Perhaps because I’m a writer, and live with rejection, I’m fascinated by how people handle defeat. Winners tend to do it badly; the competitive drive that brings them success – and with it popularity – often makes them poor losers.
Mike Krzyzewski’s dream scenario was to win the final game of his career, i.e., the national championship. But a greater boost to his legacy would have been a gracious and generous attitude in defeat. He congratulated the opposing team’s coaches and players after the game, but most of his players – young men who had spent years under his tutelage – refused to engage in this time-honored ritual, heading off sullenly to their locker room. And he wore the look the whole time of a man aggrieved. He was so devastated by the shattering of his dream that he couldn’t manage a smile for the people who had shattered it. True, it would have taken a very big man, but that’s what over the years, in the eyes of many, he had become.
My day at the Miami Open began with a long walk from the parking lot. Entering the grounds, I continued my trudge past pop-up shops, bars, and restaurants and finally asked an employee where the tennis courts were. He pointed past a makeshift food court.
He had directed me, serendipitously, to the practice courts. The row on the north side had stands at one end; two were divided by a wide passageway that became crowded at times with fans and autograph seekers. Some players practiced with their teams, like Petra Kvitova and Maria Sakkari, while others hit with fellow players: Felix Auger Aliassime rallied with Daniil Medvedev and Hubert Hurkacz traded groundstrokes with Taylor Fritz. The latter group seemed to be having more fun, smiling at the conclusion of extended points. Those smiles disappeared when, at the end of their sessions, they mechanically signed autographs and posed for selfies. A distasteful duty and a begrudging acknowledgment of the people who through their devotion make them all rich.
I found a seat in the second row of Butch Buchholz Stadium for the Fabio Fognini and Taro Daniel match. Already in his first service game, Fognini became agitated, complaining to the chair umpire about some people talking and then giving the people an angry stare. There was a sense in the stands that we had already gotten what we’d come for; players like Fognini, and Kyrgios, are followed not just for the element of surprise they bring to the court but the relatable bits of humanity. None of us spectators can hit a tennis ball the way they, or any of the pros, do, but we can all get frustrated, swear, and throw our rackets. See, we say to ourselves, they are just like us.
In the food court, I ate four mediocre croquetas and on my way out spotted two young women with badges about to tuck into ceviche.
“You work here?” I asked them.
“Yes,” they said.
“Where’s the best place to eat?”
They recommended the ceviche, and the tacos from the taqueria.
I caught the end of the Carreño Busta match on Court 6. The view from the south stands, of the blue and aqua court, and the peopled, three-story dining complex behind it, and Hard Rock Stadium behind that, the gondolas gliding through the air, gave the place the air of a subtropical Grand Slam.
At five, I wandered over the Court 9 to watch Iga Świątek practice. She arrived with her team, quickly signed an autograph, and then set to work, her cap pulled low. It was a joyless session; every member of the team, even the psychologist, had a seriousness that seemed more appropriate for a surgical theater. Having recently become #2 in the world, Świątek was now on the verge of becoming #1, due to the retirement of Ash Barty. I had seen Barty and her team here in 2019 and been impressed by their laid-back, easy-going manner. It had seemed very Australian.
Leaving the court, Świątek rushed past the small group that had watched her, giving as her excuse her upcoming match. Her eyes were not on her fans but on a dream within reach.
A little before 7 I entered the stadium for her match and snuck down to the lowest level, where a lovely young usher said she would let me into her section. But the atmosphere was so sterile, particularly after a day spent courtside, that I thanked her and headed out to Court 2.
Alicja Rosolska and Erin Routliffe were in the middle of their doubles match. They made an interesting pair: a 6’2” blonde and a 5’5” brunette. After their victory, I waited with a handful of people to congratulate them. When they appeared, I was surprised to hear the Pole speak with a New Zealand accent. Then I discovered that she was the brunette. I told her, in Polish, that she had played very well. She seemed delighted by the chance to speak her native tongue. We chatted for a bit, and she thanked me for coming to her match.
You don’t get thank you’s from Fognini. Or from Świątek.
My friend Dave arrived shortly after tipoff last night because he mistakenly went to the Twin Peaks close to Hard Rock Stadium. Of the twenty-odd screens, two were showing the Villanova-Michigan game; a couple had the Arkansas-Gonzaga game; most were tuned to the Panthers.
"The other place," Dave said, "was full of Colombians watching soccer."
It was a wonderful weekend for people who like college basketball and tennis, and a great one if you went to Villanova and married a Polish woman in Warsaw.
For many Floridians, a season without spring training is like a month without sunshine.
In his interview with the BBC, Novak Djokovic spoke in such reasoned, thoughtful tones that it was easy to overlook the callousness of his stance (to refrain from receiving the COVID vaccine). His defense was all about his “freedom,” as an “elite athlete,” to decide what he wants to put into his body; never was any mention made of his responsibility as a citizen of the planet. Already by the second utterance of “elite” I was hearing instead the word “selfish.”