Our Write to Roland Garros winner, James LaRosa, is back! This time coming to you from the US Open. Check back throughout the tournament to read James' take on the sights and sounds of New York and the US Open. Click the image on the left to view James' daily photo blog.Email James |
James' Roland Garros Blog Player Blogs: Mardy Fish |
Victoria Azarenka
Special Features: 7 Stupid Questions with Nadia PetrovaJames' US Open Photo BlogSunday, Sept. 9, 9:36 PM EDT
14 days. 256 players. 2 winners.
Well that seems unfair. Why not spread the wealth, right? Let's hear it for the people who've made this one memorable US Open. For better or for worse.
Best Match (ATP): The American in me says Blake v. Santoro, but while there was no Will He Or Won't He fifth set drama, shot for shot I have to go with Djokovic v. Stepanek. Five sets of phenomenal tennis played by two men clearly enjoying themselves out there. And demanding the crowd to join in. Uncle.
Best Match (WTA): Venus Williams v. Jelena Jankovic. It wasn't supposed to be a barnburner. Jankovic clearly wasn't playing her best tennis this tournament. Venus was. But Jelena stepped it up, and Venus obliged, giving the crowd three sets of high drama, fearlessness and fun. That's not all it gave us.
Best Sports: Jelena Jankovic and Radek Stepanek. To come so far to only have to go home empty handed after final set tiebreaks, these two had more reason than
anyone to be insanely bitter. But Radek hopped the net to give Novak a hug, and Jelena smiled and gave a great speech to the crowd. They lost their matches
but gained a slew of new fans
Worst Sport: Serena Williams. How many lucky shots make up a 6-1 second and final set?
Worst Match (ATP): Anything starring Andy Roddick pre-Federer. His opponents were either retiring (Gimelstob) or just plain retired (Acasuso, Berdych). At least Roddick himself went out with a bang.
Worst Match (WTA): While there were certainly groaners in the early rounds, by the time you reach the semis, you should be held to a higher standard. Nerves led to errors, which led to three sets of community park tennis. Svetlana Kuznetsova and Anna Chakvetadze, you're lucky people who bought tickets to your match got to see Justine and Venus as well, or they'd have every right to ask for their money back.
Breakthrough Performance (male): Ernests Gulbis.Puttin' Latvia on the map, baby.
Breakthrough Performance (female): Agnieszka Radwanska had the biggest upset, Agnes Szavay the best run. But I'm going with Victoria Azarenka. She took out Hingis in convincing style, and was the only one who left with actual hardware - the Mixed Doubles trophy, with partner Max Mirnyi.
Breakdown Performance (male): Mardy Fish, dumping a 4-1 lead in the fifth against Tommy Robredo.
Breakdown Performance (female): Cara Black and Liezel Huber. The top seeds lost serious steam in the second set v. Camerin & Dulko and saw their US Open run end in an early, and nasty, fall.
Best On-Site Booth: Ace Authentic. Partnered with the USTA, you can rest a little easier knowing that the memorabilia you buy here isn't secretly being autographed in a darkened van by a guy named Bubba. And they've got all kinds of fun stuff. Match-used balls, shirts sweated through by your favorite players... You too can own a piece of the net Elena Dementieva double faulted into!
Best On-Site Concession: Crepes. Better than in Paris. Go figure.
Worst On-Site Concession: Cheeseburger and Fries Better in Paris. Go figure.
Oddest On-Site Giveaway: A tote bag for a menopause drug. Allez!
Biggest Bully (male): Mikhail Youzhny, who allowed just three games to Nicolas Devilder in his first round beat down.
Biggest Bully (female): Esther Vergeer, unbeaten in Wheelchair since 2003, drops a handful of games on her way to yet another US Open title.
Best Dressed (male): Roger Federer. He looked like a groom at a leather bar, but it worked.
Best Dressed (female): Maria Sharapova. Her red Nike dress was a primetime hit. Too bad her third round match had to take place during the day.
Worst Dressed: You want me to say Bethanie, but I won't. I love that she goes for it (and lands tennis in Perez. Which, come to think of it, could be a dubious achievement...). Who refuses to go for it are the clothing giants who put all the players in the same ole boring rags. Where's the personality? You can't expect Ivan Ljubicic to supply it all the time.
Coolest Celebrity Appearance: Janet. Ms. Jackson if you're nasty.
Creepiest Celebrity Appearance: Anna Wintour. Is she alive? Someone, poke her.
Best Deal with the Devil: The USTA and Mother Nature.
Worst Deal with the Devil: The USTA and the Draw Gods.
Most Undeniable Fact: Justine Henin and Roger Federer are the best players in world.
Best Gig: Bringing you the ins and outs, and highs and lows, of the 2007 US Open. It's been a blast for me. Hopefully you've had a little fun, too. And maybe you've learned a thing or two. Rats can be pets. Belarus is just north of Ukraine. And Ahsha does know her name is a palindrome.
Thanks for reading. Til next time.
Saturday, Sept. 8, 7:19 PM EDT
It's Super Saturday. I'm praying it's super, since it's my debut cheering red-facedly for my new Favorite Player, Novak Djokovic. Would I choke under the pressure?
I fail my first test, arriving late to the match.Subway traffic (there's such a thing). Novak's down 1-4. Oh my God, I'm the kiss of death.
I take my seat and start trying out my yells. I had to workshop a few for my favorite female, going through 'Whoooo, Lindsay!', 'Come on, Linds!' and 'Do it, LD!' before settling on 'Come on, LindSAY!' (it's all about the inflection - it matters). I land on
'No-LAY!' (spelled Nole, it's his nickname to his inner circle. Of which I'm now a member.) Let's see how that flies.
