French Open

Because the US Open is basically an extended Cadillac advertisement and they only serve Evian, the absolute worst bottled water

The sublime pleasures of tennis have been extolled by many excellent writers (and players; Open is one of the best and most insane memoirs I’ve ever read). Tennis is summer, tennis is pathos, tennis is hubris and folly and the whole emotional spectrum filtered through two (sometimes hot, sometimes children of billionaires) athletes. Tennis is Serena Williams overcoming prejudice to become the forever GOAT, and it is also Nick Kyrgios telling a line judge that he is “a snitch who has no fans.”

Of the majors, Roland Garros has emerged as my favorite to watch. Australian, though it kicks off the tennis year and inspires feelings of warmer weather, is basically impossible to watch due to the time difference. Wimbledon, despite its satisfyingly crisp lawn lines, has kind of an off-putting colonize-y vibe to me. Why does everything have to be white? Why do we have to eat cream when it’s hot out?

The US Open has historically been my favorite given its proximity, but the last few years it’s felt more like a playground for aspiring Rolex bros and their West Village girlfriends. As soon as I learn how to make a Honey Deuce at home it’s over for my relationship with that tournament.

But the French! Clay, with its chalky texture that shows every point and leaves its residue on the players, feels like the most poignant surface. It’s a unique challenge for players, especially Americans, and can sometimes feel like a third competitor on the court, throwing everyone off their game. Additionally, the remonstrations of the umpire seem more soothing in French. Merci, madames and monsieurs, silence s’il vous plait…(as my dad would say: those French have a different word for everything).

All this, combined with the lack of Hawkeye, make Roland Garros feel more organic and genuine somehow. It’s like how I imagine Disneyland Paris is much more tasteful and refined, with Ratatouille giving out cigarettes.

It may be that I’m just riding high off the past two days of incredible upsets by French underdog Lois Boisson, who beat #3 Pegula and #6 Andreeva back to back to reach the semi-finals despite being ranked #361 AND having ACL surgery just a year ago. As a member of the ACL community I am finding this extremely inspiring. I will be channeling her while I do my PT after surgery next month.

Boisson (us French minors just call her Beverage) has shown incredible poise, power, and reach in this tournament. Without much of a backhand due to a shoulder injury, she is constantly racing across a wide-open court to return shots, sliding in ways that give me phantom knee pain but seem to be effortless for her. Her frightening Michelle Obama biceps are generating an insanely fast serve that looks like a baseball slider (I am new at sportswriting!).

She has clearly invigorated the French crowd, normally kind of reserved and ennui, into such a frenzy that they were basically openly bullying 18 year old Mirra Andreeva. I don’t condone it, but it makes for an electric match. It even outstripped the energy that the crowd had literally any time Monfils hit the ball a few days ago. The French have taken some Ls lately (Le Slap) and it’s nice to see them succeed.

Boisson likely can’t extend her Cinderella story past her semi-final with Coco today, but this brief underdog supremacy is obviously what is so exciting about the major tournaments. Nothing is more fun than devoting your life to a buff child that you had never heard of a week ago, then forgetting them again. Sort of like the Olympics!

(Side, unrelated note: the unique types of advertisements during tennis tournaments is so funny to me. What is it about the tennis audience that Fage yogurt spends their entire yearly marketing budget on ads during the majors?)

We’ll have a pair of French Open champions by Sunday, and we’ll move on to the grass season, and its fresh microdramas and injuries. Tennis is fleeting. But clay remembers, and waits patiently for us to return in June. Go Beverage!!

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Petites Pleasures (a new feature I just came up with):

Speaking of Ratatouille (I always am), I can’t stop thinking about these stupid pots. Why is he so cute here!!

I checked out the NYPL Performing Arts Library for the first time and it is extremely cool. They have records, film scores, CDs, and juicy biographies of artists. It’s full of old people listening to operas on the computer. Fun!

I’m in the middle of this and it’s surprisingly propulsive for a memoir. I think we do not know what we hath wrought with this 23andMe thing.