“The Class That Saved Coach K” is about the basketball team that played from 1982-1986 for Mike Krzyzewski at Duke University. Much of the show takes place in a restaurant, with many of the players seated around their old coach reminiscing and eventually eating. (It’s one of the few sports documentaries that includes the occasional appearance of a pepper shaker.) The word Krzyzewski uses to describe that team’s members, then and now, is “brotherhood,” which he says not every team has, particular now in the age of “one-and-done.” (You assume that this development was partly behind his decision to retire.) One of the most beautiful photos in the documentary is of the star players of the class of ’86 laughing together in their caps and gowns on graduation day.
Naomi Osaka has announced that she will not answer questions from the media at this year’s French Open, citing the toll such exchanges have on her mental health.
It’s true that players have broken down in tears at post-match press conferences, and sometimes walked out, the emotional strain of having to explain a crushing defeat to a roomful of reporters proving too much for them.
But at the few press conferences I attended – one year at the U.S. Open, one year at the Miami Open – I found tennis writers to be both pedantic – interested in the technical aspects – and sensitive, posing difficult questions with a great deal of tact and humanity. These two qualities contrive to make most press conference transcripts perfect late-night reading for insomniacs. (At least since the retirement of Andy Roddick, who used sarcasm the way John Isner uses his serve.) Interviews are by nature highly artificial methods of communication, a game in which the interviewee plays with cards very close to the chest; multiply the one-on-one interview by 20 or 30 and the chance for startling revelations or brute honesty dwindles to near nil. Attending a press conference with Roger Federer at the Miami Open, I got so bored with the proceedings that I asked him to explain his decision to move from a collared to a collarless shirt. Rather than dismiss my question as irrelevant, and me as an imposter (which I clearly was), he graciously gave me a thoughtful response.
For me, the most entertaining moment at a press conference was provided by Novak Djokovic when he affectionately answered an Italian reporter's question using a spot-on Italian accent. It came after a Djokovic victory, of course, leading one to wonder if perhaps only the winners should be subjected to press conferences. The problem with this solution is that, often, the more interesting interviews are with the losers. Triumph produces mindless euphoria while defeat is the mother of introspection.
On our way home Saturday, to balance our visit to a historic downtown, we stopped in a modern, planned one: Abacoa in Jupiter. After finally finding a parking space – we’d passed a festival on our way in – we walked down leafy streets lined with three-story apartment houses, some of the residents sitting on their balconies. “Three stories is a good height for Florida,” Hania said, as we turned into a street that, one block in, turned pedestrian. Families and young people sat outside restaurants and breweries in a perfect New Urbanism tableau.
The crowds increased as we reached the park, which was hosting a Cajun Festival ($55 for entry). Across the street stood Roger Dean Stadium, and as we walked over to check it out I had the sensation I was in an idealized version of a big city, one that had taken the main attractions – main street, park, festival, ballpark – and put them all in close proximity. Adding to my delight was the sight of people in the concourse.
“What’s going on?” I shouted to a man walking with his son. “There’s a game,” he said. I had forgotten that Palm Beach County has minor league baseball. We purchased tickets – $10 for seniors – and walked into a sweetheart of a stadium. Rather than find our seats, we took two about eight rows behind the home team’s dugout, halfway between home and first. The Palm Beach Cardinals, I quickly discovered, were playing the St. Lucie Mets, and the Cards pitcher had an early no-hitter.
It had been a long time since I’d been to a ballgame (almost two years), and even longer since I’d been to one outside. A soft breeze made the temperature almost cool. And because of the small crowd, all the sounds were beautifully amplified: the ball landing in the catcher’s mitt, the chatter in Spanish from one of the Cards’ benchwarmers, the gentle razzing, from the two women behind us, of the Mets pitcher.
It didn’t matter that the division was Low-A, the lowest in the minors. It was an idyllic evening, made even more so by being unplanned. On the way out I bought a Jupiter Hammerheads cap and vowed to return this summer and see them play (they’re the Marlins affiliate), ideally against the Ft. Meyers Mighty Mussels.
Yesterday was the 90th birthday of Willie Mays, the oldest living Hall of Famer (as my cousin pointed out to me in an email). He was also the player who made me break from my family of Phillies fans and root for the San Francisco Giants when I was a boy. I have never loved an athlete the way I loved Willie Mays. He played the game with the talents of a superstar and the enthusiasm of a kid (his nickname was “the Say Hey Kid”), and the joy one got from watching him – even I suspect those rooting for the opposing teams – was in direct proportion to the joy with which he ran the bases (his cap flying theatrically off his head) and roamed the outfield. It was a joy that, for those familiar only with the modern game, is difficult to imagine.
It’s occurred to me that hospital admission forms might want to ask patients, in addition to their religion, if they’re interested in sports. I am, and I think it helped my mental state considerably. My surgery came a few days before Opening Day, which gave me something to look forward to and, when that first pitch came, something to concentrate on other than my sorry condition. (Even if it was thrown by a Yankee.) The Miami Open was also going on during my stay at University of Miami Hospital, and its long, sunlit matches helped me pass the time, especially since the book I’d brought proved too depressing for post-recovery reading. A victory by the team or person you’re rooting for lifts your spirits (thank you, Hubert Hurkacz!), while a defeat is easily forgotten in the more important realm of vitals and test results.
And it’s not only sports fans who benefit from the escapism of sports. Years ago in Philadelphia I visited a friend in the hospital, a writer and critic by the name of Vernon Young. Vernon was an intellectual and, like many intellectuals, had not the least bit of interest in sports. So I was surprised, walking into his room one day, to see the TV tuned to a Phillies game.
“Since when do you like baseball?” I asked Vernon.
"I like precision, and this man” – he nodded to the pitcher - “is very precise.”
At the Qatar Open yesterday, Roger Federer took the court for the first time in over a year. He was pushed to three sets by the Englishman Daniel Evans, and looked his old self – making ridiculous shots look easy while piling up the unforced errors. Though after a couple of the latter, uncharacteristically, he gave a wry smile. The weakest part of his game – his challenging of line calls – seemed to have improved until his third challenge when he questioned one of his shots that was well out. In his post-match interview, he still mixed graciousness – speaking fondly of his opponent (I wonder if Serena was watching) – with self-congratulation. Asked if he was feeling a rush of adrenaline on the match points, he said that he was feeling tired. It was a frank, human moment that reminded everyone that underneath the arrogance of the champion beats the heart of a man approaching middle age.
Checking the ESPN website in the evening, I found no mention of Federer’s return among the top news stories. I thought this was a tennis slight but when I told Hania, she said, “He’s not American.”