He wins the next five games. I'm his lucky charm! During the changeover, they play "Let's Hear it for the Boy." The DJ and Deniece Williams have it right. Djokovic is doing everything right. He doesn't doubt himself when he does his wacky impressions, and he doesn't doubt himself on the court. He goes for his shots. And they're finding the lines.
I'm not the only one enjoying him. I love all the people packed into the cheap seats, cheering away. I hate all the people leaving those courtside seats empty. Those are the ones on TV, fool! Oh good, at least Nole's box is giving good camera. Each of the three rows is dressed in a different color of the American flag (Huh? Those are the Serbian colors too? What are the chances?).
Novak hits himself for a bad shot. Uh-oh, that's why I left my last favorite player...
He nails a screaming down-the-line winner. My hands hurt from clapping. Who are these lame-o's not cheering around me? Oh, I'm in the media section.I'm supposed to be impartial. Look, Walter Cronkite's in the house. Is he cheering? Ooh, he might not know he's here. In the stadium. Bless his heart.
Someone literally just yelled Baba Booey when Ferrer was about to serve. What year is this?
Oh no, the trainer was called. It's Novak. You're up a set and a break, what's going on? Is this why you're dropshotting so much? Something's wrong. Make him better! You hear me, do something! GIVE MY NOVAK THE SHOT!
My fears are unwarranted. He pushes through. The second mens semi has some drama of its own. Less to do with the ridiculous number of breaks in the third set than the general puzzlement over who this little blond guy is Federer is playing. Is he new? The result is predictable, to the delight of the crowd. And the delight of the media and the tournament. Even a betting scandal can't put this guy's face in the
papers. And they don't have Nikolay's lifesize pic out on the wall for fans to pose with.
My first day with Novak ends in a win, and his first appearance in a Grand Slam final. One more hurdle to get past - King Fed himself. But you've taken down the King before, Novak. You can do it again. Either way, I'll stand by you. Cuz that's how I roll.
It might be my second marriage, but I think it's going to work out okay.
Friday, Sept. 7, 5:40 PM EDT
It's exhausting. Two weeks of hard work. Two weeks of staying up late, sometimes until two in the morning, only to have to wake up early the next day, head back to the office and pretend to work while staring at the live scoreboards of the Day Session.
You're a US Open nut. And it's all come down to this. The Finals. This weekend, you're turning off your phones, planting yourself on the couch and gearing up for the best of the best. You can only imagine what it must be like in NY right now.
You'd be surprised.
Unlike at home, where the US Open is building in fanfare to a deafening roar, it's bizarrely the opposite here.
Here, the deafening roar comes at the very beginning. The first few days are pure chaos at the Open. For both the fans and the media, it's also your best crack at seeing anyone and everyone. 256 players squaring off on court, for interview rooms, for your giant yellow balls.
And it can be brutal. You can't interview them all. Or take all their pictures. Or see all their matches. You have to pick and choose who you want to see and when. Want a few minutes of Nadal's time? That can wait. You want a piece of Sebastian Grosjean? Get him now.
As the draw goes from 256 to 128, 128 to 64, it becomes more and more appointment TV. But there are fewer and fewer players to interview or congregate in the stands for. Devilder, Darcis and Navarro Pastor have already moved on to other tournaments. Other players have fled for home. Or a psych ward.
Which is where everyone working this event should be at this point. Seven days of no sleep. And lots of caffeine.
Week two, the practice courts get more and more deserted. Gone are the throngs of fans lined up to catch random players exiting. There's hardly anyone to catch. With the big matches all moving to Ashe, the daytime crowd is cut in half.
That's not to say there isn't anything going on on the grounds. You've got Doubles, you've got Juniors, you've got Wheelchair. But, like it or not, it's just not the same draw. Just look in the stands. Or ask Doubles Champions Aspelin and Knowle, available for your questions in Interview Room 2.
While the chaos has subsided here, it's by no means less intense. On the contrary, the tension is off the charts. Playtime is over for those left in the draw. It's all business now.
And the pressure...the real pressure...is on.
I'm not just talking about the tennis. Or even the ranking points. How about no one else being in the locker room when you show up to change? How about an entire pool of reporters, photographers, drivers, runners and other tournament staff with no one to focus on but you? With no one to wait on but you?
And then you walk onto Ashe, the biggest stage in tennis, packed to capacity, the wave of sound threatening to knock you out of your sneakers.
So there you are, pretending to work, surfing the live scoreboards, bound and determined to next year be there in person. But which tickets do you buy? Do you buy for the first week or second week? Day One or Day Fourteen? Tell me what to do, James!
Well, that depends. Do you want to be invited to a State Dinner or a State Fair?
Me, I'd take the Fair. It's crazier, you meet more people. And it's a heck of a lot cheaper.
THE SEARCH IS OVER
After two weeks of hunting for my Favorite Male Player, the search is over.
And I couldn't be happier.
The final two: Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic. Both have put on some spectacular displays the last two weeks. And there's more to come. When they play tomorrow on Super Saturday, they'll have one more person in the stands, screaming their name.
First, a word about each of them.
During Roger's match v. Andy, Andre Agassi summed the #1 player in the world up perfectly. Most guys have one or two strengths they can play to. He's got five. And watching him shift gears between them is a sight to behold. Especially live.
Novak Djokovic doesn't have five strengths. In fact, he may have a few screws loose. Watch him imitate Sharapova or Nadal, watch him sing karaoke while tearing off his shirt, watch him twist and turn his body like a pretzel to get that one last ball back.
He's Gumby, dammit.
