Arthur Ashe Stadium at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center.
“Getting there is half the fun.” So they say.
Not so if you’re going to the US Open at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in Flushing Meadows-Corona Park in Queens. Miss that left off Exit 13 D on Grand Central Parkway, and you’ll have to circle around after dallying in LaGuardia Airport renovation Hades.
Even if you make the left, the surly officer will deflect you from the drop-off at Lot 3. Finally, a more sensible officer will take pity on you and your driver and you’ll find yourself in the park before the center’s entrance.
Do not allow yourself to be waylaid by the refreshing spray of the Unisphere fountain, a holdover from the 1964-65 New York World’s Fair, or dreams of a soft-serve vanilla cone from Mr. Softy, whose jaunty jingle New Yorkers love to hate. You are on a mission to pick up your credentials before heading to the Media Center, which is near the players’ area (oops).
The Media Center is a thing to behold – banks upon banks of work stations, each of which have TV screens above them. And all of which seem to be carrying Roger Federer’s match. Will tennis ever tire of him? He seems to have become synonymous with the game. You have to admit his exceptional talent and exceptional desire is an unbeatable combination. He is elegant on and off the court and has real leadership skills. That said, you could do without his superciliousness, enabled by the Federinas.
You miss Novak Djokovic, out with an elbow injury and awaiting the birth of his second child. (Serena Williams isn’t the only one on baby leave.) On the other hand, there’s a stunning photograph of him across two pages in the book on the 2016 Open, in which he lost the final to Stan Wawrinka. (It’s available at the little bookshop nestled beneath Court 16 that you can’t resist.) Still, you’re holding out for the 50th anniversary edition next year.
Nole’s absence means that you at least don’t have to worry about him losing. You can relax and watch some of the other guys. Rafa’s in it, though his rivalry with Fed was never as good as his rivalry with Nole. Andy (Murray) is hanging in, despite a hip injury. Then there are the younger guys like Alexander Zverev and Dominic Thiem, so easy on the eyes in the big September Vogue. And reigning bad boy Nick Kyrgios, the subject of a sheaf of articles on today’s matches that portray him as wildly talented and wildly undisciplined – the opinion of some of the overheard fans as well. (As of this writing, he has crashed and burned in singles but is still alive in doubles.)
Printed material is one of the perks of the Media Center, along with the thick reporter’s notebooks with laminated covers containing an image of the men’s and women’s singles championship trophies set against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline and emblazoned with “J.P. Morgan.” There’s also the $25 meal money. Enjoying salmon, mango chutney, snow peas, rice, a whole wheat roll and lemon water in the Media Dining Room while writing at a table overlooking practice courts, you think, It doesn’t get any better than this.
But it does. Outside you catch some doubles action before taking in all the shops filled with expensive stuff. Your media pass doesn’t get you access to everything, like the Chase Center, even though you’re a Chase cardholder. And the seating police, in their aqua shirts, will direct you to the top of the bleachers in the temporary Louis Armstrong Stadium, next to the new Louis Armstrong Stadium, under construction and slated to bow next year.
Tennis is all about rules and form, no doubt why it’s always had its share of bad boys. You can’t move around during a match except during changeovers when the players change sides, and you must do so quickly. Could you imagine that at a baseball game at, say, nearby Citi Field, home of the New York Mets?
But tennis also has a purity that is irresistible. Sitting in the bleachers of the temporary Louie (as the Louis Armstrong Stadium is nicknamed), watching Andrey Rublev upset Grigor Dimitrov, the ball ricocheting between them as a breeze ruffles the hem of your dress, you think, It doesn’t get much better than this.
And that being there makes getting there worth all the trouble.