Showing Off: The MSG Exo

Yesterday was one of those nexuses of malfunction that challenge your idea of yourself, your own efficacy and your place in the universe. Other than that, it was a nice day. Naw, kidding. It wasn’t nice in any way, from the carsickness that swamped me on a Greyhound bus from Vermont, which left White River Junction at 8:30 am, which meant I’d been up since 6, to the discovery that I’d left my ticket to the exhibition in VT and also my cell phone charger. I couldn’t print out another copy of the ticket from my email because my printer hasn’t had a working cartridge for months. No neighbors were home. I ended up schlepping to Kinko’s and being told after pointless fuming at one of their rental computers that Kinko’s “doesn’t get Yahoo” anymore. Nope. They don’t have access to one of the most widely used email sites in the world. They only tell you after you’ve inserted your debit card and been charged, too, by the way. Fun times. I finally lugged my laptop into the city thinking I’d just show the MSG guys the page where I had my ticket. Crazy, upset thinking. MSG guys don’t want to look at a page on your laptop. But luckily they found the ticket with my debit card.

I got to my seat in time to see Maria Sharapova and Caroline Wozniacki break from fiercely dueling and start dancing with members of the audience on the court. First Caroline ran out and danced to the between-sets music in the middle of the court in a brave but slightly cringe-making way. She has a lot of guts/foolishness. Then she ran over to the sidelines and pulled a little blond girl out of the stands – the two of them danced together, which was cute. The audience roared approval. Maria S. looked askance at the display, and turned to her own end of the audience with her hands leveled outward, seeming to ask, “how am I supposed to deal with that?” She boogied a little bit, sarcastically, on her own, and then she pulled a bald gent out of the crowd and danced with him. The whole thing felt like a sardonic parody of Wozniacki, not a friendly gesture to equal the Danish girl’s high spirits.

Maria’s snarkiness was confirmed at the end. She icily commented to Mary Jo Fernandez that she and Caroline “didn’t get much time to hit out there.” This was a not-too-subtle dig at her opponent, whose game fell to pieces after the raillery with golfer Rory McIlroy (Wozniacki pulled him on court and made him play a point against Sharapova). The steely Sharapova was evidently hoping for a longer clash, given that her winning seemed fairly certain. But Sharapova really dug the knife in a moment later. Asked about Rory M’s play against her, she said, “He won more points than Caroline did.” The crowd roared at this trash talk; Wozniacki seemed genuinely hurt. “That was not very nice,” she gasped to Maria. And it wasn’t. Sharapova’s tomfoolery had a real edge to it.

For a lesson in how to be jokingly insulting without a trace of real sting, Maria, see Andy Roddick. “I’m so sick of you it’s unbelievable” he shouted at Federer after one of the Legend’s net cords dropped over for a winner. Federer grinned, as well he should at the veiled compliment. “You make 95% of those net cords,” Roddick went on. “It’s not fair.” See, that’s how it’s done – while crabby, he pays tribute.

Andy and Roger were a study in contrasting humor styles -- i.e., Roddick had one, and Federer didn’t really go there. From the start, it was clear the American had decided he’d be the clown if not the winner. Federer? He didn’t have anything to prove either way, and the truth is, tennis is pretty serious to Federer even in an exhibition. So it was Roddick who worked the crowd, like the alpha male at a barbecue, but it was Federer who drew the loudest cheers. Yes, oddly enough, Andy wasn’t the crowd favorite. There were too many sports fans and internationalists present for the native son aspect to matter.

At first, Roddick seemed content to play the fool while Federer glided around like the Velvet Fog. Then he, Andy, eked out the first set, and the prospect of a competitive match reared a tentative head. If Federer’s shots cracked like whips, Andy’s started to too. The men played crisp, authoritative tennis, mostly using corner-to-corner style rather than serve and volleying. But, uh, I’m not actually sure how Roddick managed to beat Roger. I always lose track of critical matters like this. I think “it just came down to a point or two” applies here, since they finished the match with a tiebreak.

