A big tennis fan, I never felt the urge to attend the U.S. Open.
For one, New Yorkers are the greatest tennis fans in the world - at least that's what we're told ad nauseam year after year - and I wasn't sure that I could match up.
Also, the television coverage was so complete and entertaining that I didn't feel the need to be there in person. In fact, I knew that if I were there I would miss out on a lot.
But that was when the USA network showed the Open. This year ESPN2 is handling it (as well as the Tennis Channel, starting at 11 a.m., though ESPN doesn't tell you that).
ESPN is a sports company and approaches the game through the eyes of an athlete; most of its announcers are former players. This does not mean they're not articulate, but it ensures that, for the most part, they fail to see the sport as entertainment.
John McEnroe and Ted Robinson make up one of the finest teams in broadcasting: the grizzled, irreverent veteran paired with the wide-eyed, West Coast swooner. Not only do they constitute an odd couple, they provide - like Madden and Michaels, Morgan and Miller - the insider AND outsider perspectives.
ESPN has McEnroe teamed with his brother Patrick, another former player (and coach) and a fine announcer in his own right. But the only chemistry is that of siblings, and you don't want sharing the same booth two people who used to share the same house. You want tension, even if it's cordial.
But the biggest loss this year is Michael Barkann, who used to roam the stadium and talk to celebrities between points, and then appear on the court for the post-match interview. They're still doing the interviews, though last night they annoyingly cut away from the one with Kateryna Bondarenko after she upset Ana Ivanovic. They did show Brad Gilbert (ex-player, ex-coach) talking to Andy Murray after his straight-set victory over Ernests Gulbis, but it had none of the fine quirkiness of Barkann's interviews. (Even though Gilbert tried, desperately, asking the dour Scot about the ballboy's spill in the third set.)
Barkann never played on the ATP tour, and so was able to bring a charming Everyman quality to the moment. Two years ago, after Andy Roddick beat Justin Gimelstob, he handed the microphone to the loser (who now can be found on the Tennis Channel) and had him interview his friend and opponent. Barkann talked so long with Novak Djokovic after one match that Djokovic asked him: "Do you want to sit down? Have some coffee?"
Nobody's going to invite Gilbert for coffee.
The Orioles leaving Fort Lauderdale to spring train in Sarasota (reported in today's Herald) is not as sad as the Dodgers leaving Vero Beach (which they did this year) - unless you live in Fort Lauderdale.
I'm off to Tampa (will honk disapprovingly as I pass by Sarasota) for a speaking engagement. Will be back here Monday. (Some of us are loyal.)
The man is a great swimmer, but who's been writing his material?
In the last few weeks I've seen him interviewed by Conan O'Brien and Rick Reilly. Each interview began with a discussion of his remarkable achievements and then, with obvious uneasiness, each interviewer brought up the unfortunate incident with the bong. Phelps' response to each was exactly the same, some meaningless drivel about the fact that he's 'made mistakes in and out of the pool and he's always been able to learn from them in the past.'
Then each interviewer, relieved to have gotten that messiness out of the way, moved on to happier topics. Case closed.
You didn't expect much from O'Brien, though as an interviewer he showed himself to be even more timid than Jay Leno, whose first question to Hugh Grant, after his arrest for picking up a prostitute, was the Everyman's: "What the hell were you thinking?"
But Reilly is the former Sports Illustrated columnist who confronted Sammy Sosa about steroid use. Couldn't he have at least followed up with: "Really, Michael - what sort of mistakes in the pool are you talking about?"
Athletes are usually not the most articulate people, and it's not easy to talk about a sport as boring as swimming. But couldn't Phelps say something that's not been scripted? I suppose, with all that money riding on endorsements, no. But wouldn't it have been refreshing if he had looked Reilly in the eye - after having already given O'Brien the spiel - and said: "You know, what I did was stupid. But it will look a lot less stupid when marijuana is legalized, as it should be."
But he's not going to get into politics. Even though, by regurgitating jargon, he sounds a lot like a politician.
It's not often that I think I know how our president feels, but last night I did.
Not when he stood on the pitcher's mound. A southpaw myself, I grew up in New Jersey instead of Hawaii, and could have come at Pujols with a little heat.
No, it was when he sat in the broadcast booth. Joe Buck mentioned that he had just been in Russia, Italy, and Ghana and suggested that this night of baseball must come as a pleasant relief. The beaming commander-in-chief, looking even more boyish than usual in his White Sox jacket, agreed.
And I was transported back to July of 2001. I was on my way home from three weeks in Russia, Lithuania and Latvia. I was in a wonderful mood because it had been a wonderful trip. (When you're a travel writer, the sweeter the trip, the happier you are to return - and write about it.) During my layover at Dulles, I went to a bar for dinner. I ordered something that wasn't borscht and, looking up at the TV, saw the introductions of All Stars on a brilliant green field. I could not have constructed a finer welcome home.
My one Wimbledon post - on how the Lacoste crocodile was starting to challenge the dominance of the Nike swoosh - nearly proved prophetic yesterday as Andy Roddick, in stained and sweaty reptile cap, battled valiantly through 77 games - over 4 hours and 18 minutes - against the Swiss God of Victory.
The match was mostly a battle of serves, and so less enthralling, with less sensational shot-making, than last year's final between Federer and Nadal. What was incredible (though no announcers I heard commented on it) was the fact that Roddick held serve for 37 straight games (this they noted) while Federer had nearly twice as many aces: 50 to 27 (this was noted too, but not in connection with the first statistic). Federer, typically, often got his racket on the serve, but, atypically, could do little with it once he did.
I felt sorry for Roddick after the kind of superb performance he usually saves for the post-match press conference. He is probably the most amusing and least predictable player in tennis. (Note the echos of Lou Gehrig in his courtside interview.) Though the euphoria of a win yesterday may have found him grasping for cliches.
But I was happy to see Federer finally break the record of Pete Sampras, a great player who often bored me to tears with unreturnable serve after unreturnable serve. (There's something about a Federer ace that makes it less like a brutal silencer and more like a work of art that leaves you speechless.) For a few years now watching Federer has been a bit like watching Sisyphus; it is such hard work making your way through a Grand Slam, and he has done it with such grace and consistency - this Wimbledon marked his 21st straight Grand Slam semi-final - only to be pushed back, as he got inches from the summit, by Rafael Nadal. Some people think his last two triumphs - at the French Open and now at Wimbledon - are less valid because he didn't have to play Nadal. What they fail to mention is that almost every time they met, Federer had two opponents: Nadal and history. I can't wait to watch him now, when he will see only the Spaniard on the other side of the net.
There is a new development in the world of tennis which I've noticed during the first rounds of Wimbledon, though none of the commentators have remarked on it (but that's why you come here): The Lacoste crocodile is slowly making inroads on the Nike swoosh.
I'm off on a little Florida road trip - coming back here on Monday morning. Have a nice weekend.