The U.S. Open is not an easy event. You learn that from the first two announcements you hear at the National Tennis Center after you’ve made the long trek across the boardwalk from the No. 7 train. As you approach the gates, someone with a bullhorn reassures you, “Relax, you’re almost there,” as if you may have begun to have doubts about ever making it in. Then, just as you cross into the grounds, after successfully convincing a gauntlet of security people, bag-checkers, and ticket-takers that you really are there simply to watch tennis, you hear this: “Please be advised that seating in Louis Armstrong Stadium is limited right now. Feel free to watch the matches around the grounds. Enjoy your stay at the U.S. Open.”
This announcement began to be made a few years ago, but was generally only heard on Labor Day weekend or afterward, late in the day after the matches had finished in Ashe Stadium and everyone fled to Armstrong. Now you can hear it any time, any day. It’s the price of all those “record attendance” figures the Open cites each year: There are more people on the grounds than ever before, and fewer of them want to go into the enduring monstrosity of Ashe. They have to sit somewhere.
They also have to walk somewhere. Once I’m through the gates, I put my head down and take off as fast as I can toward the press area, which, sadistically no doubt, has been placed all the way at the other side of the grounds, on the far side of the enduring monstrosity. I’ve noticed this year that I can’t make it over there as quickly as I once did. There are people in my way, lots of people, thickets, in fact. When I get to the large plaza space in front of Ashe, I start to think I’m in the clear. Then I look up and see that the thickets of baseball hats, white shirts, khaki shorts, wrap-around shades, and water bottles have not dissipated at all. They’ve gotten thicker.
As I cross the plaza, I look out at the side courts—place of legend among fans—and food courts—place of infamy—and see lines of people circling around each other, waiting. Waiting for a changeover, waiting for the bathroom, waiting for a crepe sandwich (that one is worth it). I wonder sometimes when the tennis fans of the world will unite, throw off those ushers’ chains they’re not allowed to cross, and . . . and . . . take their seats!
It doesn’t look like it's going to happen anytime soon. People still love the Open and seeing tennis up close, no matter what hassle may be involved. Later in the day, I walked out of Ashe after seeing Rafael Nadal lose a set. I was struck by how many people had no idea that a potentially historic upset might be in the works, and wouldn’t have cared if they did. Every outer court, no matter how obscure the match, had its share of fans quietly, contentedly, serenely following the ball back and forth over the net. That’s the upside to the Open’s gargantuan size, I guess: No tennis tournament I know of turns the sport into an event the way this one does. And I have to say, even as I’m barreling along, muttering about the baseball caps in my way, it’s still pretty cool to look up at the big screen outside Armstrong and see that Marat Safin is playing right there, right inside.
That’s where I’ll start my tour of Day 3, another sunny, jammed, kinda mundane afternoon of tennis. With the 32-seed system, the tournament needs a full week before it starts producing anything but blowouts.
Armstrong: Safin vs. Frank Dancevic
The first thing young notice is that Safin’s shots sound like they’re fired from a gun, which Dancevic’s make almost no noise whatsoever. The Canadian turns out to be a surprisingly soft hitter. Neither guy knows what to do with a lead, so all three sets go down to the wire. But it’s Dancevic who tightens up, and floats his shots even more, at the important moments. Safin, for better and for worse, keeps firing those shots out of a gun. Funny line from crowd: A guy tells Safin, after he misses a shot, to “regroup.” That word and the big Russian just don’t go together.
Court 8: Evgeny Korolev vs. Stanislas Wawrinka
This is a match where it would actually be appropriate if the players came out in the same shirt. Korolev and Wawrinka are already clones, same build, same size, same power-baseline game—they even retrieve with the same little forehand flick. This is the modern, ball-blasting, hard-court game in its purest form, and naturally it goes five sets. Three hours of innumerable winners, aces, great gets, and horrible shanks later, things are all even, 5-5 in the fifth. Neither guy has played as well when he's been ahead; both guys are loose when they’re behind—that’s also tennis in its purest form, right? Then, serving at 5-5, Korolev pulls a sitter volley wide on a key point. His lack of net skill has been exposed, and it’s enough to give Wawrinka the break and, a game later, the match.
Ashe Stadium: Rafael Nadal vs. Alun Jones
Coming in, it was hard to imagine an upset primarily because of the name of Nadal’s opponent. Could we possible hear on the news: “Rafael Nadal was upset today by Alun Jones?” It seemed like Nadal found it hard to imagine as well; even after he had lost the second set and played an unsightly game to go down a break in the third, he didn’t look too concerned. But not in a good way: As TennisWorld’s Andrew Friedman said to me, “He looks blue.” Nadal didn’t seem too into it in general, but maybe that’s because he continues to struggle with his knees—he ended a few points in the third set walking gingerly—and with the whole hard-court thing as well. Jones is no big hitter—he has about half the muscle weight of Nadal—but Rafa still spent the match roaming and scrambling far behind the baseline. Even back there, he wasn’t moving naturally. His long slides on clay just turn into short scrapes on the DecoTurf here.
Funny line from the crowd: New Yorkers really are familiar people. By the end of the first set, someone way up in Ashe Stadium was urging on Nadal’s unknown opponent by saying, “C’mon Jonesy!”
Court 4: Janko Tipsarevic vs. Ryan Sweeting
Is Sweeting an updated Robby Ginepri? (That would make a hot cover line for a Sweeting article: “Ginepri 2.0!”) He’s got the blue sleeveless shirt, the biceps, the no-frills baseline game, and fairly stiff two-handed backhand. He hits a flatter, more penetrating, and slightly more erratic ball than Ginepri. The last time I’d seen the young American, at the Open in 2006, I was more impressed. He looked explosive in taking two sets from Olivier Rochus. Against Tipsarevic, he was in control of the points but didn’t finish well. Sweeting's game is a little herky-jerky, like Ginepri’s, and he can press the action too quickly and impatiently. The much smaller Tipsarevic ran balls down and went about his counterpunching business to win in four.
Extent of on-site analysis of Tipsarevic by TennisWorld poster D-Wiz: “He doesn’t do it for me.”
That’s it for today. I’m heading out to see Gasquet-Young (if I can get into Armstrong, that is). I’ve been trying to watch some of the women, but their matches are over before the ushers let me in. That’s not too surprising: The first week of a Slam is about the men; the second week is about the women.