I have reasons to not pick either. Seriously, how much more adulation does Roger need? And Novak, well, not only didn't I love him when he first came on the scene, he irritated the hell out of me. He was a brat, and he retired too much when the chips were down.
But like the boy that pulled the little girl's pigtails in kindergarten, irritation turned to love. Maybe it's the Chia Hair. Maybe it's his willingness to look like a fool in a buttoned down sport. Maybe it's the Serbian mafia. Or maybe, just maybe, he grew up.
Whatever it is, Novak Djokovic, you are my New Favorite Player.
Sorry Roger, you can't win every time. And hopefully you won't win on Sunday. I can say that because I want my guy to win.
Good luck tomorrow, Nole. I'll be screaming for you.
|
Thursday, Sept 6, 1:12 PM EDT
It's a night of irresistible forces v. immovable objects.
First up, the biggest server in the womens game, Venus Williams, takes on the tour's best defender, Jelena Jankovic. I'm up in the rafters for this one. Along with the Serbians. It's gonna be one of those nights.
Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David are down below, laughing together. Probably at how good their seats are. You better be tennis fans or so help me God. Oh good, they are. They're clapping. Oh, they're just clapping for Tony Bennett.
The match starts out eerily similar to the one Venus's sister played v. Justine the night before. First game break and a set full of catch-up. Unlike Justine, Jelena doesn't crack. She serves it out and takes the first set. The crowd is crestfallen. Someone needs to light a fuse. Amazingly, it's Venus, who gives Jelena a vicious beatdown to take the second set.
Suddenly, the Star Wars theme. It's Natalie Portman on the JumboTron. She grins and bears it. Sorry Natalie, there was no catchy tune to Closer. Next we get Anna Wintour. Silence. No one knows who she is. They take her off before I can get a picture.
Suddenly I realize. I'm obsessed with the JumboTron.
The third set is crazy high-quality. The crowd is nuts. The Serbs are cheering Venus's missed first serves. Me no likey. Venus hangs with it. So does Jelena. I said before that the top players tend to not watch the JumboTron. Jelena is all over it. During the changeovers, between points. It's gotten her.
The Serbs have fallen quiet. Wait, they're gone. Something tells me not of their own accord.
The Taxi theme! Ooh, who is it going to be, Marilu Henner? No, Judd Hirsch. He's clearly had a fun night. And clearly doesn't want it broadcast for all to see.
That's it. I'm not here to watch some big stupid screen, I'm here to watch tennis. You will not pull me in, no matter what catchy theme songs you play. Demonic JumboTron, I rebuke you!
Back to the match, the irresistible force takes out the immovable object, to the delight of the crowd. Jelena gives an incredibly classly and endearing speech afterwards (even managing to smile) and the crowd eats it up. She walks off the loser today, but she's made a ton of new fans in New York.
Then, the Main Event. Hard-hitting Andy Roddick v. the best returner in the mens game, Roger Federer. The crowd is ape for this one. And drunk. I'm having a beer, too. I've never seen Roddick and Federer play each other, I want to celebrate. I want to share in this late night Arthur Ashe experience. I want to blot out the JumboTron, mocking me (I hear that polka music, I will NOT watch those people having fun dancing like crazy. I will not!).
Andy doesn't help the crowd control, playing better than I've seen him play, well...ever. You've got to give it to this kid, he tries. If you can't see that, you can certainly hear it. He makes more noises than I've heard this side of a brothel (or so I've seen on TV). The crowd is making noise too. A lot. They cheer Federer's first serve misses. Me no likey. The only one keeping it down is Roger. First set tiebreak: Federer.
I can tell the fellow bad back sufferers in the stands by who stands up during the changeovers. I feel your pain, friends. Some point to the JumboTron. Look, it's Martha Stewart! It's Donald Trump! (Together? No, I'm not looking!)
Some say (some players among them) that the tiebreak comes down to luck. Well Roger must be the luckiest guy on tour because he keeps winning them. He takes the second set. A huge chunk of the late night crowd thinks he's gonna get lucky again because they begin to file out.
In the third set, someone screams out "Do it for Andre!" Andre coudn't do it for Andre. Fed's too good. He gets the first break of the match. The end is near.
And then it happens. The unthinkable. Two people in front of me start screaming. "We're on the thing! The thing!" I look up.
I'm on the JumboTron.
This is it, my one moment in the sun. What am I going to do? Wave? Dance? Rip up a picture of the Pope? Before I can decide, it's moved on. Done with me. My moment in the sun, gone.
JumboTron, you win. The irresistible beats the immovable object. Again.
But it doesn't sweep the night. Fed beats Andy for the 14th time. Order is restored. And Andy and I go home to nurse our pride.
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
We're down to three in the hunt for my New Favorite Player. Roger Federer, Janko Tipsarevic and Novak Djokovic.
I have to thank the people who voted for today's castaway, because it made me have to get to know him more than I had before. Janko, you got far for someone ranked 56th in the world. With more consistency comes results, with more results come more opportunities for the world to get to know you. I like what I've seen so far. Give me more. Until then, it's off to the tattoo parlor with you.
So this is it. Roger Federer. Novak Djokovic. At press time, both still in the draw. And in the finals of mine. The top dog and the chihuahua nipping at his heels. Come back tomorrow to see who's the real #1. |
Wednesday, Sept. 5, 3:23 PM EDT
Justine v. Serena. Arthur Ashe. Me. Salivating.
I get to my seat before they even finish picking up the trash from the Day Session. I'll sit in filth for this, I don't care. I've only seen them play on TV. And they just don't keep the cameras rolling on them during the changeovers like you want them to.
What are they thinking? What are they feeling? What is this sticky stuff under my seat?
