Mornin', everyone. I want you all to know that the indispensable Greg Sharko, who gets my vote as the hands-down MVP of the ATP Tour (Roger, Rafa and Novak nonwithstanding), must have been checking out your joys and lamentations because he wrote me this note yesterday at 9 PM (when he should have been reading his kids bed-time stories in Ponta Vedra, Fla. Then again, you don't make the MVP short list without some sacrifices):
Many thanks, Greg, on behalf of TennisWorld.
Moving on, I have to admit that the routine for me has become more or less the same for every Grand Slam but the U.S. Open, which I cover from start to finish. At the other three majors, I have a curious reaction to the opening proceedings. I tend to shut down. It's a form of withdrawal comparable to "analysis paralysis" (you know, when you get so into analyzing anything from personal relationships to the different reciprocating saws on the market that you end up deciding nothing). There are a million - okay, a mere 356 - potential stories on the eve of a major. How do you choose one or five or nine to focus on, and even if you do, what does it mean, say, 48 hours later?
Most often, nothing. Was the Sam Querrey-Juan Carlos Ferraro first-round match really that significant? By midday Tuesday, it was not - it might not have even happened, for all anyone knows (or cares) with the exception of those with a vested interest. Let's face it, the pros play a boatload of matches every year, and very few of them have great resonance. Tennis is like nature that way: wildly profligate, inexorable, self-sustaining, every-changing and responsive to the nature of the day. I've said before that I don't even want to hear about the draw until a good two rounds have separated the wheat-of-the-moment from the chaff-of-the-day. Then it's time to get down to business.
Of course, this is different when I'm actually covering an event, the way Steve Tignor presently is until I arrive in London on Sunday, because then every match has potential significance because each one is a potential writing opportunity. What that really means is that each of those early matches gives a journalist a chance to post a first-hand report on a player of interest. It may even be only the reporter's interest, but that's precisely where what we do might be called valuable. Covering the early portion of a major is a fine time to collect information and impressions, to weigh and assess individuals who may not be around to be weighed or assessed in a few days time, when the Roger Federers and Serena Williamses of this world get hung up on the weight hooks for public evaluation.
As you might imagine, I feel a little conflicted about my own appalling indifference to the early stages of a tournament. I'm supposed to be wildly interested in how Gisela Dulko's forehand is going to hold up against Aravane Rezai's backhand, right? Or I ought to be preoccupied with deciphering the emotional climate inside Marcos Baghdatis these days. Well, if I'm there and the timing is right, I might be interested in those things, and for the aforementioned reasons. But my default setting is this: Get to the third-round, Gisela and Marcos, then let's talk. . .
At the same time, there usually comes a moment on day 2, 3 or 4 of a major when the tournament suddenly leaps to life, and I'm reminded that all of those first and second-round matches are not just the equivalent of floor exercises. That's just what happened today, with Marat Safin's win over Novak Djokovic, followed by the cliffhanger in which Ana Ivanovic survived a match point and quelled the insurrection of Nathalie Dechy.
It finally feels like Wimbledon has started, because I have real events and results to evaluate. In other words, the hint of a narrative is beginning to emerge from what is, of necessity, a battlefield seen from afar, filled with smoke and din and not much else.
