From past experience, it had always been my considered opinion that the U.S. Open qualies were overrated. After attending them for many years in the early part of the decade, my memories boiled down to two: (a) stifling humidity coupled with a wide, blinding sun that fell just low enough in the sky to smack you in the face; and (b) Eric Taino. Not all that surprisingly, I had begun scheduling my week at the beach to coincide with the qualifying tournament. This year I mistimed my vacation.
I’m not unhappy that I did, because yesterday I had my eyes reopened to the charms of this event. Which is a surprise, because the day didn’t start all that well. While it’s widely known that the qualies are free, what’s less-often reported is that it costs $18 if you need to park to see them. Throw that together with a bone-dry $10 chicken sandwich for lunch and that same dreaded sun smacking me in my face, and I was feeling ripped off by noon.
But that marked the end of the bad news, because walking the grounds and watching the matches was an infinitely more relaxing experience than it will be next week when the main draws begin. Not only are there are fewer fellow fans to contend with during the qualifiers—the bleachers were absolutely empty for two matches involving fairly well known women players—but we were allowed to come and go as we pleased without having to wait for changeovers (I’ve always believed that the players would get used to this if it were the norm). I still hesitated before walking into a match; I couldn’t quite believe that I could actually go in there and sit down and watch tennis any time I wanted.
As for the quality of play itself, a regular opponent of mine, John, who I traveled up to Flushing with yesterday, put it well. “You watch these guys and you see they can do some of the same things the top guys can do, but just not as often.” The shots are there, but the ability to hit those shots all the time isn’t. In other words, these guys are mortals.
John’s other immediate observation was, “There aren’t any Americans.” And it’s true, every year the names get harder for us Yanks to get our tongues around. A single example should suffice: One of the first matches I happened upon Thursday was Croatia’s Roko Karanusic versus Russia’s Izak Van der Merwe. In the three or four years since I’d last been to the qualies, the balance of power at the lower levels of the sport has shifted even farther in the direction of Eastern Europe.
A prominent exception to this rule could be found on Court 11. That’s where Great Britain’s teen up-and-comer, Laura Robson, whose name sounded almost too Anglo to be real, was playing Hungary’s Aniko Kapros, whose 15 minutes of fame came seven years ago: At the French Open in 2002, she had upset Justine Henin. Kapros pushed her serve in, but after losing the first set, she had Robson flummoxed the same way Henin had been flummoxed back in Paris. While Robson was under no pressure at all, she still couldn’t find the court with even the simplest backhand; she could barely keep the ball within the doubles alleys as she went down 0-4 in the second set. What seemed even stranger to me was the complete lack of fanfare for Robson. At Wimbledon this summer she’d been the center of an entire country’s attention, her photos plastered across the front pages of every newspaper. Yesterday she could have been playing anonymously in a public park. There might have been 20 people watching.
As I learned at Wimbledon, Robson is a thoughtful and quick-witted kid. The trouble is, I’ve never thought those traits were essential, or even desirable, in an athlete—can she block out all the unnecessary thoughts that come to you during a tennis match? Yesterday she showed that her mental depth off the court may just translate into mental strength on it. Robson came back from 0-4 down to win the second set, and the match, 7-5. In the final game, after she'd missed a shot that would have put her up 0-40 and given her three match points, Robson stopped herself and slapped her thigh. You could see that she was focusing and gathering herself—she was smart enough to stay calm, to know that anger would be counterproductive when she still had a lead. Then, after she won, this young national heroine, who was trailed to New York by half a dozen British reporters, walked off the court and slapped five with the only three people in the bleachers, all of whom had come with her.
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There was one match that drew a main-draw-style crowd yesterday, though I couldn’t decide why. It was either to get a glimpse of highly touted 18-year-old Bulgarian Grigor Dimitrov, or, more likely I finally decided, to watch the guy who was, for whatever it’s worth, the top seed in the qualies, Brazil’s Thomas Bellucci. Either way, the bleachers were packed and the tennis was first rate. Bellucci is a rail-thin lefty who belts the ball from both sides—he plays a very meat and potatoes power baseline game, and he ended up winning fairly routinely, 6-4, 6-3. More interesting, though, was the loser, Dimitrov.
I’d only seen him in action once, on TV, in a three-set loss to Rafael Nadal in Rotterdam this winter. That time Dimitrov vaguely reminded me of a young and wiry Novak Djokovic. Seeing him in person, it’s clear that his allegiances among top players lie elsewhere. From his coach (Peter Lundgren), to his demeanor in the warm-up (loose-limbed), to his service motion (casually efficient), to his one-handed backhand (high take-back for slice; long extension with the elbow for topspin), the kid is a flat-out Roger Federer clone. I’ve been wondering when this person would appear; six years of Federer dominance has to have had its influence over a few impressionable teenagers, and Dimitrov is the perfect age for it—he was all of 12 when the Swiss won his first Wimbledon, in 2003.
Since then, Dimitrov has spent time training in Paris and working with Lundgren—there was a strong sense of déjà vu seeing his barrel chest and sunglasses on the sidelines yesterday. Like a young Federer, the Bulgarian’s style may take time to develop. He loves the spectacular and the pretty: the desperate running pass, the jumping inside-out forehand down the line from behind the baseline, the delicate slice. But he may have to fall out of love with his own style if he wants to succeed in a big way. Dimitrov was bullied by the prosaic but effective Bellucci for most of the afternoon. Watching from a far corner of the court late in the match—I’d gone there to get away from that lowering sun—my friend Tom Perrotta and I could just catch sight of Dimitrov’s forearm as he swung, elegantly, at a wide slice backhand. We both said something like, “Wow, even his arm looks like Fed’s.” Then we both watched as the ball floated three feet wide.
As if we needed any more proof: It’s tough to play like Roger Federer.
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I'll be out on the grounds again this weekend and back here for opening day on Monday. I've got a highly controversial men's preview and an equally provocative women's preview up on the TENNIS.com homepage. Feel free to make your own predictions here.