Backhands and Compliments

Whenever a player is interviewed on-court at the U.S. Open tennis tournament, the first sentence usually goes a little like this:

So great to be here in New York!

or

Really love it here in New York!

or

So happy to have the support of the fans here in New York!

And in the stands those big city cattle cowpie themselves each time New York is mentioned. Those jaded New Yorkers who have seen it all. Those wile New Yorkers you can't put anything past. Each time they fall for the oldest trick in the book; referencing the hometown.

No one does this kind of pandering at the other Grand Slams, which is weird when you consider that those tournaments also take place in grand locations.

The French Open is in Paris. The city of love. The city of lights. The city where newlyweds go to put a bow on their marriage. The city where oldieweds go looking for a way to tolerate each other for a few more years. The city where gals with terminal illness go to regret not running off with that waiter they thought loved them but who in reality forget their junk-riddled cabooses the second they left the cafe.

Paris is perhaps the most written about city on Earth, yet you never hear players say:

I really love playing on the red clay here is Paris! Red like my heart, 'cause I love this city!

Wimbledon--the most coveted Grand Slam--is in London. The home of the Crown. The nerve center of what not so long ago was the most far-reaching empire in human history. Sam Johnson once remarked that, "When a man is tired of London he is tired of life." Can you imagine a Wimbledon player saying:

So happy to be here under these grimy gray skies in front of you sour snot fans. But hey, that's London for ya! (raises pint glass)

You may laugh at these examples, but are they that much more ridiculous than the spectacle of watching players who travel the world beg for the approval of fans in New York, many of whom are from out of town?

The Australian Open is held in Melbourne. Melbourne, the city of...well, three out of four ain't bad.

If players at the Australian Open bothered to reference Melbourne, it would be something like:

I hate Melbourne. You hate Melbourne. And if it weren't so far away from everywhere else we all know you'd leave.



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40C-Love

At every tennis Major (save the still chaste Wimbledon), at some point some female player wears an outfit so skimpy it gets commentators asking: "Is this outfit too skimpy?"

But are today's skimpy outfits really any more revealing than the tighty-whitey short-shorts the men used to wear? If Connors's and McEnroe's shorts had been any more revealing they would have qualified as x-rays.

I'm sure those questioning today's outfits would argue that the revealing attire of the Williams sisters and Maria Sharapova are made to pique the "prurient interest," whereas Connors and McEnroe were just wearing utilitarian garb (as though men can't play up sex appeal). From there the complaints would fall along familiar battle lines; conservatives griping about the women no longer being ladies and progressives griping about the women being objectifed.

For the conversatives who say these outfits are a sign of modern decay, remember that in ancient Greece, the Olympians competed naked.

For the progressives; sex appeal is the only edge female athletes have on men. Sports are about competition, and sex is the only way women can compete with male athletes for attention. Forget about retiring jerseys. Start retiring sports bras.

What the controversy comes down to is that these scantilly clad players are women, and women showing skin always brings out the Keystone Skin Cops. The men could string their rackets with their small intestines and no one would blink.

At least the women wearing the least clothing are among the most dominant. If the critics had their way, these heroines would dress more demurely and risk being overshadowed by the Anna Kournikovas of the world. Progressives especially should champion the minimal clothing, because the outfits of the Williams and Sharapova increase their star power; meaning they will be seen by more little girls who will then be inspired to pick up tennis rackets themselves. You want fewer girls playing with Barbie? Let Serena, Venus, and Maria compete tennis-wise and looks-wise and living Barbies who can't hit with the big girls (Kournikova) won't steal the entire spotlight (when Kournikova played, they may as well have hung the net between two stripper poles).