couple men’s and women’s matches closely, and trying to put something cogent together from them, I realized I don’t have anything conclusive, or even speculative, to say on the subject. Still, it was a beautiful day and I was all over the grounds in search of serves and returns. This is what I ended up with instead. It's called, I believe, making lemonade.
—After bearing witness to the glory of the London tabloids again at Wimbledon, I thought I’d see how New York’s measured up. Not so well: the closest thing we have to the Sun here is the New York Post. Today the paper devoted two very rudimentary pages to the Open. Nadal headline: "Shaky Opening." Headline for women’s night match: "Coco Fails to “Net” Victory in Flushing Debut." Weak! Though the paper did point out that Sampras, Agassi, Connors and Graf “were all no-shows” at the 40th anniversary ceremonies last night, and that “Playboy covergirl” Ashley Harkleroad “has done plenty of hiding since baring all,” withdrawing from her third event in a month.
—Ana Ivanovic today: This was the first time I’d seen her struggle with a lack of pace from her opponent. Usually it’s pace that hurts her. When she did win points, she celebrated by fist-pumping in her mom’s direction. I didn't see Mom fist-pump back, or even look at her. Ana's biggest celebrations came with an ululation: “Ay-yi-ay-yi-ay-yi.”
—I spent the early part of the day in the USTA’s President’s Box in Ashe Stadium. From these seats, you feel like the arena was designed for the pleasure of the people in them—every piece of Van Cleef & Arpels jewelry, every straw boater, every pair of Gucci sunglasses, every glass of white wine being downed in a luxury suite, every spectator dressed as if they’re ready to hit the court, every pressman with his feet up on the chair in front of him, is perfectly visible from this perch. Even the many rows of corporate logos that circle the court look tasteful from here. I know I’m getting away from my roots when I think I may be starting to like Arthur Ashe Stadium. Will we all like it 20 years from now?
For now, watching the audience, you might say that after four decades of Open tennis, the game has placed itself halfway between a yacht club and Yankee Stadium. Does any other sport occupy this territory? Is this a good thing?
—The only word for the Safin-Spadea match is ornery. Safin bangs a ball high in the air; Spadea mutters to himself even after holding serve. Each guy throws a half-dozen returns away by belting back first serves as hard as they can. When either of them starts to generate any momentum, it almost seems accidental, like they can’t believe they’re luck. Spadea does come to life at one point—after winning a point and pumping his fist, he seems to spot the good-looking girl in the corner of the bleachers and gives her an extra-long look. Once again: Gotta love Vince.
—It’s warmer out on the grounds. Maybe it’s the crush of people all around, or the sea of pavement we’re walking on, or the intensity of the players at the center of our attention, but the sun beats harder here. There’s no doubt that it’s not an easy environment for the players—they’re on display from all angles here more than they are anywhere else. But after making a circle of all the courts, I can only conclude that the USTA has, after 20 years of enlarging, landscaping, and doing their best to beautify what is still essentially a parking lot in Queens, has succeeded in civilizing the place. The food, which runs from Indian to good corned beef to Philly Cheesesteak to waffle fries, is now the best at any sporting event I know. It beats my earliest memories of the National Tennis Center, from the early 80s, In those days you ate hot dogs, drank cokes, and rode a very prominent escalator that had been placed directly behind one of the show courts. Now that had to be distracting.
—Even more distracting in the old days, of course, was the blistering roar of the airplanes out of La Guardia. They flew what seemed like a few hundred feet over the courts and obliterated all other sound. The planes were rerouted long ago; now you see them suddenly, for a few seconds, at the edges of the grounds, falling quickly out of sight. Tennis fans and the Kurds: Thriving in our no-fly zones.
—I don’t like the rule that keeps spectators standing in line outside of an arena for all three of the games that begin a set. I really don’t like it in New York, where the spectators behind you generally feel the need to provide instant, redundant commentary on every point (never mind that they can’t see these points). Waiting to enter Armstrong Stadium at the start of the fifth set of Gasquet-Haas, the two highly local guys behind us, after seeing the score on the jumbotron, then felt the need to vocalize that score. “Oh, it’s deuce!” “Ad!” “30-0!” “Do you beliece it, deuce!” I wondered why they even needed to go in and see the match.
—Haas-Gasquet: Why do Euros have smoother games, and in particular smoother backhands, than American players? Haas is especially perplexing. He was born in Germany but trained as a youth at Bollettieri’s, ground zero for creating powerful, herky-jerky ground strokes. But Haas’ one-hander is as slick as they come, without a flaw. How does this happen? The downside to these two Euros, I find myself thinking as the fifth set unfolds, is that they fall in love with their smoothness—they don’t sacrifice it for anything, and it leaves them playing without enough competitive purpose.
—The day ends back in the rarefied air of the President’s Box. Serena Williams is blitzing a Bondarenko as the sun goes down. Serena looks good once again, this time in red. Is she the all-time style queen of tennis? She certainly has no trouble making the vast majority of her opponents look drab by comparison. Today she is focused for the most part, delivering even on a delicate touch forehand crosscourt passing shot that I think she would normally miss at this rusty stage of a tournament.
When she does miss, she goes up on her tippy-toes in a funny way. It’s body language for, “Oh, I went too far,” and it’s a much daintier move than you might expect from this always fierce player. Late in the second set, this move comes in handy after she chases down a drop shot near the net. Serena pulls up, on her tippy-toes, and stops herself from running into the tape with about an inch to spare. She is dainty after all.
—Let me finish back with Haas and Gasquet. How do New Yorkers watch tennis? The French are judgmental, the Brits docilely appreciative, the Aussies friendly and knowledgeable. The reputation of NYC tennis fans is that they love the underdog, and we do. But what we love just as much is someone we know, someone we can feel, against all logic, a sense of loyalty to. A first-time visitor to the Open might have wondered why Haas had the crowd on his side today, rather than Gasquet—everyone around me, Americans all, was rooting hard for Haas. They might not have loved the Frenchman’s general sense of softness, but they did like the fact that Haas has been through his share of wars at Flushing Meadows, including a superb five-setter against James Blake in 2007. New Yorkers appreciate good tennis, but we can’t help caring about the guys themselves just a little more. We like to take sides.