One of the great American sporting traditions returns to the New York City region later this month, the U.S. Open Tennis Championships. I have talked repeatedly about attending one over the years and being a part of the unique, electric atmosphere associated with the event, but have never netted a couple of train tickets for my wife and I to head up to NYC and take in some of the action.
When I was growing up, my favorite tennis player was America’s Jimmy Connors. He was brash and bold, and played the kind of high-pressure tennis I liked to play (at). He also helped to expand the global use of the two-handed backhand (which I never mastered but always attempted). Alas, even though my parents bought me a version of his signature Wilson T2000 steel racket, he managed to do much better with his than I with mine. During his distinguished career, Connors made the U.S. Open finals seven times, winning five titles. Even more impressive, Jimmy won Open titles on three different surfaces…grass, clay, and hard court. One of the greatest to ever play the game.
I think professional tennis players today are at a major crossroads when it comes to addressing the relentless year-round scheduling and aggressive points system which drives it, the massive financial and physical cost of traveling all over the globe virtually non-stop, how lesser players can even afford to stay on the tour, and the absolute need for balance and transparency when dealing with top players found to have violated policies. None of these are new developments, but mental and physical well-being has become an even bigger area of concern, and while all the players on tour are trying to push through these challenges, some are becoming more vocal and active in their protests.
For this year’s tournament, when I last looked at the betting odds on the men’s side, they favor World #1 Jannik Sinner, looking for his second U.S. Open title. Defending champion and two-time winner Carlos Alcaraz is the second betting favorite, but he’s been out for almost four months with a wrist injury. French Open champ and World #2 Alexander Zverev, four-time champion Novak Djokovic, and Americans Ben Shelton and Taylor Fritz round out the top six. On the women’s side, two-time defending champion and World #1 Aryna Sabalenka is the betting favorite, followed by 2023 champ American Coco Gauff, 2022 champion Iga Swiatek, World #2 Elena Rybakina, French Open champion Mirra Andreeva, and Filipino breakout star Alexandra Eala.
Players always face a grueling couple of weeks in Queens. The demanding hardcourts, the high humidity, the crowd noise, the late nights when the schedule demands it, and the late-season fatigue they have to fight through. It makes for very compelling television, and I try to tune in as much as possible. I am a bigger fan of the sport than Mrs. B, and perhaps to at least some extent that would be due to a tennis-playing incident from some years back.
At one point, my wife and I were playing tennis at least once a week. Never in a competitive way, mind you. We simply went out for an hour or so sticking to the baselines, volleying back and forth.
That is…until the drop shot.
It was a weeknight. The temperature was around 70F. No wind to speak of. No one playing on the court next to us…although there were a couple of guys playing on the court one removed from where we were, so periodically we served as ball persons for each other’s play. Otherwise, it was absolutely perfect conditions for twilight tennis on a well-kept, public court.
We were about a half-hour into play when “it” occurred.
Mind you, we always kept score even though our shared goal was to just extend points, get some good exercise, and simply enjoy the outdoors. My wife, a pretty good athlete back in the day, was actually beating me this particular game. She had just returned my shot from deep in the corner when I executed “the drop shot.”
To this day, my wife insists it was because I was losing and consciously wanted to win the point. My claim to this day is my highly-competitive mind and muscles simply converged in that one, fateful moment…and I subconsciously went all-in for a winning shot…finessing it just up and over the net.
It was without a doubt the greatest drop shot I have ever hit.
My wife, reacting to my truncated stroke and setting aside that goal to take things easy, attempted to sprint all the way from the back court in a spectacularly athletic – yet predictably futile – fashion to reach the ball in time.
Futile intersected with fall. My wife went down several feet from the net in a full-on, concrete face plant.
I really thought she was dead.
Mind you I was gratified to have won the point, but I decided to first check on my wife before retrieving the ball. As I got to her, she was rolling onto her side and making low, unintelligible sounds which indicated she was, a) alive and, b) able to move.
Me: “Are you OK? What hurts?
Her: “My hand.”
Me: “Just your hand? Great!”
Her: “Great? No, not great. It hurts. A lot. I think I broke it.”
This is when I automatically switched into ultra-positive mode. Knowing my wife as I do, it would be important at this point to assure her she was OK, and that hand would be just fine with some rest and TLC. It did seem like her hand took the brunt of the impact. This was a good thing, because her head was next in line if that hand had not been extended to break her fall. The question now…was the hand actually broken?
I quickly got her to her feet and into our car so, if nothing else, to reassure those guys playing nearby a hearse would indeed not be required.
I drove her to a nearby Wawa convenience store to get some much-needed ice for her injury. I left her in the car briefly, returning as quickly as I could with an ice-cold beverage for her, lots of ice for her hand…and a copy of the latest edition of the TV Guide (out on their newsstands earlier than usual…!).
Her: “You thought about buying the TV Guide during THIS?”
Me: “I got it early!”
Moments later, as I was getting her cooled down and set-up in a more comfortable position for the drive home, I was trying to adjust the angle of her seat to make her more comfortable…when I made her more horizontal as the seat control got away from me. She actually managed a laugh about that, watching me being flustered trying to get the seat corrected. Good sign. Laughter IS the best medicine.
Until the next day of course, when her hand looked like one of those cartoon character balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Off to the doctor. Then the hospital. Multiple X-rays. No break. Bad sprain. Two weeks of rest.
Since then, conversations of my drop shot placement usually go like this:
Her: “You know you hit that shot on purpose.”
Me: “I just reacted. It was instinct. You were so far away, and the shot was there for the taking. I never, ever thought you’d actually try to go for it. I didn’t mean to almost kill you.”
Her: “Well, you almost did.”
Me: “Again, I’m sorry. You know, I really thought you were dead for a second. I’ll never forget that sight. It was awful.”
Her: “I still can’t believe you bought that TV Guide.”
Me: “I got it early!”
Picture Courtesy iStock
