Well, the Grand Slam grind is getting to me; I can only imagine how Roger and Rafa and Robin, Venus and Kim and Caroline are feeling right about now. Tonight, the biggest obstacle to a Federer vs. Nadal final (no disrespect intended to the other fellas) will present itself on Arthur Ashe stadium. Name: Robin Soderling. Aim: Play the spoiler, which has become his job description, and will remain so until such time as he morphs from giant-slayer into giant. His intended victim: Come on, you know I don't have to write it out.
The hype has been building for this one, among the cognescenti if not the general public and media. This morning, we took our boy Luke to school for his first day of third grade. Luke is in the same class again as a second-grade pal, Hugh, the stepson of Peter Lattman, a business reporter who lately jumped from the Wall Street Journal to the New York Times. Peter is a former collegiate tennis player. When I asked Hugh if his dad had been watching the tennis, he nodded "yes" and added that Peter won't be playing in the US Open final because he put his back out. . .
A moment later, Peter came over and, pulling me aside, flashed the pair of tickets he had scored for courtside box seats tonight on Arthur Ashe. I felt almost obliged to warn him that the penalty for dealing in mind-altering substances on a schoolyard are draconian. Instead, I just asked if he was bummed out about having to decline to play in the US Open final because of his bad back.
Enjoy the tennis today, I'll be poking around out there this afternoon, eagerly awaiting the late night main event.
-- Pete