Tennis Opinion: Abrams reflects on the Miami Open and life on the ATP and WTA tours
Covering the Miami Open has been fun, but it was made more challenging by the unpredictable Florida weather that interrupted a lot of the matches as the tournament approached crunch time. Coupled with the incredibly windy and chilly conditions of the California dessert that invaded the Indian Wells fortnight, it has really solidified my impression of how hard it is for these wonderfully gifted athletes, both men and women, to consistently compete on the world Tour.
Maybe twenty years ago or so, before the attack of 9/11, I remember sitting on a bench adjacent to a very outside court watching two lower-ranked men do battle at the U.S. Open in New York. The delicious aroma of cooking hamburgers wafted under my nose and over my head and made my stomach churn, while the shuffling of feet could be heard as the crowd hurried to Court 16, which at the time was a “show” court. As my senses were attacked by sounds, smells and sights usually reserved for a raucous baseball crowd, it occurred to me that these two guys, maybe ranked between 60-80 in the world, were two of the finest tennis players there were at the time, and no one cared that they were spilling their guts on this remote court.
There they were, fighting for every point, and they had to deal with the same smells, sights, and sounds that I did. And while I enjoyed the sights, the sounds, and especially the smell, these guys probably were disgusted by it all -- they were playing for fame and fortune, and what they were doing wasn’t even a mere afterthought to those callous enough to stride by their court. There weren’t even enough people watching them play for the umpire to admonish with a quick, “Quiet, please”.
It occurred to me that these players had spent the better part of their lives dedicated to perfecting their tennis game and competing at high national and international levels, and were probably heroes and champions from wherever they came from. Achievement in tennis, like most sports, is based on repetition, and they, no doubt, had spent countless hours on stroke production, hitting forehands and backhands both cross-court and down-the-line, until they perfected those shots. They had probably hit millions of balls standing three feet in front of the service line, straddling the line that separates the deuce from the ad court, while they were being peppered with dipping, zipping ground strokes by two guys across the net, in 2-on-1 drills meant to sharpen their volleys and their reflexes.
They had probably hit so many serves that when they were kids their mothers probably had to rub their arms until the ache of their shoulders, biceps, and elbows lessened just a little bit. And I’m sure that they had strengthened their grip on the racket so securely that there were times they couldn’t hold a pencil to write a sentence while they were in school, because their wrists and their fingers were so sore and cramped from finger, hand and wrist exercises.
They probably had lots of admirers and were accosted for autographs when spotted by their fans at inopportune times and at unusual places. (I once saw a guy ask the basketball star Bill Walton for a handshake as he was relieving himself in a bathroom at LaGuardia Airport. Needless to say, Walton told the guy that his hand was busy at the moment.) They were near the very pinnacle of their profession, and at the U.S. Open, in New York City, where, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, they were treated like mere afterthoughts, fighting sublime hamburger smells for attention.
The next time you go to your club or local playground and wait for the sights and sounds to be just to your liking, for the sun to be buried behind a cloud before you lift your arm to toss the ball to serve, maybe you should recognize that tennis, tennis players, and tennis fans all live in their (our) own little cocoons, and that when (if) you get really good, you’ll actually have to play in less than ideal conditions. Nobody cares whether it’s windy or the sun is so high in the sky that every time you look up to serve you see a streak of light as if you had just ingested some really fine windowpane acid from San Francisco. Nobody cares if you have to wait out a 90-minute rain delay when you just got your rhythm and are waiting to break serve at love-40, and your opponent was saved from certain execution by a slight drizzle. Nobody cares that there’s a family of mosquitoes that seem to want to adopt you every time you change sides. Nobody cares that, after a four hour dogfight, you cramped so bad that you needed intravenous fluids and perhaps some insulin, just so that you could straighten out your legs and breathe in full, deep breaths. On Tour, nobody cares. These athletes are professionals, and all that matters is what the scoreboard says after the last shot dribbles into the net. That might bring you back to earth as you strain to uncork your racket on that little yellow fuzzy thing that says, “PENN”.
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