Tennis, Under The Lights

Novak Djokovic might've capped one of the best seasons ever in men's tennis on Monday by winning the U.S. Open, but my favorite moment of the tournament came last Thursday, when Andy Roddick upset David Ferrer in the fourth round:

After two consecutive days of downpours, canceling all the tennis scheduled to be played, Roddick and Ferrer were supposed to play on the second-largest court when water started seeping up through the surface. An hour of blowdrying and mopping the court was ineffective, so two of the circuit's top-20 players then moved to Court 13, on the periphery of the USTA's tennis grounds -- something like if Wilco were scheduled to play the Wang Theatre but then had to move to All Asia because the sound system sputtered. The Times photographed Ferrer and Roddick walking the grounds, surrounded by security guards, as fans rushed by them to grab a seat at the court, which had about one-twentieth the capacity of where they were supposed to play. Then, when they played, a viewer tried to scale the fence while Roddick served, a baby cried, and rock music from the concourse's speakers washed over the court. Roddick won in four sets.

I criticize New York often, but its dizzying pulse makes the U.S. Open so wonderful: The city puts the tennis on the hardest hard courts, in the midst of late August's sticky humidity, under the lights and low-flying planes, surrounded by noise, Flushing and an addictive throb. No other sporting venue takes a game and transforms its identity like New York does to the Open. The players were even particularly testy this year at the post-match press conferences (because of the tournament's poor administration during the rain): Rafael Nadal suggested players form a union! Los tenistas unidos jamas seran vencidos!

The Times' sportswriters focused on the ridiculousness of the fortnight -- the circus, the packed schedules, the poor planning, the outbursts, the overshadowed quality of the tennis on the court. But this ambiance has an appeal all its own. Tennis' gentility combines with a sneer that runs from Jackson Pollock to the Velvet Underground to the 7 train to create something thrilling that Wimbledon, for all its charming grass, just can't replicate.

Above are Roddick and Ferrer disbelievingly inspecting the court with tournament officials.