It felt strange to get up yesterday morning and not drive to Key Biscayne.
I wrote 12 stories in 12 days from there, showing more diligence than I ever did in my 20-plus years in journalism. The media center brought back fond memories of the newsroom, though one that had turned international and single-minded. (Though on the weekends some of the flat screen TVs - each work station came equipped with one - were tuned to college basketball.)
At the start of the tournament I didn't spend a lot of time in the media center, preferring to wander the grounds. That's how I got to see Roger Federer on the practice court and Glen Outlaw at the Corona bar, the oldest ball boy at 52 quenching his thirst in a way few ball boys could. Our chance meeting gave the tournament the serendipity of travel.
I also went to press conferences, though I didn't enjoy showing up for the losers. As I wrote, "I felt like I had come to a funeral to grill the widow on her inability to keep her husband alive." Wozniacki, known for her sunny smile, was drawn and prickly in defeat. Sharapova was more resigned (and more beautiful even than she is on TV). Djokovic I thought was the best, which is to say the most natural, with the press, but it's probably easier when you're constantly winning.
By Sunday I was ready for the tournament to come to a close. I watch a lot of tennis on TV, but always with a book or magazine in hand; you can't do that in the press box. (One day I did get to catch up with an old colleague from the Sun-Sentinel, until his attention drifted to his Smartphone.) And yet, after the men's final, I hung around, as did a few hundred fans, for the women's doubles. Part of me didn't really want it to end.
This afternoon I'm going to go to Holiday Park and play some tennis.
