!82606947 by Pete Bodo
Mornin'. The tropical rains that besieged the northeast these past few days finally seem to have moved on, and it's bright, sunny, cool and fresh here at the farm in game-rich Andes this morning. There's a kind of stillness about the day before a major event like the US Open begins, except for those intrepid souls who are, and often have been, on-site for days now. Not me - after spend most of last week at the USTABJKNTC, I repaired to the bucolic country to spend a little family time before everything goes. . . bloooey!
Two days ago in the media center, while editing Miguel Seabra's revealing interview with two-time former US Open champion and Swedish tennis icon Stefan Edberg, I popped my head up from the cubicle where I work and looked out over row after row of empty cubicles - waves of what looked like white Lego pieces, each with an industrial gray, blank television sitting on it shoulders like a head. An army, ready to serve.
By late yesterday afternoon, journalists from all over the world were hunkered down in those cubicles, and many of the televisions were switched on, silently flickering. For the rule-of-thumb in the press room is that you wear your headphones - whether you're watching Karlovic vs. Fish late in the fifth set of a first-rounder, or taking a little break before or after writing to see what the ESPN team of football analysts has to say about the upcoming NFL games.
One day last week, my Italian colleague Vicenzo Martucci neglected to put on his headphones while checking sports scores on television, and a few of the other ink-stained wretches in the media center got on his case for violating an unwritten rule as powerful as the universally embraced prohibition against cheering in the press box. I told Vicenzo that he was going to be docked 5 ITWA (International Tennis Writer's Association) demerits for failing to use headphones, and he laughed. The week before the Open, for reporters as well as players, is a time to iron out the kinks, make the mistakes and adjustments, prepare to put on the know-it-all battle armor. I'm sure Vicenzo will be in fine trim by the time the event begins, because he's a pro.
The NFL season usually begins on the middle or final weekend of the US Open, and the popularity of the gladiatorial sport is such that the day features small clusters of reporters huddled around individual TV sets throughout the press room as the early games are about to end at around 4 pm. The sound of the NFL's opening day, as experienced in the media center at the USTABJKNTC, is the prodigious, collective groan that goes up from the knot of New York sportswriters (many of whom would rather be in an NFL stadium on that day) as the New York Jets fumble on their opponent's four-yard line, while trailing 17-13 with 90-seconds left on the clock. Theoretically, there's no cheering in the press box. But weeping and the gnashing of teeth is hunky-dory.
It isn't easy being a Jets fan.
Fall always "officially" begins for me with the final weekend of the US Open, The tournament usually gets rolling in the grip of humid, hot August, but by the time of the men's final, the air is thinner and crisper, the light sharper, and you feel comfortable wearing a jacket - jean or sport. It may be different this year, with the late start and the cleansing rain that passed over New York in recent days. This year marks the absolute latest starting date for the US Open, given the way it's structured around the three-day Labor Day weekend (which always is the middle weekend of the event, but moves around the calendar during the first week in September).
This rite of passage to fall is one of the charms of the Open, which hasn't always been an event known for its charm. But that's changed, too, as the tournament has gone from, essentially, a big--time shootout in a parking lot as sere and bleak as the OK corral to a dazzling fortnight that has successfully combined the appeal of a typical New York street fair, college football game, mid-town shopping spree and food festival.
I used to really dislike what I thought of as those cheesy, tennis-diluting extras - do we really need to have our breastbones vibrating to the heavy base notes rolled out by a reggae band while Fabrice Santoro is juggling tennis balls in Arthur Ashe? I used to think not, but now I like the fact that various bands are playing in these strategically placed micro-environments throughout the grounds during the typical day at Flushing Meadow. It's a nice value-added feature for those fans who aren't lucky enough to hold a ticket to Arthur Ashe stadium - or those who do, but would rather eat seasoned fries in the shade than watch the carnage a Federer or Nadal is inflicting on some poor guy from Zagreb on the field of battle.
The US Open used to be about stress and heat and sharp-elbowed New Yorkers, writing roles for themselves with typically self-absorbed chutzpah in the unfolding drama. Now it's about a relaxing all-around experience, which sounds anodyne and, well, very square. But you want hip and edgy, you can find as much of that as you can stomach if you hop in the 7 train going back toward Gotham. At the tennis center, you can tune out of the bitter on-court battles any time you wish and still find plenty to please and amuse you. It's a kinder, gentler US Open now - if you want it to be. On and around the courts, it's the tennis business as usual, which is rarely a relaxing all-around experience for the bulk of the competitors. By the end of the first of seven round of play, the dreams of 128 singles players will lie shattered on the asphalt courts.
So here we go again, with another edition of the tennis community's version of what used to be known as "back to school" time - a seasonal marker carrying us from the grip of summer and flip-flops into the crisp glories of fall and lace-up shoes. By this time tomorrow, countless fans, including many of you, will probably gather around the fountain in the big plaza in front of Arthur Ashe stadium, one of my favorite places at any tennis event, anywhere in the world.
See you there.