The competitors come out with great fanfare. Tonight is sold out, and this crowd is expecting a Match. From the giddy up, you really get a huge sense of mutual respect from these two. Let the young up-and-comers shuck and gosh their way through the draw. This here is women's work.
The coin toss is interesting. Justine won both of them in her last two matches. Rather than choose who gets to serve, she chooses which side of the court she wants. Which at night doesn't make a ton of sense to me. Making less sense, she chooses different sides each time; right for Safina, left for Serena. If anyone out there can fill me in on the logic, e-mail me. I'd love to hear it, and give you props for being a genius.
A general theme of the week for me has been focus. During changeovers, lower ranked players will look around, check out the crowd, soak it in. The top players, not so much. These two players, tonight, are statues. One of them has to look around, take in the moment, right? Oh hey look, Continental Airlines is upgrading two lucky ticketholders to courtside seats. Look to the big screen! Neither does.
If you thought Justine's little legs are bouncing all over the place on TV, see them live. She's like a hummingbird. Serena...she's something else. Sluggish. Even in a competitive first set, she seems annoyed at being forced to exert the extra effort. Crumble under her will! But Justine's got a little will of her own.
Oh hey, it's Tony Bennett! They'll look up for Tony. (they don't)
Serena has set points. The crowd goes nuts. But nuts for the both of them. Serena's got the edge, but Justine's got a lot of fans here herself. Not sure who the guy who keeps whooping like a bird is rooting for but I wish he'd stop. So does everyone else.
Tiebreak. The Hummingbird turns it up a notch. And takes the set.
Set two is a beatdown. I know Henin is #1 for a reason, but it's still shocking how well she's playing. She's slicing and dicing like a surgeon out there. It makes me want to see that Bartoli match live to see what the hell happened.
Ooh, a free year of the New York Times! Surely they'll look up for that. No. What about Chris Kattan? Come on, not even for Corky Romano?
As quick as the second set started, it's over. They shake hands, and the crowd is on its feet. Justine earned this one. Would Serena feel the same way? It's off to her press conference.
Sitting there waiting for her, I wondered. I predict she's going to give Justine all the credit. How could you not after that performance? More importantly, what's this big medical mystery she and her dad both made individual references to? I'm betting blisters. No, malaria. No, blisters!
In she comes. And she's pissed. She can't explain what happened, and she makes no effort to. The reporters don't know how to handle her. Because she won't be handled. Are you devastated by this loss?
"No, I'm very happy." Silence. You seem more disappointed than in Paris or London. "Do I?" You do. "Go figure." More silence.
This is too much. She's got to be here because she has to be. They fine players if they blow it off. She says it! "I don't want to get fined. That's the only reason I came. I can't afford to pay the fines because I keep losing." I'm a genius. I later find out the fine varies but can be around $10G. Money well saved?
After four minutes of the single best press conference I've ever experienced (including credit to Justine...for making "a lot of lucky shots"), it's over. Everyone scurries, the cover of journalism giving way to running for their cell phones to tell anyone about
what just went down.
So wait, what was this big mystery malady? No time to find out. Time for Justine.
Justine is Justine. It's all very clinical. She's happy with the win, happy to come back from her personal difficulties earlier in the year. I sort of feel it. Tactics, confidence, yada yada. My mind wanders. What's Serena doing right now? I come to the sad conclusion that, despite my continuing and best efforts, I'll have to be engrossed in Justine on the court only. Allez.
Post script: Back on Ashe, in the middle of a fantastic upset, David Ferrer complains to the chair about the JumboTrons. They're so distracting he wants them turned off.
Thank you and good night.
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
The search for my Favorite Male Player is down to four. Federer, Tipsarevic, Safin and Djokovic.
To today's victim, I couldn't cut you before the others because I'd still root for you above Roddick, Blake, et al. But your time is up. Again. Safin, the people gave you a second chance, and so did I.
But it's over. Don't go away mad...oh who am I kidding.
Three to go! |
Tuesday, Sept. 4, 7:02 PM EDT
They were a classification of vices originally used to educate the common people on the dangers of falling prey to their own baser instincts. Today, they're a lesson in what not to do if you want to win a Grand Slam. Juniors, pull up a chair and a notebook. (Fifth year seniors, you might want to put on your listening ears, too.)
I give you the Seven Deadly Sins. Beware.
Pride: It's one thing to want to look good on court. It's quite another to shine a big ole klieg light on yourself, sometimes before a tournament even starts. Adds to the, what's the word...pressure. Tatiana Golovin. Bethanie Mattek. Maria Sharapova. If you can't take the heat, get out of the closet.
Wrath: Never let 'em see you sweat. Or scream, curse and break your racquet. I'm talking to you Marat. Maybe you can't hear me because you're long gone. Again.
Sloth: You're seeded, but that doesn't mean you can sleepwalk through your first round match. May I suggest a Starbucks run and a reality check to Fernando Gonzalez, Dmitry Tursunov and Juan Carlos Ferrero.
Greed: You had to take out a legend, didn't you? Benjamin Becker, you made a name for yourself (albeit a familiar one) by retiring a hobbled Andre Agassi. This year, you dump out in the first round against 290th ranked Philipp Petzschner. Watch your back, Tsonga.
Envy: You're sure you'd be higher in singles like the other girls, if only being on this pesky #1 doubles team wasn't getting in the way. You shift your focus a bit, losing first round in singles and getting upset in doubles. Samantha Stosur, was it worth it?
Gluttony: It drives me nuts when people call players out over fitness issues, using their status as professional athletes as an excuse to make fat jokes. But the truth is, gluttony ain't gonna win many points on a court. Ladies and gentlemen, you know who you are. And where you are. Home. Wake up and smell the coffee cake.
