It's the U.S. Open, but it's not. Think Bizarro World and the Seinfeld alternate Universe. I walked into the Billie Jean tennis center, and there were no lines. The fans looked the same, but no one had tickets. Sparse security welcomed in fans carrying their own food. CBS Sports coverage was projected on all the video screens, but instead of John McEnroe, it was Justin Gimelstob. Yes, it was the world turned upside down, but in a wonderful way, a return to decades gone by when one could interact with a sporting event other than being herded into consumer lines.
I attended on a spontaneous whim, with three of my 12 year old tennis clients piled into the Prius. We parked free at Citifield and walked in from the Subway boardwalk. There was a Smorgasbord of matches and we moved freely about, sampling several. After a quick snack in nearly abandoned food court, we took no more than 15 steps to the Court 11 end zone seats, my pick as the best seats in pro tennis. We sunk our teeth into a classic opening round match featuring American college product Rhyne Williams decked out in his Tennessee Volunteer orange against Vasek Pospisil, who represented Canada in the Olympics. The kids got to see the bright faced American upset the 7th seeded Pospisil in straight sets with a classic hard court game: big first serve and an undying desire to hit forehands, backhands a last resort.
We caught up with the engaging Williams after his match, the kids getting autographs while I shmoozed. I learned firsthand that Williams was the 2011 NCAA runner up for the Vols as a sophomore and has thoroughly enjoyed his first year on the tour. No credential necessary as Williams shared his story out in plain view, not in a crowded press room. Is there a better way to take in a sporting event?
Having collected the last Order of Play being handed out at the entrance (did I mention there was a hint of magic to our spontaneous excursion?) we cruised over to the newly completed Court 17, an intimate theater reminiscent of the Court One "Bull Ring" in Roland Garros. The kids were free to run around, moving closer and closer to the front row during Bobby Reynolds' victory over Ukrainian masher Illya Marchenko. From the kids' perspective it might as well have been Rocky Balboa against Ivan Drago. Seeing the pace from the front row blew the minds of the middle school tennis hopefuls. Tennis memories were being permanently etched, emphasis on the word "tennis" as opposed to memories of standing in line to use the rest room or being ejected from elite seats by irate ushers. 12 year olds with free rein at a major tennis venue, such conditions seriously sparked their imaginations as sports fantasies prospered.
Post match I went down to a group of fans pulling for the 30 year old Reynolds, convinced that they were part of "Team Reynolds," and sure enough it was his his family from Georgia. I proceeded with my well-rehearsed shmoozing, prodding for connections while learning from Bobby's dad about moves from Cape Cod to Mobile to Georgia. Bobby's aunt asked about my location, and it turns out she teaches middle school math in my town. As she shared that info my 12 year olds arrived, and here was where the magic kicked in. As Bobby's aunt described how she employed her nephew's pro tennis exploits into her lesson plans, the boys jaws dropped a bit. One of them had taken her math class, the other will be in 10 days. They were now drawn into the Reynolds inner circle as I watched, amazed as everyone else at the serendipity. We all visited and exchanged ideas on teaching and coaching and kids and both big and small time tennis until the Reynolds politely exited to connect with their tour pro. For my 12 year old posse, the magic of the moment shimmered due to its insane improbability.
Our dessert was the final match on court 17, Lukas Rosol's opening qualifier. Despite his mind-blowing upset of Rafa Nadal at Wimbledon earlier this summer, Rosol was still ranked only 93, and he had to grind through qualifying matches like the majority of the elite tour wannabe's. So we all crouched in the front row of the end-zone during his warmups, snapping pictures on our phones. Rosol sure looked like the same guy who smoked Nadal in the 5th set at Wimbledon's famed Centre Court, booming serves and moving with grace and extreme quickness here on cement in the early evening. I hadn't noticed the exquisite tattoo on his left calf. Unfortunately we couldn't ask him about it after his dismissal of 6' 5" monster Kamil Capkovik because it was getting late and parents were wondering exactly how late their tennis cherubs would be getting home.
We returned to our car surrounded by Mets fans filing into CitiField for the early innings of their game against the Rockies. A couple of blonde women, deep into their cups of suds, chided us for leaving the Mets game prematurely. I let them know we had just come from a full day of tennis, and they acknowledged that we had made the better choice.
Early in the ride home I teased the boys about how they could have stayed in with some of those pros on several of those points, how they could have returned those second serves, and then I left them alone for the 30 mile drive west. Soon, two of the three had dozed off, tired from a day marching around their cement tennis playground. You didn't need a psychic to predict their dreams.
I attended on a spontaneous whim, with three of my 12 year old tennis clients piled into the Prius. We parked free at Citifield and walked in from the Subway boardwalk. There was a Smorgasbord of matches and we moved freely about, sampling several. After a quick snack in nearly abandoned food court, we took no more than 15 steps to the Court 11 end zone seats, my pick as the best seats in pro tennis. We sunk our teeth into a classic opening round match featuring American college product Rhyne Williams decked out in his Tennessee Volunteer orange against Vasek Pospisil, who represented Canada in the Olympics. The kids got to see the bright faced American upset the 7th seeded Pospisil in straight sets with a classic hard court game: big first serve and an undying desire to hit forehands, backhands a last resort.
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| Tennesse Vol Rhyne Williams in signature orange gear |
We caught up with the engaging Williams after his match, the kids getting autographs while I shmoozed. I learned firsthand that Williams was the 2011 NCAA runner up for the Vols as a sophomore and has thoroughly enjoyed his first year on the tour. No credential necessary as Williams shared his story out in plain view, not in a crowded press room. Is there a better way to take in a sporting event?
Post match I went down to a group of fans pulling for the 30 year old Reynolds, convinced that they were part of "Team Reynolds," and sure enough it was his his family from Georgia. I proceeded with my well-rehearsed shmoozing, prodding for connections while learning from Bobby's dad about moves from Cape Cod to Mobile to Georgia. Bobby's aunt asked about my location, and it turns out she teaches middle school math in my town. As she shared that info my 12 year olds arrived, and here was where the magic kicked in. As Bobby's aunt described how she employed her nephew's pro tennis exploits into her lesson plans, the boys jaws dropped a bit. One of them had taken her math class, the other will be in 10 days. They were now drawn into the Reynolds inner circle as I watched, amazed as everyone else at the serendipity. We all visited and exchanged ideas on teaching and coaching and kids and both big and small time tennis until the Reynolds politely exited to connect with their tour pro. For my 12 year old posse, the magic of the moment shimmered due to its insane improbability.
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| ROSOL launching his signature boomers |
We returned to our car surrounded by Mets fans filing into CitiField for the early innings of their game against the Rockies. A couple of blonde women, deep into their cups of suds, chided us for leaving the Mets game prematurely. I let them know we had just come from a full day of tennis, and they acknowledged that we had made the better choice.
