A British friend said something snooty to me Wednesday night at the U.S. Open.
“Ugh, this is so American.”
A concert fog machine had just turned on as World No. 2 Carlos Alcaraz walked into Arthur Ashe Stadium, like he was Lady Gaga at MSG.
Once the match started, the 23,000 spectators talked the entire time.
“Please try to keep your voices down,” the Serbian chair umpire repeatedly implored in an exasperated tone that suggested these are her two least favorite weeks of the year.
The New York crowd couldn’t care less and kept yapping away regardless.
And, with seating rules mercifully loosened, folks got up to go buy cocktails right in the middle of points — stacking as many $23 vodka-lemonade Honey Deuce cups as Novak Djokovic has trophies. Why not? Spaniard Alcaraz was cruising to an easy victory. They were bored.
The U.S. Open is notoriously loud, garish, rude, drunk and completely indifferent to more than a century of decorum and tradition.
Thank God.
I’ve been to all four Grand Slams. Wimbledon is a stressful place. Shirts have buttons. And everybody acts primly like they’re in the Royal Box next to Kate Middleon, even though they camped out overnight in tents to get a seat and haven’t showered. The Australian Open is cheerful, yet “no worries” respectful. And the French Open is actually extremely obnoxious, but that often goes unsaid because, well, France.
The U.S. Open is tennis New York style.
The stadium’s energy is so rowdy and impassioned that the players often lean into it. And juicy drama ensues. Think 39-year-old Jimmy Connors egging on the masses in 1991.
In that time-honored spirit, Russia’s Daniil Medvedev, a hilarious spitfire — and stick figure — is never more cranked up than on the courts of Flushing Meadows.
In his first run to the finals in 2019, he infamously gave the crowd the finger and said that their booing fueled him.
Find me a New Yorker who can’t relate to that.
Then, last Sunday, he had a seven-minute epic meltdown after a photographer strolled on the side of the court at the wrong time. Mad, mad Meddy smashed his racket on the bench.
The former champ taunted the umpire, like the official was a cab driver who didn’t feel like driving to Brooklyn at 3 a.m.
“He wants to go home, guys!” he whined. “He doesn’t like to be here. He gets paid by the match, not by the hour.”
In the end, it was Medvedev who paid. The Russian lost in Round 1 and was fined $42,500.
This is the dangerously high dose of cortisol that Queens administers to players.
It sure did for Latvian Jelena Ostapenko, who berated American Taylor Townsend Wednesday for having “no education.”
Sore loser Ostapenko was all bent out of shape that Townsend didn’t apologize after winning a point in which her lucky ball clipped the net. It’s a stupid, stupid, stupid old custom that’s not unlike saying “bless you” after a sneeze. No one should ever do it.
“She told me I have no class, no education, and to see what happens when we get outside the U.S.,” Townsend said during her press conference.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
So am I!
And Greek Stefanos Tsitsipas’ Thursday kvetch has special meaning to U.S. tennis fans.
He was Tsitsi-pissed that Germany’s Daniel Altmaier beat him, in part, by occasionally employing an underarm serve. You know, the one kids use.
“Next time, don’t wonder why I hit you, OK?,” Tsitsi said on a hot mic to his opponent after losing. “No, I’m just saying, if you serve underarm . . . ”
Ticket-buyers booed. Crowds love the sneaky little serve, and in the States we do whatever it takes to win.
It was a cheeky, impudent underarm serve, you see, that paved the way for 17-year-old American Michael Chang’s victory at the French Open in 1989 — one of the greatest moments in tennis history.
The shot is tasteless, impolite, goofy, clever and extremely entertaining.
Much like the U.S. Open itself.
So American.
