At 11:00 Sunday morning two men entered the grounds at Melbourne Park holding the men’s and women’s championship trophies. They brought them in by hand, right out in the open for everyone to see. Not surprisingly, they were head-turners. Every straggling fan who walked past them stopped and looked back with a quizzical expression: “Were those . . .?”
Two weeks from now, a man and woman will hold each of those trophies up inside Rod Laver Arena. You might think the sight of them would inspire any player. But here, today, out on the side courts at Melbourne Park, they looked like decorations reserved for a castle, or artifacts from a museum’s medieval room—objects from a magical other world, destined to remain out of reach of the rank and file players who were battling just to get into the tournament.
The final day of qualifying at any Grand Slam is a special one—special in its brutality. As millions around the world said their prayers, the pros at Melbourne Park were uttering a few choice oaths of their own. It was make or break day on these deceptively cheerful blue courts. Win and you make the show, you get a decent payday, you turn the trip Down Under into a success, you get to shake a seeded player’s hand, even if it is in defeat. Lose and you get to leave town just as the rest of the world turns its head this way.
This is a day for tennis insiders. As young up-and-comers shred each other limb from limb on the courts, agents, coaches, player development guys, and players who are safely in the main draw gather, preferably in the shade, to pick over the carnage.
“Love this girl’s backhand.”
“Yeah, he's a total head case.”
“That’s it, Tiger, fight.”
And if their player isn’t getting it done, there’s always a mew model on the horizon.
“You hear about this kid from Slovenia? I’m heading out there soon. I’m all over him.”
Also present on this lazy day are heavily sunscreened retirees in foreign-legion style hats; overly tan tennis junkies; sleepy, sarcastic-looking young couples trying to start tans of their own; and, all by themselves in one corner, four diehard fans of Bulgaria’s Grigor Dmitrov. Three are shirtless and all wear sunglasses. At one point, one of them tries to start a cheer, but the guy next to him isn’t ready. When it doesn’t come off, the cheer-starter throws his hands up in frustration. It looks like there might be fisticuffs, but cooler heads eventually prevail. Finally, at the end of the game, the four of them suddenly throw their hands up in the air and yell in unison, “Gri-gor Di-mee-trof!” The sarcastic couple in front of me snort with laughter.
*
On the court, in the midday sun, the day is not so lazy, and the conversations are very different. Mostly they consist of players talking to themselves. (Have you noticed that a tennis court is one of the very few places where it is OK to be seen talking to yourself? Everywhere else it indicates insanity.)
“How is he shanking every [expletive deleted] ball in?”
“Oh God, no.”
“Don’t, just don’t.”
"I can't take this anymore."
There are more screams and grunts than normal. Every ball is chased, wherever it is and however long the odds are of reaching it. The ball kids take more than their normal share of the brunt. One player points at a spot and commands, “Keep the towel there.” Another, after losing a point, throws his towel, overhand, right into a kids’ face.
Thomas Schoorel, who is playing the showcase match against Grigor Dmitrov, has the meltdown of the day, the kind you don’t see too often anymore (at the adult level, at least). In the first-set tiebreaker, Dmitrov hits a forehand long, but Schoorel, who is 6-foot-7, can’t get out of the way, it hits him on the back, and he loses the point. He stands with his head down for a long time, then lets out a moan. He takes a ball and blasts it against the back tarp. He takes another ball and blasts it against the back tarp. He takes a third ball and blasts against the side tarp. Then, his anger and anxiety gone, he comes back to win the tiebreaker. (But it’s the stylish Dmitrov who wins the match and qualifies.)
Desperation is in the air, and it seems to have caught up to Milos Raonic. The Canadian plays nervous tennis through the first set and misses backhand after backhand. Finally it looks like he’s about to blow his cool. He looks up and inhales deeply through his nose. An outburst must be imminent. Instead he motions with his racquet and asks himself, in a very reasonable voice, “Should I be slicing it more?” He’s a professor’s kid. He righted himself later and made it to the show.
Today’s qualies wasn’t only about blind rage. They also gave a couple of (slightly) older talents a chance to show what they can do against (slightly) weaker competition. Canada’s Frank Dancevic would make any fan of Federer circa 2004 happy. Not only does Dancevic employ a similarly elegant and versatile one-handed backhand, he even continues to sport a vintage bushy Federer hair bun. He made the show.
Most impressive of all was Donald Young, who blitzed through his opponent 6-3, 6-1. Normally equipped with a hair-trigger temper, he was at his ease today. He left me shaking my head in amazement half a dozen times. He made his forehand bend and knuckle and dance with topspin. He showed off a new service toss and motion that was giving him more pop. He hit a show-stopping (or it would have been show-stopping if anyone had been watching) down the line backhand where he ran forward without stopping, and in one smooth motion bent down and flipped the ball into the corner. It looked like a trick shot, but it was real.
It was almost tragic to see how good this former prodigy turned 21-year-old cautionary tale can be. As improbable as it may seem, I still hope to see this Donald Young in a main-draw match at a Slam someday. He’ll get another chance this week. He survived bloody Sunday.