An event like the U.S. Open, which gathers together so many people—256 main-draw players, plus 256 more qualifiers, surrounded by 800,000 or so spectators over the course of the tournament—gives off an endless number of emotional vibrations during its two weeks. We all remember the final one, the trophy-kissing moment of triumph; the moral there is one of achievement and perseverance and, more than anything else, unlikelihood. Why Roger Federer? Why Serena Williams? Why not me? Don’t tell me you’ve never asked yourself one of those questions.
But that’s just the exclamation point, the final destination for all of the other passions that will rise off the the grounds at the National Tennis Center. And they've already begun. I was on the grounds again on Saturday and watched the conclusion of the qualifying rounds. This is, as they say, the moment of truth (and money): The 32 winners make it into the U.S. Open and, at the minimum, take home a first-round loser’s check, which in past years has been close to $11,000. Each of these matches can feel like a private little Open final of its own.
I caught two of them, both involving highly touted junior prodigies—one current, Laura Robson of Great Britain, and one past, Donald Young of Atlanta. Each of these players has won junior Wimbledon and garnered infinitely more press than the average denizen of the qualies, a fact that only motivates the unknowns they face that much more.
In Robson’s case, that unknown was the hulking Eva Hrdinova, who was up a set when rain came on Friday. Robson came back firing on Saturday and led 4-0 in the third set; she had one foot in the main draw. At which point, of course, tennis being what it is, her opponent relaxed and stopped missing entirely, while Robson came unglued completely. Serving for the match, she double-faulted three times; two of the second serves nearly hit the baseline. Hrdinova caught her at the finish line, winning in a third-set tiebreaker (thank God the Open plays them), 7-4. By the end, Robson was beyond tears. She sat on the sideline with a look of pure, simple pain etched into her face.
I walked away hanging my head and wondered, for the millionth time, why anyone would choose to play tennis—at all. I wasn’t made any happier when I saw that Young was in his own battle to qualify on the next court. I visited Donald and his family in Atlanta for a feature five years ago, when he was the No. 1 junior in the world at age 16. I hadn’t loved the way he trained, but I had loved the feel he had on his strokes. It’s been tough to watch his many ups and downs, his racquet-throwing outbursts, his reduction to a cautionary tale about “taking too many wild cards.” That alone isn't why he failed to become the next John McEnroe—the next Johnny Mac needs to be big—but you did get the feeling that Young was never sure if really belonged with the big boys, or whether he had been awarded his place there because of his junior status alone.
But I was happy to see that DY’s blindingly sweet and blindingly erratic strokes—he almost has too much racquet-head speed for his own good—were still intact on Saturday. Whatever his problems, few guys at any level can whip a forehand winner into the corner as rapidly and decisively as he does. Not surprisingly, his opponent wasn’t pleased to be losing to Donald Young. This time the prodigy finished the job in straight sets, and he was about as excited to do it as Roger Federer had been to win the whole thing last year. Young plays Tommy Robredo in the first round, perhaps a winnable match if he can get it over quickly and doesn’t let the veteran wear him down. As fellow tennis writer Andrew Friedman said to me afterward, maybe having to earn his way in will help DY feel like he really belongs in the U.S. Open this time.
Such a genteel, sharp-angled, white-lined, well-organized sport: It needs to be to hold all these emotions inside it. I’ll be out on the grounds looking today, seeing a million more.
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In case you missed them, you can find my men's preview here, and women's preview here. Here's the TV schedule in the U.S.
And, if there's no tennis to watch or play or read about, and you're interested in my writing on a completely different New York City subject, check this post out.