Mostly I enjoy watching their dynamic, which I found most tellingly on display during the warm-up. At one point Roddick was feeding high balls for Roger to volley, and doing it perfectly – the ball went seamlessly back and forth as Andy looped balls upward and Roger chopped them back. It started to look like a choreographed circus routine – a perfect circuit of a lofted ball angled back with a crisp cut. I marveled at how well these players worked together – they seemed almost like an old married couple, deeply familiar with each other's moves and instincts. Then the shoe was on the other foot, or was it? Roger kind of shafted some high-ish balls back for Roddick and Andy volleyed a few of them, but the seamlessness was gone. As in many matters with these two, Roger seemed a trifle above the whole thing – he lacks Roddick’s perfectly honed sporting instincts. He carelessly hit some of his feeding balls into the net, so Roddick didn’t get the volleying practice he’d had. Then it was over. They were ready to compete.

A Fan's Notes

The U.S. Open grounds are violently bright in the sun and navigating them is a challenge. Huge matches are going on; tiny matches are also going on, and you have to deal with the overload, and the ADD. I get in to the Grandstand, get a decent seat and am psyched to see Del Potro. He’s enormous and lanky, with strikingly separated legs, like a tree trunk split by lightning. He plays well, I think (though a fan I talked to later didn’t think so) but the sun is so brutal and the match is such a blow-out I leave after 20 minutes. Then to wander, lost, regretting my exit, for ages. The Grandstand becomes un-re-enterable.

See Rafa practicing, but he’s so far over we can’t get a good look at him. So we all go over to some bushes behind the court and crouch down to look through a hole in the bushes at him. Yes, we do that. I manage to see his taped fingers – a thrill. It’s a bit silly though and we’re shooed away from the bushes by a guard.

Find Gulbis-Muller on a small court. This match has some oomph Del Potro-Juanquiera lacked. Muller looks saggy and rueful, sort of sheepish – reminds me of Linus. Gulbis is very self-possessed, intense. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, and has explosive energy – mutters “this fucking game” after he loses one. I’m amazed to hear Muller won this match. But he had a crazed cheering section that Steve TIgnor mentioned on Concrete Elbow - they’re like a bunch of Luxembourg David Puddys. Faces painted, chanting Muller’s name – they must have pushed him over the top.

I watch four seconds of Meltzer – Kunitsyn. It’s bakingly hot and Meltzer wears a flame-colored shirt, adding insult to injury.

I can’t get in to see Wawrinka-Young – the line is long and the seats filled, I’m told. This is maddening and will become more so.

After blowing it with Del Potro, I’m determined to see Murray and somehow last out the sun. I grudgingly shell out for bottled water as a precaution. But it’s better – the sun has lost some killer intensity. A nice man offers to get me an American Express earpiece. I’m one of a tiny Andy Murray cheering section – the rest of the crowd seems to be for Haase which surprises me somehow (no offense, Haase fans!).

This match is a drag and I keep wondering if I should decamp for other matches. It’s the match of the long flat forehands – Haase’s are so low and fast they make the crowd gasp. Murray retrieves them somehow, but he lacks Haase’s mind-blowing speed. Both men serve poorly and the whole thing feels dispiriting – with this style of play, Murray can’t do any volleying or pace-changing, he just has to hang with the baseline walloping.

For the first time, I see something mother-tied about Andy. She’s sitting courtside – it’s in Armstrong with the first rows on the level with the players. Andy walks toward his box dejectedly whenever he makes a bad error. He even scuffs his feet like a little boy. I feel uncomfortable watching this. He never directs any comments toward Kim, only toward his mother and coaches.

Right at the end of the first-set tiebreak, Andy is serving to win it and a guy in the crowd shouts, “Come on, Andy, do it for Mommy!” Ouch. Hard New York humor, embarrassing in this context. Andy blows the tiebreak, and falls badly behind. He does rally, sort of, but it also just seems like Haase self-destructs. The match becomes exciting with some sharp momentum shifts, but it mostly feels like something tilting crazily out of control instead of two players in their best form exchanging their best.

I suffer terrible match envy when Blake-Ferrer starts next door. I want to go over there but have promised myself to sit through one complete match. Still, have pangs when tons of people file over to the Grandstand entrance or go up to the top seats to look through the fence. It's gratifying when a bunch file back from the Grandstand and stand mournfully roped off by a chain, watching the 5th set of Murray-Haase. This is the hardest part about tournaments, though, I’m learning – not being able to predict which matches will be exciting. It was torture seeing the score of Wawrinka-Young and realizing what a thriller it was.

Commentator envy, too – I do miss hearing the Macs when I’m out at the tennis. I thought I saw JMac and PMac in the commenting booth above Murray’s match, but realize it couldn’t have been them since they must have been at Rafa.

