!Uni It’s hard to believe its only Wednesday, isn’t it? We’re not even out of the first round yet and I woke up this morning already feeling the first effects of Grand Slam burnout. Then again, you probably aren’t making a three-borough, two-office, hour-each-way trek twice a day. Maybe you feel like the Open hasn’t even begun.
I’m here to tell you today that it is, and to mention a few of the things I’ve seen, heard, thought, liked, feared over the first few days.
—What do you think of ESPN’s coverage so far? I’ve only caught an hour or so, most of which came during the Murray-Gulbis match last night. The jury is out so far, obviously. It’s interesting and strange to hear John McEnroe and Brad Gilbert together, kind of like watching an interleague baseball game. Gilbert is more technical and specific, more coach-like, while Johnny Mac floats on a higher, funnier, more instinctive plane. From what I could tell, they seemed to be mutually deferential last night, finding a rhythm for their styles to fit together. I was happy with the relative unobtrusiveness of their chatter, which may be attributable to the presence of Patrick McEnroe in place of Ted Robinson. As for the Tennis Channel, all I’ve seen was a brief rant by Jimmy Connors on the state of American men’s tennis. Not too surprisingly, he thinks we’re doing it all wrong, but he was less decisive when it came to saying what we should do instead.
—I made my first, and perhaps last, visit to the front row in Ashe Stadium this year. A few of us media members were given a special row next to the net during the opening-night Agassi extravaganza. I’ve always been stunned by how much different the view at a tennis match can be when you move down even a tiny bit—every couple of rows feels like a new world. Imagine the difference times 20 or so. From where we were sitting, we were actually looking up at the court. I can only describe it as sensory overload for both eyes and ears. Obviously everything is bigger and louder, but even the colors seem doubled in intensity. You feel like you’re under the stage, not so much at a tennis match, but at a tennis production that’s being aimed upward. For myself, I felt distinctly underdressed, borderline homeless, in the journalists’ uniform of jeans and a sweater.
—Has the recession hit the Open? There are unfilled luxury suites this year, but I haven’t heard reports of reduced demand for tickets. The Open remains yuppie New Yorker turf at its heart, so it will never suffer like a normal tournament in down times. I’m surprised each year by the number of people suddenly watching and talking tennis around the offices of the city. This morning, a young man and woman from a record company’s office on the floor below ours were chatting about how, “It was another great day for tennis,” and that they “hadn’t been able to watch enough of the Open so far.” I tried to imagine them continuing to follow the sport after it left New York, ordering the Tennis Channel, DVRing the Shanghai Masters. It was enough to make me, as the phrase goes, laugh out loud.
Still, I do feel like I’ve noticed more empty space around the grounds and a little less flash, fashion, and exuberance from the people who are here. Or maybe I just expect that to be the case. Or maybe everyone here, in a classic self-fulfilling prophecy, expects that to be the case.
—From the “tough crowd” department: On the Grandstand yesterday, a first serve by Melanie Oudin bounced into the crowd. Before she could start her second serve, a woman in the fifth row, thinking that she was doing the correct genteel tennis thing, tossed it back onto the court. Oudin had to step back from the baseline and restart. A sizable portion of the audience booed the woman loudly. She held her hands up, as if to say, “What did I do?” They kept booing.
—From the American-penchant-for-familiarizing-people department: Donald Young, as far as I know, is not commonly referred to as “Donny.” That didn’t bother the New York fans who came out to watch his first-round match. “Here were go Donny!”; “Let’s go, Donny!”; and even “Cum-awn Donny, let’s do it, baby!” were the cheers of choice. They didn’t work; then again, I don’t think I’d be quite as fired up if people in the crowd cried out, “Let’s go Stevie!” at one of my matches.
—A trip through the players’ lounge at the beginning of a major always feels like a class reunion at an all-jock’s school. Over the opening weekend, before any matches have been played, there’s a pervasive sense of hopefulness and good cheer—nobody has lost yet, nobody has left yet. There are famous people, most in the jock’s uniform of flip-flops, shorts, deep tans, and ragged hair, sticking out at odd angles everywhere: Marat Safin sitting in a corner talking to Jimmy Connors for a TV segment; Nikolay Davydenko laughing with his wife, who is in his lap; Gael Monfils hunched forward on a random bench deep in one corner of the room; Gilles Simon chatting into a microphone that a reporter is holding about half an inch from his mouth; Rafael Nadal standing in the doorway, talking to three people at once. He’s taller in person than you might think, but his head is smaller. Others are scheduling practice courts, picking up restrung sticks, slapping five with friends from all over the world. Their last defeat is thousands of miles away and long forgotten.
—The music of the week? So far it’s a drone from 1970 by Terry Riley called, what else, “Poppy No Good and the Phantom Band.” It works well as a soothing noise-blocker on the 20-minute Long Island Railroad trip from Penn Station to Flushing. Like the player’s lounge, there’s a lot of happy commotion in these crowded cars, which carry full loads of Open-going tourists. I like to see them, because their reactions take me back to when I saw something for the first time—is this why we travel in the first place, to give ourselves a chance to become kids again, to see everything like its new? There was an older couple next to me this morning. They sat stolidly in their tennis shorts and visors, holding water bottles. They were silent until the train came out from the tunnel under the East River and into the bright Queens light. The woman said, “Nice day out,” Her husband answered, “It sure is.” They were silent again.
When Ashe Stadium and the Unisphere appeared simultaneously on our right, the woman pointed toward them. The man turned his head and opened his eyes just slightly wider—it was obvious they’d never seen either of these famous structures in person before. I walked off the train and down the boardwalk to the gates thinking, for the first time in a while, that it is really is pretty exciting to go to the U.S. Open.