Grazing at the Open
In honor of the just completed US Open, I’m reposting my Tennis Week article from 1993, Grazing at Flushing Meadow. I went a couple of times this year — of course, with a “grounds pass” on the outer courts. As for the men’s final, Fritz gave it a good try, but it’s tough to compete with an AI generated opponent.
***********************************************************************************************************
Grazing at Flushing Meadow
Like most readers of Tennis Week, I’m a fan and player who especially devours every exposure to tennis. Unfortunately, for most of the year, this is limited to grasping at sparse coverage usually on cable stations I don’t get, and endangering my eyesight reading the micro-type results in The New York Times. (How many of the most knowledgeable sports fans must know the result of the Gustafsson/Berasetegui match in the third round of the Mercedes Cup?)
Once a year, though, my passion is joined by a whole city, as New York gets caught up in the U.S. Open at Flushing Meadow. For example, a few years ago during my lunch break, I went into a local Blarney Stone type bar whose regular patrons are usually focused intently on football, tractor pulls, and dirt bike racing. I was amazed to see the lunch crowd following Linda Ferrando’s upset of Monica Seles. And they weren't just watching because nothing else was on: They were into it, earnestly discussing why Monica just didn't have it that day. This certainly doesn't happen any other time even during the other Grand Slams. The proximity of the event temporarily makes almost everyone a fan.
The only New Yorkers who don't become fans during the Open are the scalpers, whose interest is purely economic. The scalpers don't wait for you to get to Flushing Meadow. They accost you as soon as you leave Times Square, the first subway stop on the No. 7 train to the Open, asking "Yomanwhosgotickets? Anytickets?" even as the train pulls out of the Times Square station. This refrain changes to "Yomanwhoneedstickets?" when the No. 7 arrives at Willets Point and you make your way across the boardwalk that leads to the tennis stadium.
Tickets to the Open are somewhat more difficult to get than orchestra aisle seats to "Guys and Dolls." That's why scalpers do extraordinary business every day and are eternally undeterred by the police, undercover or otherwise. Indeed, a journalistic staple at each year's Open is the story "Open Scalpers Ignore Police Crackdown." The Open now appears to be encouraging otherwise law-abiding citizens to scalp by forcing those who want advance purchase by mail to buy blocks of several days and night matches. The budget and time constraints of even the most rabid fans don't permit that much gorging on tennis, so you can now see some less than shady characters along with the usual suspects hawking out on the board walk.
My personal relationship with the tournament dates to the early ‘60s when the "Open" wasn't even open because only amateurs could compete and was called the United States Nationals. I was hooked after my older brother Andy took me to see the likes of Rod Laver and Chuck McKinley compete on the staid grass courts at Forest Hills. Now I make the trip every year for a couple of days during the first week. Any true fan will tell you that the first few days are the time to go to the Open. These days are a 16-ring tennis circus, or rather a 16-course smorgasbord, with matches beginning at 11:00 a.m. and ending at nearly midnight. The seat number on your ticket for the stadium court is irrelevant: The stadium matches are apt to be Steffi or Jennifer destroying some hapless 120th-ranked moonballer 6-0, 6-1.
Most people indulge in "tennis grazing": circulating the outer courts to catch a hotly contested match between lesser-known or relatively unknown players. They watch a few games here, a set there, grab one of the overpriced burgers that provide the dominant charcoal-fumed motif for the Open, and then wander on in the hope of catching a competitive match. Those of us who scan the small type results each day have a chance to see those names come to life at the Open. When this year's 100th-ranked unknown becomes a semifinalist or finalist in a Grand Slam next year, you've personally "discovered" a future star.
Two years ago, after more than four hours of matches, my wanderings took me to Court 18, which has stands for approximately 100 people. I found a seat about five feet away from Goran Ivanisevic, who was playing Henrik Holm, then an unknown, low-ranked Swedish player. Rino Tomassi, the Italian sportswriter whose predictions are printed in the Open program, gave Holm little chance, writing that he "plays in accordance with his over-120 ranking: Ivanisevic in three sets." But by the time I got there, Holm had already won a set and the fourth set was close. Holm is a tall serve-and volleyer with a strong resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenegger in either "Terminator" film. He appeared to be losing some steam on a sweltering day (as typical for the U.S. Open as rain is to Wimbledon) and was moving somewhat gingerly due to complicated braces on both knees. Nonetheless, he fought gallantly against Ivanisevic, and the set stayed even until its late stages when Holm, serving to avoid elimination, came back from several match points to force a tiebreaker. By this time, though, he was exhausted, despite the support in and around every angle of the court, hoping for an upset.
With Holm trailing 2-4 in the tiebreaker, the Swede and the Croatian played the point of the match. Holm made two spectacular stretch volleys, ran back to chase down a lob, and then came to net again, only to lose the point as he lunged and missed another volley. Holm then lay prone on the court for several long seconds, got up slowly, and trudged to the back of the court where, right next to the linesman calling the baseline, he "hurled" (as Wayne and Garth would say) onto the backcourt near the fence. He then composed himself and prepared to return serve.
No one, however, cleaned up what Holm had left near the linesman. Apparently, neither the ballboys, the linesman nor the umpire felt such a task was within their job description. So the match continued, albeit for a very short time. Holm was spent, so to speak, and Ivanisevic soon won the tiebreaker and the match.
You'd think, after all of this tennis and high drama, I'd have had enough. But on the court right next to the Holm-Ivanisevic match, another Croatian named Goran (Prpic) was in the process of upsetting American Brad Gilbert. Who could pass that up? And local favorite Phil Williamson of my alma mater, Columbia, was forcing Australia's Wally Masur to four sets. How could I not cheer on a fellow alum? And so on into the Queens night until they turned the lights off. And as I made my way back across the boardwalk, the No. 7 train group was plaintively echoing its refrain through the warm night, "Anybodyneedtickets for tomorrow?”