What Color Is Your Tennis Ball?

Open almost any newspaper, watch a Democratic Presidential debate, or scan a college course catalog and you are sucked into diatribes on white privilege, income inequality, “learned experience,” and reparations, Of course this somehow forgets that this country has moved so far ahead on race relations that it elected a black man as President. Twice. I was told, however, there was still an outpost of oppression flagrantly displaying itself every two weeks in, of all places, Flushing, Queens. Thus off the island of Manhattan I went to take in the US Open tennis tournament.

Let’s face it: tennis, like golf, is a country club sport. Rooted as a pastime for moneyed elites to get a social workout and local bragging rights at Ivy League colleges or country clubs, the sport has never been about, or for, the masses. While boasting the largest tennis stadium in the world, the grounds are hardly a paragon of equity. Sure you can wander the outer courts in the early rounds and see some top-20 players up close and personal. But the only way to see Roger Federer or Serena Williams without binoculars or a $1,500 courtside ticket is to hang onto the practice court fencing and contort your body in unnatural ways. Taking the Number 7 rush hour subway to the tournament is good warm up.

Unlike country clubs, there is no genteel signing the chit for your refreshments, probably because country clubs would be embarrassed at what the Open charges. Moet champagne is available for $25. A glass. Souvenir t-shirts run $48 each. Walking around, my wife casually mentioned that the woman next to us was wearing $900 sneakers. Income inequality in this context is measured by which color Amex you use, with green being a laughable entry-level fob.

Race, in its own way, towers over the place in the form of Arthur Ashe Stadium. It is both monument to and reminder of a black man from the segregated south rising to the greatest professional heights of this very white sport. And yet looking around the fans and the player draws last week, the faces still showed up as nearly all white. The fact remains that the road to tennis fame comes through practice time on courts, coaching, and tournament travel. These things cost money, lots of money, year after year, and that demographic does not skew to the minority community here or abroad. But in this year's first round, one match showed how simply going out and playing, no matter your race or background, can move a crowd and inspire others.

The last of our day session matches featured Russian Anastasia Potapova and American Coco Gauff in Louis Armstrong Stadium. Anastasia, at the age of 18, is one in a long line of taller Russian blonds. Coco is a short but athletic 15 with a youthful face that barely registers that old and, in contrast to the rest of this narrative, 100% black. The stadium has two levels-the bottom for ticket holders where we were sitting without much company and the upper deck open seating. Up top was filled with a line waiting to get in, so even by US Open standards you knew something was going on.

The tennis itself was about what you would expect from two unranked teenagers. Potapova whacked at each shot with all the force she could muster in a style that could be best described as Maria Sharipova without the athletic gifts but all the grunting. Gauff had solid ground strokes, but not yet the power behind them. As the match progressed, Coco’s playmaking and use of the court’s angles showed a more mature understanding of the game within the game. Unforced errors abounded, challenges to line calls frequent, and net play a mere accident of a short baseline return. In cold war fashion, the players split the first two sets, setting up a final set showdown.

It was at this time the lower level started to fill up, and not with usual crowd. Almost every new spectator in the seats was black—some in pairs, a few groups of female friends, and the occasional single straggler. One of these fans was a concession stand grill cook in her chef’s hat and apron. As the last set progressed and the players changed sides, the cook left, walking up the aisle smiling, holding her smart phone tight like a trophy. The final few games were a raucous affair with the crowd cheering on Coco’s every winning shot. Gauff won the match and the place shook with delirious cheers.

It was then I finally I understood why the cook was smiling and didn’t even need to see the end of the match. In a sea of whiteness she saw the future and had its picture on her phone. The future was chirpy, young, and talented. The future had infinite promise. The future was proudly black.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.