Bill Simons
ESPN’s Chris McKendry said it best: The US Open doesn’t really start until a night drama stretches long beyond midnight.
Night tennis is the coin of the US open: the raw roar is primal, the gladiatorial battle touches a core – a primal place within. Thousands descend at 7 PM – giddy folks with abundant glee. We know them well as they pour in from the Upper Eastside and East Hampton, brokers from Chelsea, boys and barons, baristas and glitterati – high heels, high expectations.
It’s a feel-good show that’s well lubricated with dry vodkas and wet IPAs. The tennis is sublime – forehands amaze, the athletes are familiar. We know them by single names –Serena, Roger, Rafa, Venus, Coco, and Nole.
But this is 2020. In a season that defies logic, the world is adrift – reason wavers. So a vast US Open arena is empty. The piped-in sounds ring hollow. Huge signs state the obvious – New York Tough. Or they provide the mantra of the day – Black Lives Matter. What once roared now shouts with silence, our good lives battered – up is down. At last our games bravely limp back.
Before us is a god-like fellow with flowing locks who unleashes breathless backhands that are art forms. He sprints to the corners and unleashes winners. Stefanos Tsitsipas flows like an Athenian breeze. This is a rare man-child with skills that delight. As a Greek boy he lived on the edge of squalor. Now he speaks of Pythagoras and Socrates and wrestles with the perplexing quandaries of coming of age.
The boy is on the cusp of greatness. His mother was a Soviet tennis pro. His chiseled, old-school dad is from central casting. His long-time guide, Patrick Mouratoglou, is a star whisperer. He oozes charisma. Serena and Coco seek his counsel.
Tsitsipas draws our eye as he sweeps from corner to corner. Tall and ascendant, the lean 6’ 4” No. 4 seed commands. Up by two sets to one, he leads 5-1 in the fourth set. A sweet triumph will be his. The upbeat script is clear.
The kid who danced with poverty now inspires. His rags-to-riches story warms us. He rose as his nation was in despair. Philosophers are his heroes. He shares inventive travel videos. He wore a Black Lives Matter shirt and is pals with the new whimsical hero of our day, Naomi Osaka, who, according to one commentator, is “a kind of Rosa Parks for this username era.”
So, Tsitsipas must prevail. His 23-year old foe, Borna Coric, reached the fourth round of the Open in 2018. Still, he is relatively unknown – a modest fellow from a modest land with a modest No. 27 seed. Just two months ago he played a now infamous exhibition in Croatia. The quiet warrior with clipped hair was clipped by COVID – he tested positive. But he was unapologetic. He conceded there were some mistakes, but, “I’d do it all over again.”
Yes, just two nights ago Coric had survived a five-set marathon. But tonight, the swift Greek would certainly prevail. Tsitsipas had not just one, but six match points.
But this is 2020. All our scripts are in tatters; disarray is the new normal. Stefanos’ father winces in the Friends Box. The boy’s coach sits mute, an expressionless void. Tsitsipas struggles. His confidence cracks. The Greek hero stumbles.
Mighty Casey at the bat once whiffed on three pitches and struck out. Glorious Stefanos double-faulted twice in the fifth-set tiebreak to seal his fate.
Coric – tenacious, brave and bold – deservedly won. But the arena didn’t care. The Croat’s glory was mighty, but hollow. Deep into the New York night an epic win echoed in the silence of would-have-beens. This year’s US Open tennis tournament is not a Greek tragedy. It just feels that way.
