As much as one might appreciate fall, summer is hard to part with. The heat isn’t always fun but there’s something to be said for walking around with a minimum of clothing. Long days and short nights are also meritorious. So is swimming in water that doesn’t freeze your — insert your favorite body part here — off.
But I long ago discovered a way to ease the transition from the easy-going days of summer into the stress of the school year. I haven’t gone to school in decades yet I still regulate my life according to its timetable. I suppose one could accuse me of never having grown up. Yet, there’s something to be said for experiencing life through the eyes of an eight-year-old.
Come to think of it part of the charm of the European lifestyle is that it conforms to something resembling the school year: lots of vacations and much of the summer off. There’s really not much to be said for workaholism. As that old saying go, on one’s death bed rarely does anybody think, “I wish I’d spent more time at the office.”
My method for seamlessly eliding from summer into autumn is the US Open Tennis tournament. Rather than a single event, such as a football or baseball game, it's two solid weeks of excuses to spend as little time at a computer as possible; by either attending the matches in person or watching them on TV. I realize not everybody can pull this off. Also, tennis might not even be your game. But I was never one for team sports. I played soccer in school and rather than be disappointed when a teammate flubbed the ball I felt secretly relieved; it took some of the pressure off me when I screwed up, as I invariably did.
That constitutes some of the allure of single warrior sports such as tennis. The responsibility falls solidly on the player’s shoulders. Fail or succeed they have nobody to praise or blame but themselves. That’s what makes it so much fun to watch. Rare are the peaks and valleys of human competition on such stark display. What separates champions from the rest of the pack isn’t just their athleticism but their ability to manage their demons. It’s similar to settling onto a psychologist’s couch in front of 20,000 spectators.
I try to make it to the Billie Jean Tennis Center in Queens at least once a season; even though it’s become a bittersweet experience. For seven charmed years I rated an all-access media pass as a newspaper columnist. If you’ll allow me briefly to describe this state of ecstasy. You got to cut the lines, slide into the courtside press box for major matches and, if that wasn’t sufficient, received a daily meal allowance from the USTA. And come cocktail hour there was something resembling an open bar: the signature cocktails people were paying dearly for out on the midway were doled out liberally at the media center cafeteria in souvenir glasses.
It would be too painful to describe my current situation — the endless lines to get into even matches between unknowns, seats in the nosebleed section, and the bank loans required to afford even a lowly burger and fries. If ever a sports event conformed to Yogi Berra’s saying about that restaurant that’s so crowded that nobody goes there any more, it’s the US Open.
Fortunately, my curmudgeonly instincts were allevited because I attended with my daughter. She’s somewhat less of a tennis fan than I am; she was simply elated briefly to be released from the bondage of caring for her two-year old twin daughters. Their grandmother courteously offered to babysit. That also helps explain why Lucy remained at the tennis center long after I’d called it quits around four p.m. and took the subway back into Manhattan. She wasn’t going to let a minute of freedom go to waste.
There was only one match that I knew in advance I wanted to see: featuring twenty-year-old Alex Eala whose moving first round victory made tennis history a couple of days earlier when she became the first person from the Philippines to win a singles match at a Grand Slam tournament. It felt as if New York City’s entire Filipino diaspora had turned out for her second round match. Fifteen minutes before the event started the seats on court seven were one-hundred-percent full. It took Lucy, who’d connected with a friend at the Novak Djokovic match in progress at Arthur Ashe stadium while I hunted for seats for the Eala bout, half an hour to gain admission once the match started.
Unfotunately, Eala lost to Spain’s Cristina Busça. But the cheering whenever she won a point and the signs and national flags waved by her proud compatriots was fun to watch. The most enjoyable part of the tournament is only starting. Directv, my service provider, simultaneously broadcasts the action from half a dozen courts throughout the first week of the tournament. Sitting in front of my TV set tuned to the US Open mix channel lends me something of the agency I suspect airline pilots must experience as they gaze at the wall of dials arrayed in front of them and prepare for takeoff.
At the end of the two-week event when the final two players in both the men’s and women’s draw square off to compete for the championship my excitement will be tinged with melancholy that another year has passed. But I know I have nothing to complain about. I’ve largely avoided working the previous fourteen days. There are no further excuses but to launch head first into the school year.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
