NEW YORK—Say what you will about Patrick McEnroe, the USTA, Arlen Kantarian, Billie Jean King, Mardy Fish, or Serena Williams. I find it impressive and gratifying, personally as well as professionally, to approach Arthur Ashe Stadium from almost any direction and see those highway signs of various size and shape directing traffic toward the National Tennis Center. They're the same kinds of signs that guide sports fans toward Citi Field (home of the New York Mets), or tourists and other travelers to JFK or LaGuardia airports. This makes me feel that tennis, or at least the U.S. Open, has gravitas as both an attraction and institution.
The National Tennis Center. That has heft. Like the Mayo Clinic, the George Washington Bridge, or Cape Canaveral.
Then I tried to find parking in order to secure my credentials, including my parking pass. Those of you who tried to get into certain labor unions, only to be told that you need X amount of experience, which of course you can't get unless you're in the union, will know what I mean.
But why focus on the negative? It worked out just fine.
Walking to the NTC from the Hall of Science employee's lot (don't tell a soul), I saw my first tennis player beyond the cyclone fence and hedges: Nikolay Davydenko. That's not a bad start to the 2010 U.S. Open, right? I couldn't identify his practice partner, though. And a moment later, I heard the deep bass voice of an umpire, amplified by a microphone, intone: "Two minutes, gentlemen. . ."
Qualifying was about to get underway.
Soon I had my credential all sorted out and hung around my neck like a cowbell. I walked through the gate and got shot in the chest by security. Being a U.S. Open gatekeeper isn't all that bad a job if you have a sick sense of humor or a good measure of latent aggression. You stand there all day with a bar-code reader that looks like a stun gun, and every time some credential-toting schmo tries to go through the gate you point that sucker right at his or her sternum and pull the trigger. Zap! You may go.. . Burial at six.
The big change in our cube farm (the media center) is that the endless banks of televisions are gone (there's always been one at every work station, perched on a shelf at eye level). Instead, There's a Lenovo ThinkPad tablet computer on surface of my work area, with a slick swivel screen and plastic stylus that enables you to maneuver between channels. It's also useful as a tablet to jot down notes. That will come in handy for tracking the action on any court once the tournament proper begins.
But I'm not sure I needed a second computer competing with my laptop for precious space on the small work surface, never mind the distraction of the tablet's flashing screen right behind this one. Thankfully, I can turn it off, or just flip the screen around. I guess it will be okay.
Some of you may recall that on finals day last year, my Timbuk2 messenger bag was lost or stolen. It was a horrible day for me, not least because I had two check books, a big check (it's all relative), some contracts and my tape recorder in the bag. Well, Jeanmarie Daly of the USTA informed me that my bag was found when the staff was cleaning out the lockers a few days ago, although not in the space I had last year. I was shocked to find all my personal possessions untouched. My tape recorder even has a little juice left in it, which means you will get that Marsel Ilhan interview I never did post last year. . .
Things have been so-so for Ilhan since his breakout performance here last summer. Ilhan, an Uzbek who immigrated to Turkey, reached the second round here in 2009 (he lost to Long John Isner, after winning three qualifying matches and one in the main draw). He was complimented on his good play by Roger Federer, who was not at all shy about walking up to Ilhan in the locker room to introduce himself. The gall of some people. . .
Ilhan made his big jump in 2007 and has been pleasantly consistent since then, grinding it out in Challengers, qualifying, and occasional main-tour events. He also qualified and made the second round at Wimbledon a few months ago. Ilhan's ambition is to finish within the Top 100 for 10 consecutive years (or win 16 majors, whichever comes first, I'm tempted to add), and you gotta love a fella who thinks long-term.
Ilhan is currently No. 108, five places off his career high (which he hit in July), so he's got a shot. . .that first year is the toughest, Ilhan, godspeed!
