There’s no view in tennis like the one from the press tribune at Court Philippe Chatrier, the former Court Centrale at Roland Garros (it was renamed after the administrator who, during the 1970s and 80s, turned the French Open into the international event it is today). A series of nine or 10 long benches about halfway up the bleachers and parallel to the court’s left sideline (if you’re watching on TV), the tribune offers a shaded bird’s-eye view of the vast toxic-orange expanse that, name change or not, remains the center of the clay-court game around the world.
From above, the court surface looks larger than any other—Roger Federer has said it’s taken him years to get used to its size and “place himself” out there. It’s hard to believe that the lines have exactly the same dimensions as the court I play on in Brooklyn (not that we have quite as much room behind the baseline). From the side view, a long, looping ground stroke seems to hang in the air, taking an eternity to touch down on the other side.
While the stands along the sidelines expand outward, the seats at either end are bunched close to the action. Not as glamorous—or corporate—as Arthur Ashe Stadium, or as historic as Centre Court at Wimbledon, Chatrier is nonetheless tennis’ most grandly intimate venue.
When Amelie Mauresmo is playing in it, the intimacy turns into something else: an ominous tension. At the U.S. Open, American fans come to celebrate Andre Agassi; it’s a more complicated atmosphere when Mauresmo plays here. Fans pull for her, judge her, and wait for her demise all at once. The French Tennis Federation, the organization that developed Mauresmo into a top player, commands an entire section of seats behind one baseline. None were empty yesterday. The head of the Federation, Christian Bimes, sat front-row center, about 10 feet from Mauresmo when she was on that side. Between every point, half a dozen kids cried out a high-pitched “Am-e-leeee” from around the stands (the “Am” is pronounced like “amber,” not “ambiance,” the way we say it). They sounded like birds calling to each other, hopelessly.
At first, Mauresmo, who has never made the semifinals at Roland Garros, responded well to the heavy pressure. She fought through a tough first set against up-and-coming teen Nicole Vaidisova, even doing her own modest version of a Nadal jumping fist-pump at one point. Then it was time for the dreaded, expected demise. Vaidisova, who was demolished by Mauresmo at the Australian Open this year, powered through the next two sets 6-1, 6-2. By the end, she was dialed in on every ball, even returning long serves perfectly. It was a coming-out match for the 17-year-old Czech-via-Bollettieri’s. She’s been advancing on the Top 10 for the last year, but this is the Grand Slam validation she needs to make the next move upward.
Mauresmo’s major problem, at least on clay, is how traditional her game is. She uses variety, sets up points, and finishes them at the net. But unlike the other top women, she doesn’t have the power to hit through her nerves. Her serve isn’t huge, her forehand is hit late and with an extreme grip that doesn’t allow to pound it inside-out, and while her one-handed backhand is nice to watch, it wasn’t as penetrating as Vaidisova’s was yesterday.
Worse are Mauresmo’s returns. She rarely takes them early and makes her opponent pay for a weak serve, and that forehand grip forces her to chip far too many balls back with no pace (who chips their forehand returns these days?). At 6-5, 30-30 in the first set, the biggest point in the match up to then, Mauresmo worked the rally until she got a crack at a high-bouncing forehand inside the service line. If this had been the Williamses, Clijsters, Henin-Hardenne, Davenport, or Sharapova, the point would have been over in one shot. Mauresmo came in and hit a decent, but hardly blistering, approach crosscourt. Vaidisova ran it down, hit a winning passing shot down the line, and went on to force a tiebreaker.
Mauresmo was her usual curiously passive self in the face of a challenge. Her calm inscrutability often seems refreshing compared to the Williams sisters’ drama or the iciness of Henin-Hardenne. But when Mauresmo loses as she did yesterday, accepting her fate with no outward emotion, she’s as frustrating to watch as any athlete. As she walked off the court, she gave the quickest and most perfunctory of waves to the crowd—“sorry, see ya around,” it looked like she was saying (I'm sure that's not what she was thinking). The French, naturally, booed her off the court. Rightfully, I thought at the time.