NEW YORK—When the skies opened up over Arthur Ashe Stadium around 1 p.m. yesterday afternoon, someone in press room called out, “Okay, time to close the roof.”
Alas, it will be some time before that becomes an option—three years from now, if all goes well. Until then, we’ll have to settle for the sight of wet fans huddled under overhangs, delays of four or more hours, matches that end eight or more hours after they begin, endless confusion over USTA ticket policies, and long, lingering close-ups on television of Grand Slam supervisors and chair umpires huddling at the net, or scuffing at the lines with their tennis shoes in an attempt to judge the degree of moisture—and danger—to the players sitting nearby, staring abstractedly into space.
Fun, huh?
Actually, some fans who had to endure the four-plus hour rain delay, and a few other work stoppages in the early evening, might want to shoot me for saying this, but these days of disruption have always had a certain dramatic appeal. At least they do for those lucky enough to experience them in the comfort of the living room or some other dry place.
On days like yesterday, when the familiar, lab-like conditions of a tennis tournament are ruined, all bets are off. It’s every man for himself, and that puts the elite players, so accustomed to routine and pampering, on terra incognita. As the tournament is transformed from a day event into a night spectacle, matches hurtle on toward uncertain conclusions, and somehow the crowd that has sucked it up and remained on hand becomes something. . . beautiful.
The fans exhibit a degree of bonhomie that can only be traced to shared hardship. These fans have shown their true colors; they’ve endured. It’s a re-make of “The Longest Day,” a spectator marathon under rough conditions. They loosen up, indulge in a little grim or even black humor. They grow dazed and giddy, which isn’t a bad combination for what is so often a downright louche audience.
Okay, I’m not suggesting we pray for rain each time a tournament day begins with sunny skies and a dry atmosphere. But at some point a festival spirit takes over during these exhausting and difficult days, and the end result is often a day that lives on in memory, as well as tennis history when the backlog leads to a 2 or 3 a.m. conclusion to the program. Weren’t the most famous pictures at the Woodstock festival those of the mud-caked revelers dancing in Max Yasgur’s hayfield?
Chasing Victoria
Until the rain became the dominant theme at the U.S. Open yesterday, the day belonged to a wide-eyed, somewhat overwhelmed 17-year-old who wasn’t even scheduled to play. I’m talking about the Haitian American youngster Victoria Duval.
Here was ESPN’s Pam Shriver, doing an interview with Duval’s parents and two brothers. There was Jim Courier, doing a deep feature on the same for Tennis Channel, while networks by the scores and media outlets of every description scrambled to churn out features on this ingénue who, on Tuesday night, shocked the tennis world by taking down No. 11 seed and former U.S. Open champion Sam Stosur. Including us: