I walked through the gates a little before 11 and within minutes had my first revelation: Ana Ivanovic looks a lot leaner, but not necessarily meaner, in person. After her morning practice session she dutifully signed autographs for her adoring fans.
By the far practice courts I found the tennis coach for Cardinal Gibbons. Jodi was watching her boyfriend hit with the South African doubles team he coaches. He was staying, like a lot of players, with a local family - the same thing she had done when she was playing professionally. It gave the tour a homey touch. She said her hosts were always cooking for her, insisting she taste the local delicacies. "I'd always gain about five pounds," she said laughing.
From there I headed over to the playing courts. Loud chanting was coming from #8, where Francesca Schiavone was playing Dominika Cibulkova. I found a seat in the first row, just in front of Cibulkova's coach.
"Bratislava," he said, when I asked where he was from.
"Slovakia's got some good players," I said.
"Used to," he said, before suggesting that the national federation wasn't doing a good job.
"Like in all the former Communist countries now," he said, "everybody's trying to get rich."
"Except us," his friend said smiling.
The chanting was coming from the top row, two men clapping and screaming "DOL-CIA! ... DOL-CIA! ... DOL-CIA! ... DOOOO-mi-ni-ka." The one in the yellow shirt, the coach told me, was Cibulkova's father. Dolcia, he added, was simply a nickname for Dominika.
"I know you're not for me," a disgruntled Schiavone called over at one point, while waiting to receive serve. "But don't yell against me."
When Cibulkova put away the final shot, her father bounded down the stands and leaped over the fence onto the court, his arms raised in Rockyesque triumph. Dominika looked on with a helpless smile.
After the match, I strolled the grounds. The crowds seemed larger than any I'd ever seen on the first Saturday. McEnroe and the other talking heads are always wringing their hands about tennis's lack of popularity. But the problem in this country doesn't seem to be in getting people to watch the sport, but in getting young people to play it. Which makes it the exact opposite of soccer.
A new sartorial item this year, among the fans, was a cap with a miniature tennis ball stuck to the side of the visor. And BlackBerrys were ubiquitous: fans checking messages during matches, players checking messages in the outdoor players' lounge, coaches checking messages after practices.
At five o'clock about a hundred people stood looking onto an empty court 10. Pressed against the fence were eight women in bright red T-shirts with the name "Federer" printed across the back.
"We're from Roger's website," Colleen said. She was from Plano, Texas; the rest were from around the country (one from Canada); they took vacation time to come see their hero at various tournaments, and to deliver the "Red Envelope."
"It's an envelope filled with messages from his fans," Colleen explained. The tradition began, she said, in 2003 at Wimbledon.
"We yell 'Red Envelope' and then he comes over and gets it, after practice. We try to deliver it early in the tournament. We don't know if he's going to make the final. He always has a big smile when he gets it."
"How do you know he's coming here?" I asked.
"We don't. But he's been practicing on this court. And he usually practices three hours before a match."
"Have you all met him?"
"Yes," said Christina, from Ithaca, NY. "I mean, he talks to us. We get occasional pictures with him. But we haven't had coffee with him."
"I'm old enough to be his mother," Colleen said. And in fact, there was something decidedly maternal about these women. When I asked if they were worried about his recent losses, Colleen said, sounding like my mom, "We just want him to be healthy."
(Federer began the year with mononucleosis.)
Finally, a stir arose in the distance, and soon a tight clutch of security pushed through the crowd. A bowed head in a black cap occupied the eye.
Federer walked to the baseline in long pocketless shorts.
"He looks thinner," one young woman remarked, with obvious concern.
After about 10 minutes he turned his cap around, revealing his face and eliciting "ah's," one audible "thank you," and a chorus of camera clicks. Practicing his serve, he held three balls in his left hand (no pockets), each one rising, in turn, without rotation.
After another 10 minutes he sat in a chair and then, as if having gathered inner strength, walked over to the crowd to sign autographs. He did this exactly as he had hit forehands: methodically, and without expression. But for five minutes children giddy with joy dashed toward parents, their caps and programs now bearing the coveted, royal scrawl.
Then the crush as the bowed head made its way in a phalanx back to the stadium. Before going inside, Federer worked the length of the fence surrounding the outdoor players' lounge, giving more autographs to overjoyed fans. At one point someone said something that caused him to flash a boyish smile. Brief evidence of pleasure in someone who was giving so much to so many.
For my last match of the day (Federer was playing in the stadium, which I rarely enter), I returned to Court 8. Schiavone had returned, this time with her compatriot, Flavia Pennetta, to take on Shahar Peer and Victoria Azarenka. How often do you get to see Israel paired with Bulgaria?
It was a gorgeous match, with wonderful rallies and none of the histrionics of the earlier one. But it had the same result for Schiavone. Still, after the last point she and Pennetta broke into huge smiles and hugged each other at the net. Defeat Italian style. They congratulated their opponents, and then Pennetta walked to her chair and checked her messages.
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