I really wanted to watch Stosur, but I was drained and starving after Murray. But! Here is my best fan moment: We were filing out of Armstrong and someone said “Excuse us, move left” more sharply than usual and lo, there was Stosur being led through the crowd, looking composed and glamorous and steely. I was literally 4 inches from her! And to my true shock, she’s barely taller than I am, which is short. I thought she’d have to be at least 5’ 6” but I don’t even think so.

After a hot dog and a beer I’m very tired and tired of the crowds and overload. So I decide not to stay for Stosur but to get home in time to watch Andy and Jack Sock on TV. Which I do. Which is overload in its own way, but good for Andy.

Being out there is very special. It helps me appreciate the game a lot more – I see the different pace of the strokes when I’m right there. The players’ “gets” seem both more athletic and more plausible in person. Hard to explain but you do get a better sense of the real physicality involved.

Burned out though I was, I wish I was out there today. Didn’t expect to, but now I have Slam envy. ):

Too Much Poetry?

Sorry, dear reader. ("Reader" is accurate.)

I haven't forgotten the lighter side of life. It distantly beckons, from the other side of a brackish... Never mind. Yes, I'm still trying to be a comedy writer, when I can stop sobbing.

I love writing comedy! It bounces me upward, and it thrills me because it's within reach, unlike fiction which is so slippery and elusive, and you have one good writing day every two months. With comedy, you can actually have two good writing days in one week. Even if you only write four times. Yes, the success average is far, far better.

I'm still too gloomy in general, though. So here's a picture of Jerri Blank to remind me of the sublime. Also to remind me of Amy Sedaris and her lighthearted way of getting through life -- baking cupcakes, decorating her apartment with insane-looking stuffed squirrels, and like that. Oh for a muse of fire! No -- oh for a fun, scampish approach to life, like hers.

I Miss You

Look! A Blog Post

Look at her dancing there -
Trumpets sound, and spikes
down into the ground.

Because she can sing, and feathers

Because she's not like you

Cans! Cans of colocated enigmas.
Breast implants and tiny diagrams show
Fleshly floating tadpoles

It's so hard it's snowing

Lash me, lash me.

Poem #9

First I lost you, then I lost you.
Then I lost you, you and you.

While I was losing you, I also lost you.
For a while I had you, then I lost you again.

It was cold the day I got the news I'd lost you.
Not you!? But I had. I had lost you.

I think a lot about losing you, in particular.
Your loss is a big, echoing ache.

Not like smaller losses that are more like
Not getting a magazine anymore.

That's what it was like to lose you. No, worse.
But not nearly as bad as to lose you.

Then -- you? Please, please not you.
But it wasn't. Thank god, I hadn't lost you.

A landscape like the moon.
All the same. "Don't leave." Someone left too soon.

A Socialist's Dilemma

I've been cut off from unemployment insurance benefits. I thought they'd skipped a week due to a faulty computer connection, but when I laboriously made it through the thousands of distracting choices and endlessly long on-hold wait periods of the New York State Labor Dept. phone line, today, an impatient woman told me I had come to the end of my benefits year and I would have to file a new claim.

I know someone else this happened to. When she filed her new claim, she was denied because she hadn't worked enough to qualify for unemployment.

What a racket! What's the point of extensions if it's impossible to qualify for them?

But I have to admit this is the second time I've experienced strange flickers of relief when I've thought I was cut off. It might force me into action -- and I really hate action -- but I also hate this floating nothingness I've been living in. Somewhere deep down, I do believe I could get some kind of work, but I also suspect it will be poorly paid counter work, like Starbucks or worse. Still, it might be preferable to floating in the noxious brew of my own ideas and possibilities, the limitlessness of which is a guarantee for mental strain and emotional deterioration.

I'm too exhausted from trying to deal with this today. Tomorrow, I'll try yet again to get a human being on the phone to help me. For now I'm just going to try to write my personal statements for my grad school apps. But I did that yesterday and I ended up exhausting myself doing that-- this is what I mean about the noxious brew of my possibilities. I can hardly understand my own path so far -- trying to explain it to others is like pulling teeth, and trying to locate a true, solid, quiet, unchanging ambition or belief in my core is also like pulling teeth. And tomorrow i have to go to the dentist and ask him to pull my tooth -- unrelated except by metonymy.

In short, I'm driving myself crazy. It might be better to make lattes for a while.