This is the third in a short series of “Views from the Bleachers”, an attempt to record, in words and pictures, my impressions of one annual cycle of contrasting tennis tournaments.
With clay and grass behind me, my first hard court tournament proved to be the most daunting so far because it happened to be the biggest and most extrovert tennis event of the year: the U.S. Open.
It was daunting, too, because it brought together two long-standing ambitions. The first dream was to return to the city that knocked me for six several years before. I was star-struck by New York, and had looked for the chance of another shot in the arm.
The second ambition? To get as much of the drug that is tennis into my system as I can. Wimbledon, rather than satisfying the need, demanded more experiences and so the target became the biggest and the best: the final Grand Slam of the year.
The resulting assault on the senses is near-impossible to capture through mere words and photos.
This personal selection, however, tries to scratch the surface of this unique event: different in so many ways from Europe’s clay and the English grass.