Tuesday, August 27, 2002
It's a woman's world at Flushing Meadow
By Ian O'Connor
The (Westchester, N.Y.) Journal News
NEW YORK — To walk the grounds of the U.S. Open is to survey the intersection of a Gloria Steinem fantasy and an Augusta National nightmare, a world where women rule and men cower beyond the fringe of relevance. Being a man here means being a not-ready-for-prime-time player, a member of a subspecies unworthy of a live network smackdown in the Saturday night lights.
In this full-blown gender crisis disguised as an equal-opportunity tennis tournament, the male of greatest consequence is Richard Williams, whose contribution to the game comes in the form of two extraordinary women. Serena and Venus drew more viewers last year than that beer-chugging, salsa-dipping manhood challenge known as Nebraska-Notre Dame, setting the emasculating tone here for opening day.
One by one inside the men's locker room players stopped to admire the tabloid shot of the beautiful and powerful Serena, posing in a short and tight orange dress that loosed an eat-your-heart-out scream toward the one-and-done diva, Anna Kournikova, whose Open lasted all of 44 minutes. Forget the wretched Russian — she managed 40 unforced errors in her 6-3, 6-0 loss to the immortal Angelique Widjaja — and remember that the men are the ones suffering from Venus envy now, their symptoms as clear as the Fuji blimp floating in the sky.
While the Sisters Williams were giving women's tennis a boost best defined as Tiger Woods squared, the men were becoming second-class citizens faster than you could say David Nalbandian, Wimbledon runner-up. After Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi staged an Open classic that might be recalled as a postcard from the edge, a sweet kiss good-bye from the last men's rivalry that boiled anyone's blood, their sport devolved into one big anonymous mess.
Quick, who won the Australian and French Opens? If you guessed Thomas Johansson and Albert Costa, you win a free tour of the outback with the warm and fuzzy Aussie, Lleyton Hewitt, the Wimbledon and U.S. Open champ recently quoted in his homeland as saying, “Next year I couldn't give two hoots about the No. 1 ranking.”
Hewitt had been fined for refusing to do a pre-match interview with ESPN in Cincinnati. “You'll have to ask why men's tennis is struggling,” the world's best player said, “and you have to start by looking at the top.”
Couldn't agree with you more, mate. Hewitt's racially-charged rant last year in the company of James Blake, complete with lame post-match denials, makes him about as likable this week as Donald Fehr. Which would be perfectly fine if a foil emerged to play the good cop to his bad.
An American would be preferable — we like Borg and Lendl to be packaged with Connors and McEnroe. Andy Roddick is the best available candidate, but for now he's got as many rings as the other A-Rod. Blake is a son of Yonkers and an Ivy Leaguer who handled Hewitt's ignorance with uncommon grace — call him a cross between Bill Bradley and Arthur Ashe — but his revenge match is booked for the third round, too early for all concerned.
Blake does have the right idea, however, when it comes to filling the Sampras-Agassi void. “You have to play your best tennis when you're on the court,” he said, “but you also have to act appropriately and get some fans in. We're also entertainers. I try not to take any fans for granted.”
Particularly when there are fewer and fewer fans to take for granted. Ratings for the men stink. Star Wars racket technology has ruined the game, turned everyone into a faceless mad bomber.
Meanwhile, the women have the Sisters Williams and enough supporting storylines involving major champions such as Jennifer Capriati, Martina Hingis, Monica Seles and Lindsay Davenport. Only those in denial are too blind to see.
“In men's tennis,” Costa said, “you don't know. You can't imagine who is going to be in the final here. You can imagine in women's who it's going to be. I think that's the difference. For me you cannot compare women's and men's. ... I love to watch the women's, but I think we play much harder, much faster.”
A sermon straight from John McEnroe's mouth. McEnroe believes he would blitz Venus or Serena — I have my doubts — but will have to settle for a lounge-act exhibition match with Boris Becker, assuming both remember to spike their Gatorade with Geritol.
No, Mac and Boris can't save their gender at the U.S. Open. Too bad more women don't play tennis like Anna Kournikova.
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It's a woman's world at Flushing Meadow