Lust: Lucie Safarova and Tomas Berdych. A third round loss and an undisclosed illness. Just sayin'.
Students, if you can avoid these pitfalls, maybe you too can be a Grand Slam Champion.
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
It's getting close! I can count on one hand those still in the running to become my Favorite Male Player. Djokovic, Roddick, Federer, Tipsarevic and Safin.
It's time to cut off a finger.
Andy, women love you. Returners fear you. I respect you. Not for talent you have, but your willingness to evolve. To do what you have to do to stay at the top of the game. Unfortunately, you're still mostly serve, which is still mostly the kind of tennis that makes me tune out. Mix it up more and then maybe we can talk. Til then, you're aced.
And then there were four... |
Monday, Sept. 3, 6:41PM EDT
Flushing Meadows is infested with them. They scurry around the grounds, from court to court, scavenging for crumbs. Anything they can crawl back into their holes with and feed their little families. They're the molemen of the US Open.
They're the photographers.
I spent the morning tagging along with the best kind of photographer - one who's not afraid to dish the dirt. Let's roll.
It would be a waste of time to tell you where we went.We were everywhere. You'd like to think photographers are there from start to finish, poised to capture that One Moment when it happens. One Moment is about all she can spare. She snaps away until she gets what she needs, then we're off again.One court down, fifteen to go.
Don't worry, there are four matches a day on each court. We'll be back.
In that One Moment, you need to make sure everything is perfect. Are their eyes open? Is their head up? Are they perspiring appropriately? (Nothing says No Sale like a poorly placed sweat spot.)
I ask which players she enjoys shooting. "Federer. And Nadal." Why? "They don't wear hats." She also counts Jennifer Capriati and Svetlana Kuznetsova among the most photogenical. On the flip side, shooting Venus can be a drag. "She's so long, it's hard to fit her all in the frame." Sharapova is also tough. "With Maria, everyone wants the pretty shots. But she's not real pretty when she plays."
As we silently sneak over to another court, I wonder if the players ever know they're there. They're too focused on the game, right? Not all of them. "Andy Murray hates it if you shoot when he's serving."
Glaring in front of the camera (sun, Scots) isn't all she has to deal with. Sports photography is a predominantly male profession. "Of the 130 of us shooting the Wimbledon final, six were women. It can be tough."
The longer we're out there, the more the hazards of the job present themselves. The sun is blazing. The feet are aching. The mind's going after a week of 3 hours of sleep a night (I slept fine, she's losing it a little. I think she's talking to me. She's not.).
A few more shots and we're done. Okay, I'm done. I can't keep up with her. She's got more players to shoot, and I'm hungry.
But first, maybe I could...hold the pretty camera...?
She smiles, hands it to me. She's smiling because it weighs 50 pounds and she's tired of carrying it. I line up, snap a few pictures. Nine per second to be exact. It feels like a machine gun in my hands. The power! With this camera, I could rule the world.
I need to give it back to her before it corrupts me. I return to asking the tough questions. Does Justine ever not look like a deer in headlights when she's playing? "No."
And just like that, I'm back to normal. And she's back to work.
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
Time for the next cut in the hunt for my Favorite Male Player. And it's a timely one.Still in the draw you put together for me: Federer, Roddick, Tipsarevic, Safin and Djokovic. Wait, where's Blake? He's out today, in every way.
James, you're a fierce player. But you just can't own it. You finally win a five-setter. New York allows you to squat in Agassi's House. They cheer for your every point. They believe in you. But you don't. So neither can I.
And then there were five. |
Sunday, Sept. 2, 8:23PM EDT
The first week has taught us many things. How will Novak Djokovic handle the pressure of expectations? How will James Blake handle the pressure of a fifth
set? What will Bethanie Mattek wear on the court? (Answer: What won't she?)
But for all the questions the US Open has answered, it's also coughed up a slew of new ones...
Is Radek Stepanek the real Black Widow?
Is EleVen really better than ten?
Is there anything you can't sponsor? (This question brought to you by American Express and Valspar Paint.)
Does Ahsha Rolle know her first name is a palindrome?
Where is Belarus?
Do people really want sushi in 95 degree heat?
What the hell happened to Fernando Gonzalez?
Janet Jackson is embarrassed when she's caught on the JumboTron? Really?
If Noppawan Lertcheewakarn married Peerakiat Siriluethaiwarrana, would she become Noppawan Lertcheewakarn-Siriluethaiwarrana? (Trick question - they can't get married, they're juniors!)
Who is Althea Gibson? (Fed wanted to know.)
Who is Roger Federer? (Althea wanted to know.)
Don't they have cats or dogs in Poland for poor Agnieszka Radwanska to play with? A fish even...?
Did Martha and The Donald's assistants coordinate to avoid their being here on the same night?
What's the money line on Lee/Davydenko?
Where are all the players I'm supposed to see on the 7 train?
Where's Pierce Brosnan when you need him?
If you have a press conference and nobody comes, is it still a press conference?
Where's that Lever 2000 lady who got that great free lesson from her local tennis instructor? I dunno, I just thought she'd be here...
Maybe she'll show up for week two. If that's not reason enough to come back, I don't know what is...
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
We're down to the Lucky 7 for my Favorite Male Player (no claims on whether they'd say they were lucky or not).
Roger, Andy, Rafael, Janko, James, Marat and Novak. It's the end of the road for one of you. And it won't be a popular choice. Who am I kidding, none of them would be, they're six of the most famous and popular men in tennis (sorry, Janko). Though while he's incredibly well-liked, behind the scenes as well, I have to say adios to...Rafael Nadal.