The affable Uzbek is the top seed in the men's qualifying. Some other persons of interest, for those of you who go for the sleuth work of the qualifying connoisseur (I had to flip back and forth from the dictionary 11 times to get the spelling right, so don't give me a hard time today), are Nicolas Mahut, Simone Bolelli, Rajeev Ram, Karol Beck and Bernard Tomic.
It doesn't seem quite right that Ilhan has to face Tomic in the first round. Why not Daniele Giorgini (you know how those Italian men are—soft as the chicas are hard). But then it also doesn't seem quite fair that Ilhan has to play qualifying, not with a ranking of 108 for a tournament with 128 places in the draw.
But that's what you get when you start fooling with ideas like the wild card and qualifying—which soak up a combined 24 slots, or roughly a fifth of the entire draw.
The cutoff for main draw entry at a major is usually 104—add the 16 qualifiers and eight wild cards and you're in business. But here's where it gets a little tricky. Say you're Marsel Ilhan, ranked No. 108, and all 104 players eligible for direct entry are in the draw. You're four places out, which means that if four players who had entered decide it would be foolish to play (usually for reasons related to injury), or need to withdraw for some other reason, you're straight in.
However, once the qualifying begins, any slot suddenly vacated before main-draw play begins can only be filled from the qualifying draw. Hence the "lucky loser," who fails to qualify but gets a main-draw place because of a withdrawal. So you can bet that highly-ranked qualifiers, like Ilhan, have spent the past few days hoping that Ivan Ljubicic decides he can't wait another minute to get that hair transplant, or Marcos Baghdatis cuts his right shoulder while shaving.
Ilhan had no such luck. As of 11:06, it became law that if he were going to appear as a main-draw player, he'd have to do it the hard way—via qualifying. I was all geared up for watching his battle with Tomic, but when I left the cube farm I realized it was raining, and play had been suspended. And with the forecast calling for more rain for the rest of the day and tomorrow, it looks as if Ilhan's life is getting more complicated by the moment. Having to get through qualifying in time to start main draw play on Monday means that the qualifiers will have to play a lot of tennis in very few days. It must be tough for Ilhan, after that good run in 2009, to have to deal with all this.
Here's an idea: Why not fill the withdrawals in the main draw with the next highest-ranked player? Sure, it means that a guy could lose in qualifying and still get into the main draw, but that's what happens with a lucky loser anyway. Why not throw a bone to the guy who's put up the best results over the past 12 months, instead of a guy ranked 176 or below, who happened to get a good draw in qualifying and couldn't even capitalize on that? I guess it could get tricky if a guy who qualified got bumped at the last minute by a higher-ranked player, but you could just slide the deadline for filling vacancies based on ranking up to when qualifying ends, instead of when it begins.
Anyway, I realized I'm not going to see a lot of tennis today, although they're working feverishly to dry the courts as I write this. So I took a stroll to the player's lounge, where nubile Slavic girls in skin-tight short-shorts were playing foosball (now there's a truly dopey game), stringy-haired Spanish kids were Tweeting like they get paid for it, and players from all over the world were traveling with entourages, like packs of hungry young wolves.
It was so crowded that septuagenarian (that was just 8 times, I'm getting better) coaches had to adopt rather undignified poses, sitting on the floor with their backs to the blue-painted cinder block wall, because 18-year olds gabbing on cell phones were draped all over the couches. It was as good a place as any to watch as parade of leggy young pony-tailed young things prance by, clutching an iPod in one hand and a plastic bottle of Evian with a bright red cap in the other. I think they're running a contest today: Which little turnip has the biggest and most fully stuffed racket bag strapped to her back?
I bumped into Antonio van Grinchen, who shepherded Victoria Azarenka to the best days of her still developing career, and also worked briefly with Vera Zvonareva. He's helping out the Chinese federation, and that painful pinched nerve in his neck has been healed without surgery, through acupuncture. Which suggests some relation between those two facts.
But before I had no time to ask, I spotted Jay Berger, whom I was going to visit with, until Alex Corretja came my way. . .
The NTC was open for business, alright, although not many balls had yet been hit.