Jonathan Last presciently writes this morning of the tennis calendar’s first major tournament, the Australian Open:
Take, for example, Novak Djokovic, the defending champion just concluding an epochal reign as world number one. While most of America slept overnight Thursday, he fell in the second round to a player ranked outside the top 100. Novak Djokovic doesn’t often lose. But when he does, it’s not to Denis Istomin.
That sort of upset is part of what makes the event so exciting. For an American culture obsessed with underdog stories—March Madness, Dodgeball, Donald Trump—the Aussie is made for a U.S. audience. The semifinals are liable to feature a grab bag of one favorite, one upstart, one last hurrah, and Michael Caine. It’s great theater.
Take the 2003 tourney. Andy Roddick, then a 20-year-old next big thing for the States, opposed the thirty-first seed Rainer Schüttler, and Andre Agassi, in the twilight of his brilliant run, had un-seeded, 32-year-old Wayne Ferreira, making his second appearance in the semis of a major. The Roddick-Schüttler tilt is the kind of match-up you see in the third round. Agassi-Ferreira is the kind you see in the first. These were the four men left standing.
And because the Australian Open has to make zero sense, fans wouldn’t be granted a torch-passing from Andre to Andy in the final. Schüttler ousted Roddick in four unceremonious sets, after the young American was drained from a five-set marathon the previous round. Agassi dispatched Ferreira in five minutes. The elder statesman then triumphed in the final 6-2, 6-2, 6-1, the sort of undercooked entrée even polite customers send back to the kitchen. The only thing baked to an internal temperature of 170 degrees that week was the court, sweltering in Melbourne’s summer heat. And thus it is fair to say that the Australian Open can be hot garbage.
But fun! Two ranked American men with the names of 1930s boxers, Jack Sock and Sam Querrey, are still alive and poised to pull off the kinds of stunners typical of the tournament. Roger Federer, whose pancontinental appeal practically makes him an honorary American, is trying to stage a late-career comeback of sorts, having entered this year’s draw as the number-seventeen seed. Maybe it’s best he’s not top-five.
The U.S. women are still great. Venus Williams, now 36, has a dreamy path to the final four. Younger sister Serena has a tougher road, but she’s also the best player on the planet, regardless of what her ranking says at any point in time. Last year’s winner and the person actually seeded at the top, Angelique Kerber, looms over both.
So there are excuses to watch for competition’s sake. The best one, though, is that the tournament affords people who keep odd hours the opportunity to watch live sports. Parent of an infant screaming at 3:30 a.m.? Tune to ESPN. Working a night shift? Hopefully there’s a TV close by. Closing out the bars? Be that guy and ask the bartender to change the channel, even if you won’t remember watching the match, anyway.
Hopefully the event will be intoxicating and memorable for other reasons.