Rafa, I'm amazed by what you do on the court. Out of everyone on this list, you're actually the most impressive to watch live. TV just doesn't do you justice. And still, there's something about your game that doesn't punch me in the gut (What? Blasphemy!). Maybe it's all the topspin, maybe it's how convincing you are at making it all look so easy. Or maybe it's just the wedgie picking. After all, I did say hygiene would be one of the judging criteria.
At any rate, your ganso is cooked. And then there were six... |
Saturday, Sept. 1, 6:38 PM EDT
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
Day One of my search for my new Favorite Male Player. Which means the first cut.
Despite his clever wit and general shenanigans, I'm still terrified he's going to come after me. Dmitry Tursunov, the tour needs you. You're hilarious, you've got vicious groundstrokes. But you seem satisfied to be a supporting player. Not helping the cause, I wasn't too thrilled with your not letting that umpire's hand go after the handshake after the match you squabbled in. Don't get me wrong, I'm a fan. I'm just not a superfan.
There you have it. One down, seven to go. |
Saturday, Sept. 1, 6:35 EDT
Earlier I wondered if I was a monster for delighting in the psychological sadomasochism that is professional tennis. I learned today, you're all
monsters too.
Writing about tennis is pretty fantastic. The one drawback is, you don't get to actually watch a ton of it. At least not in person. In the Media Center, each news outlet, newspaper, magazine, what-have-you, gets a desk with a TV mounted above it. Journalists flip around like ADD couch potatoes, checking in on the action from around the grounds. They're not being lazy. They're pitching stories, researching players, and waiting for the post-match press conferences that take place seemingly every five minutes nearby.
I'm not that smart. I run around catching random games, and then rush back to see who's poised to spout off. Well, with the draw shrinking at supersonic speed, I decided this morning would be different. I'd watch a whole match, start to finish. But I couldn't be there all day. No Novak/Radek for me, please. Hm, this Sharapova match should be quick. I'll check it out.
Yup, by now we know, I saw Sharapova go down in flames. I also saw how much you all loved it.
From the first game, there were plenty of cheers for Agnieszka Radwanska. There are always cheers for the underdog here, especially in Ashe. The crowd is over this 6-0, 6-1 crap, they paid to see a match. But unlike at either of the Williams sisters' matches here, or Ivanovic's match, or Jankovic's match, this crowd had it out for the top seed from shot one.
What is it about Sharapova that makes you want to see her suffer? Is it because she's usually so ice cool and collected? Is it because she seems to have it all
- looks, success, dough? Is it because every shot can't be a PowerShot? Whatever it is, each mistake she made, and each short ball Agnes punished her for - you punished her for as well.
Were there people rooting her on? Absolutely. Were there people outright laughing when she double faulted to give her opponent match point? So loud they had to
be shushed.
Her most vocal opponent today seemed to be her dad Try shushing him. By the end...well, I couldn't tell you, he left before it was over. At least I was nice enough to stay to watch.
I head to Radwanska's press conference, which is actually pretty fun. The girl done good, and she's beaming. Agnieszka's refreshingly candid (the young ones usually are). She owns up to some psych-out tricks she pulled on Maria, like coming in oh so close on her second serve. She tells us about her pet rats,about biting her sister (not the rats, Agnieszka herself). I like her.
Maria's press conference is totally different.Somehow, even more reporters. Way more photographers. They're out for blood. Or at least a tear.
Maria doesn't blame the wind (her opponent had to deal with it too), or her shoulder (simply, 'it's fine.'). Radwanska played a great game. No, it hasn't been the best year, but it happens. They ask what her father said to her after the match. She skates that question, too. No matter how hard they try, short of dicing onions under her eyes, she'll be fine thank you very much.
I must admit, I'm a little disappointed myself.
Just when all appears lost, someone blandly asks Maria about how it feels being a role model to young people. She takes a second, then replies that it's strange to
think of herself that way. When she thinks of a role model, she thinks of someone perfect. She never had a role model growing up, because she knew as a child no
one was perfect.
Something every parent wants to hear.
The room goes a little silent. Maria's done the impossible. She's tamed the monster in all of us.
But just for a minute.
Friday, Aug. 31, 2:34PM EDT
THE SEARCH CONTINUES
The people have spoken. And they have quite a way with words.
In my hunt for a new favorite ATP player, I put their (and my) fate in your hands by giving you carte blanche with the nominees. I conducted a scientific survey, online and on site, taking into account the number of votes a player got, the passion of the
rationale, and who'd call over the mobile Heineken guy to grease my liver (I can be bought).
Each day, a player is cut from the list until one man remains. He may not end up winning the US Open, but he'll have earned a place of honor in my heart. And maybe a visit from the Heineken guy.
Your picks are...
Novak Djokovic: "The future of tennis," says Thomas from Sweden. Says Alex from Texas, "you see the stuff he does on court and you just have to go wow."
Rafael Nadal: "He has fight," says Guillen from someplace foreign (there are a lot of accents here). Says Naomi from New Jersey (another accent), "it ain't over til it's over."
James Blake: You like him, you really like him. "He's a polite, well-educated young man with nice teeth," says Sylvia and Harry, a retired couple from Boca. Not a huge argument for a top player but I just love that they're Sylvia and Harry from Boca.
Marat Safin: What?! I know. Unfortunately there was nothing in the rules (because I wasn't smart enough to make any) that prohibited him from amassing the votes to backdoor his way onto the list. What a sneak! The guy has fans. And they're all crazy. But you didn't hear that from me.
Andy Roddick: Most of his votes came from American women. And there are one or two of them here at the Open. Just sayin'.
