As I'm waiting for the Rog to come into the pressroom to discuss his freak loss today, here's a special report from deep in the bleachers at Indian Wells from the editor of TENNIS Magazine, James Martin. It's a bit of a jungle out here (though a pretty polite one).
Be back with a daily report soon.
With all of the talk about the players, and their games, over at Steve Tignor’s The Wrap and Pete Bodo’s TennisWorld, I thought I’d add a different perspective to the proceedings. You know, like Fox News, I'll keep it fair and balanced. So I decided I’d spend part of the day watching the other great spectacle at any tennis tournament—the fans.
Tennis fans are, by and large, an upscale lot, well mannered and well dressed. No different at the Pacific Life Open. So, on this crowded and toasty day, with the temperature just shy of triple digits, I ventured into a sea of hats, sunglasses, and some of the fugliest skin I’ve ever seen.
First up was American Michael Russell against Czech Tomas Berdych on Court 4. I arrived shortly after Russell won the first set, and to my surprise it was a packed house. You might even describe the atmosphere as electric, if it weren’t for the fact that the average age out here is well north of 50 (Goran, it turns out, was right all along). People didn’t come to see Berdych, one of the game’s up-and-coming talents. No, they were here to observe Russell.
Russell is ranked No. 88 in the world, a journeyman in all senses of the word. He’s 5-foot-8, though he appears much shorter than that. His nicknames, “Mighty Mouse” and “Iron Mike,” perfectly describe his squat physique; he looks like a miniature body builder. As far as his tennis, well, not much to say. Russell is fast, but otherwise just moves the ball around. Ho-hum. But it was enough to give the moody Berdych fits—and send the crowd into paroxysm of patriotism.
As I sat in the stands, not far from Dinah Shore Drive and Frank Sinatra Drive, the folks in the stands were throwing down for the U.S. of A. “Come on, Michael! Come on Michael,” yelled the two women to my right. And they kept screaming that after every. . .single. . .point. Based on what I heard, they didn’t know anything about Russell—other than that he was an American.
Others pumped their fits and exhorted Russell, and one guy drew laughter when he said, not too loudly but loud enough, “beat that Big Bird,” in reference to the lanky Berdych. Now, I know Berdych can be a hard guy to warm-up to, but I realized something else.
Russell could have been a convicted felon, a used car salesman, you name it, and the crowd would have been behind him. I know, I know, it’s no different at Wimbledon, where everyone roots for the lowliest of Brits, or the French in Paris for that matter.
Still, I had had enough of this blind fandom and decided to seek out another match.
I found myself out watching the first set of Wesley Moodie and Andy Murray out on Stadium 2. Murray is a favorite of mine, for the way he counter-punches and for his dark, almost disturbing demeanor.
And he was clearly the favorite among the folks around me. An English woman, I’m guessing around 55, had just skipped the pond and gotten in the other day. He struck up a friendly conversation with two dudes from Newport Beach, Calif. After dispensing with the usual pleasantries, they asked her, “Whereabouts in Scotland is Andy from? Glasgow?”
“No, he’s from a small town called Dunblane,” she said. “It’s where that school massacre was. Andy was there.”
“You’re kidding,” one of the men replied.
“Yes. He hid in the gym. It was a horrible experience. Two teachers were killed. Some of the kids hid in the gym. Murray did, and so did his brother Jamie. Imagine how that affect you. Horrifying.”
While I wasn’t sure if she was spot-on with all the facts, she sounded like a fan who knows her stuff.
The conversation then zigged and zagged, from Murray’s coach Brad Gilbert to the way Murray can make his cross-court pass look so effortless (against the out-matched Moodie, anyway). Then the group found another common bond—booze.
The two men were packing an entire honor bar in their bags. They were offering the woman top-shelf stuff: Margaritas with, or without rocks and salt, Grey Goose vodka and, if I heard correctly, an extra dry vermouth. Now this is the way tennis should be experienced in the desert heat: with beverages specifically made to hasten the dehydration process and have you seeing things within an hour.
“Wow, this is strong,” the Englishwoman said. “I’m going to be stumbling back to the stadium to watch Federer.”
I, on the other hand, headed over to Court 8 to watch two Russians battle it out, Dmitry Tursunov and Evgeny Korolev. Tursunov is the (in)famous blogger for the men’s tour who, in his spare time, plays some tennis. And what of the man who may have lost the first letter to his first name? Korolev, like Tursunov, is a big guy (both are 6-foot-1) with big strokes and a level head.
Standing behind the sideline bleachers (at Court 8, there’s only seats on one side of the court) I had an excellent vintage to watch as Korolev overcame a string of cruel overrules by the chair umpire to win the match in three sets. An equally entertaining show was transpiring right in front of me, in the last row of seats, where three older gentleman, easily all over 65, were getting into the tennis big-time. The skinny man in the middle was representing for Korolev. His buddies were, too, but they took exception to the way their friend pronounced the player’s name.
“Let’s go Yevgeny,” he shouted.
One of his friends shrugged. “It Evgeny, not Yevgeny.”
“What?”
“Evgeny! Evgeny!”
“Yevgeny, that’s what I said.”
“No, it’s Evgeny.”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause. “Let’s go Yevgeny.”
“Evgeny! There’s no Y. No Y!”
It was a who’s-on-first routine worthy of Abbot and Costello, and it had the folks around them chuckling.
But then things turned serious. Watching as Korolev was getting screwed on those overrules in the second set, the skinny guy (who clearly was the instigator of this rat pack) ever-so-slowly nudged his buddy to his left with his elbow, motioned toward the baseline behind Tursunov, and said, in a hushed tone, “See that. Nice, huh?”
He wasn’t pointing out a great shot, or how athletic Tursunov is (watch that guy get down for a two-handed backhand to see how that shot should be hit). Standing behind the baseline, leaning over the wall, was (let’s just say it) a hot blonde who looked like she could have been Jessica Simpson’s ridiculously attractive mom. The three of them huddled closer and exchanged some banter, which I’ll spare you from, but it was nice to see on this day, when the tennis was top-notch, that these three guys hadn’t lost their touch, either. They were still on their games.