Olivier Rochus: The dude got one vote, but it was a passionate plea. From Anthony out in cyberspace: "I'm 5'5". There is no way I could have been a professional tennis player. But wait. Who is that Belgian running around the court looking like a little kid compared to those giants? Olivier Rochus, that's who. And guess what. He's 5'5" as well. He's a giant killer. Allez Olivier!"
John Isner: Speaking of giants, Mr. Isner made a big showing, in votes. Again, predominantly American, but he had them at hello. "For a big guy, he's got good hands at the net," says Josh from Brooklyn (or as he said - BrookLYYYN!). "He's like a big kid, you just want to pinch his cheeks" says Evelyn, also from the Big Apple. No one said that about Federer.
Roger Federer: Did you think he wouldn't make the list?
Janko Tipsarevic: Another one who made the cut because of a passionate plea. Says Frank from Massachusetts "He's pierced, he's all tatted up. What more could you ask for?" Indeed.
Dmitry Tursunov: Dana from Minnesota says, "He's hilarious, ever read his blog?" Please. No one reads blogs anymore.
Okay, it's actually a top ten, not a top eight. I'm going to fix that right now. Mostly because Safin's suffered enough today (and I'm terrified of his fanbase), I don't have the heart (and the cojones) to snip him. And so...
John Isner, you did yourself proud making the list,but as pinchable as your cheeks are, you're just too new to the scene to crack the top ranks. I gotta let you go.
Olivier, I'm afraid your journey ends here as well. It's not your size (see: Isner), it's not the fact that you got one vote. You lost to Robby Ginepri..And I just can't overlook that.
There you have it folks. Your top 8. May the best man win. |
Thursday, Aug. 30, 7:40 PM EDT
Exhibitionists. That's all these players are. From the shirtless morning practice sessions (it's barely 80 degrees out, Fernando Verdasco and Julien Benneteau, have some dignity!) to the vanity plates they slap on their bumpers (not sure how Bethanie Mattek managed to squeeze her name on the duct tape that was her shorts today, but brava).
Their jobs are to be on court, center stage, while thousands watch them and only them perform feats of wonder. In case we missed them, they're broadcast on the JumboTron in slo-mo. They watch it themselves.
Not to mention the millions watching at home.
But they choose when you get their attention.
To get you even closer to the players, I'm trying to crack their minds and their very souls. But you can't just walk up to them. Not for anything more than a squiggly line on a giant fuzzy yellow ball. No, in order to get access to their minds and their very souls, you have to go through the Media Desk.
Before a match ends, journalists must fill out a form requesting a few moments of the player's time. The requests are then pooled together, relayed to the player when they leave the court, and then you wait to find out if you've made the cut. For the most part, they'll give you a minute. Or two, if you're lucky.
They're young, they're gifted. They're the popular kids.
And nowhere is it more apparent than the Player
Diningroom. Come with me, won't you?
Imagine a high school cafeteria. Put a hundred grand into making it look purty. Now pretend, instead of the kids on the football team, they're the kids in Sports Illustrated. Everyone is fawning, everyone is fumbling around them. Including me.
You've got the All American, James Blake, holding court. The cliques - at one table, the French players, at another, the Argentinians... In the corner, the Class Couple, Tomas Berdych and Lucie Safarova, huddled close (okay, I'll say it. Canoodling).
Parting the crowd like the Red Sea, the Class Beauty, Ana Ivanovic. Everyone is ogling her. (Oh my God, she smiled right at me! No, she's smiling at a guy behind me. Yup, just like high school.)
I'm salivating. Who else might be here?
I snap myself out of it. Where's my self-respect?
Where's my pride? I graduated from this BS, I'm an adult now. I learned life is not like high school.
We're all (like it or not) the same.
Freed from my trance, I have mercy on myself and head out, exiting through the main doors of the building.
Throngs of fans are lined up to catch a glimpse of anyone ranked in the top 2000. They see me come out their door. Who is he? He's not a player ... but he was with one!
And suddenly I feel just a little cooler. I puff out my chest, show off the credential around my neck a little bit.
I'm such an exhibitionist.
Wednesday, Aug. 29, 10:17 PM EDT
I'm riveted.
Alun Jones has taken a set off Nadal, and he's up a break in the third. But I'm not there. Henman is battling Tursunov in potentially the last Slam match of his career. I'm not there either. I'm in the grandstand, watching the single worst match of the tournament I've seen so far.
I think the players would agree.
Karin Knapp and particularly Ahsha Rolle scored nice first round wins to get here. They've got the game, they've got the shots. And right now, they've got an opponent they just can't handle. Themselves.
You've seen it before. Easy shots sail, simple volleys dump into the net. And if you think it's painful in the stands (hi Robin Givens), you should see the looks on these two girls' faces. They want off, stat. But I can't leave.
I realize in this moment that I'm a monster.
What is it about me that I eat this stuff up? Is it because I was picked on as a kid and now revel in other people's misery to distract myself from my own pain? Is it because I'm secretly jealous of these players and all their fame and fortune? Is it because I'm grouchy after three hours sleep?
Whatever it is, I've spent the whole day bathing in the sadistic. First, facing my ex Marat Safin in his a.m. match v. Dancevic (can he see me in the stands?) Next, beelining over to see Ginepri take on Rochus in the battle of the career slides. Somehow, it ends in a victory. So many headcases, so little time.
But back to the match at hand. Ahsha takes the third set. She falls to the court. I'm hoping she's thrilled to break through some extraterrestrial mental block and not just thrilled to break through to the third round. Then it hits me. I don't enjoy the suffering these players go through, I enjoy the achievement of coming out the other side. The victory over ourselves through a trial by fire, becoming a better person than we were.
At least that's what I'll tell myself so I can sleep tonight.
Tuesday, Aug 28, 5:35 PM EDT
Men!
That's what you told me last time when I was on the hunt for a new favorite player. You see (tune out now, faithful readers), my #1 Davenport had gone off to have a baby, leaving me cold and alone and in desperate need to fill the void (I couldn't).
Besides, I already had a favorite male player.
Or I did.
Marat, I just can't take it anymore. It's the same old story. You woo me with promise, show me flashes of brilliance, then the verbal abuse begins. Followed quickly by the meltdown, then the flame-out. Sure, you smile afterwards, give a little pat on the neck.
But it's not enough. I'm exhausted. I'll always cheer for you, I'll never forget the times we've shared. But it's over.
That brings me to you, friends. Rather than give you guys a couple of wild cards like I did last time, I clearly can't be trusted, so you're in charge of the entire kit and caboodle.
E-mail me your favorites, and the eight players with either the most votes or the most convincing arguments (to give more obscure players a shot) make the cut.
I'll run your picks through the mill over the next two weeks, knocking them off one by one til there's a last man standing. The criteria: performance, personality, general hygiene.
So help me out, huh? Unless your favorite isn't man enough...
Tuesday, Aug. 28, 9:05 AM EDT
All the back and forth over Arthur Ashe not having a roof, turns out the USTA was right. Cuz if it had a roof Aretha would've blown it off last night. Just ask all the white women in the audience clapping their hands and trying to sing along. Leave it to the Queen, ladies.
Of course she was there to honor tennis legend Althea Gibson. The tribute itself was pretty phenomenal. Not only because of the crowd it drew, both on and off the stage, but because it honored her in a way that couldn't have been truer to who she was as a person.
Dignified, inspirational and, under the bright lights and over the loud speakers of an electrified stadium, a rock star. Of course she (and the press at the time) would never call her that. Fortunately it's 2007, and I will.
I was all settled in to watch Venus start the night when they announced that Ms. Franklin would be available to the press. When? Now. Okay, when someone asks you if you want to see Aretha Franklin be interviewed, go. I haul down 500 steps to get to the press room. Aretha's sweating more than I am. She talks vaguely about tennis, being a fan for years, loving Chris Evert and the frilly panties. They ask her her favorite player today. She mentions the Williams sisters (I think it's in her contract), then 'the girl that played last night.' No one tells her it's Day 1 and no one played last night. I'm thinking she's a little crazy. Then her eyes liven and she begins to gush about a player she really loves. "That Lindsay girl. Lindsay Davenport. She perseveres til the end. She'll fight for every point. You play her, you've got to play her all night."
The woman's a genius.
On court, Venus is firing off the fastest woman's serve in Open history at 129 mph. In the spirit of the underdog, I skip over to Armstrong to watch Ahsha Rolle put the smackdown on Tatiana Golovin. And I'm not even talking about the match. Somehow Ahsha out-glittered Tatiana. Now that was the true upset of the day.
Back on Ashe, Serena puts the final nail in a stellar night. And it's only Day 1.
But don't tell Aretha.
Monday, Aug. 27, 7:15pm EDT
Was it Nietzsche or Head & Shoulders who said, "you never get a second chance to make a first impression?"
 |
| Who will James meet in New York? |
At any rate, I must've done something right as the winner of the
Write to Roland Garros competition, as the fine folks - nay, tastemakers - at the Tennis Channel have brought me back as a (gulp) employee, to once again give you the low down on the down low at America's Favorite Slam, the (wait for it) US Open.
She said what? That's right. No he did not! Oh yes he did.
Along with the blog, I'll be posting my usual daily pics to give you a front row seat of the behind the scenes goings on, and to give me the occasional alibi (you know what I'm talking about, Bartoli).
Now, contest winners get luxury accommodations at the Paris Hilton (insert joke here) and shuttle rides with Martina Hingis and Radek Stepanek (insert joke here).
Employees get to stay at a friend's studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen and ride the subway with shifty-eyed ne'er-do-wells who would just LOVE a sip of your Dunkin Donuts iced coffee (no joke here).
But I'll slum it for you.
Let me start by saying, all Slams are not created equal. As I walk onto the grounds bright and early with memories of the French Open fresh in my mind, I get the distinct impression I'm not in Paris anymore. I don't know what gave it away. Was it the ridiculous amount of billboards and promotional chachkis flooding nearly every inch of the site? Was it the music blasting on the loudspeakers (nothing says good morning sleepyhead like Ludicris)? Was it the fact that is wasn't raining?
That's right. Sun. Game on, people.
First up, Donald Young. You hear a lot about players feeding off the crowd. Donald dined like a king. On nearby Court 6, Dinara Safina was cursing like a sailor. Tip: while you should never walk around during a point, you should NEVER walk around during a Dinara Safina point. No, it wasn't me. I'm 6'3" and I'm still afraid of her.
I'm also afraid of farmer's tan, so I take refuge in the press room. Those of you who followed the Paris blog recall the vicious hierarchy the interview room assignments laid painfully bare. Who's hot, who's not. It's worse here. Big names get Interview Room 1, which is massive. Rooms 2 and 3 are much smaller.
Robert Kendrick got the hallway.
Donald Young got the main room. So did Jelena Jankovic, who spoke of fatigue after a busy year. I ask if that might encourage her to slim down her infamously insane schedule. Absolutely. You heard it here first, folks.
I've gotta wrap it up, the day session's bleeding into night, and they're about to honor a lady who made a whopping first impression on the game, and the world. It's the 50th anniversary celebration of Althea Gibson's historic victory at the US Open. Aretha Franklin will be there. So will Venus and Serena. So will I.
And if you come back tomorrow, so will you.