The clay is heavy these days. A deep terracotta colour seeping into the grounds, clinging onto the players’ shoes, particles flying through the air. It’s been raining in Paris. Steadily and annoyingly, leaving a shade of grey in the skies above the terracotta. I am not bothered as I sit atop Suzanne Lenglen court next to Mark, overlooking the grounds, observing the colours a rainy Paris is painting, queen of a booth which on day 3 succumbs to the water masses. We are calling matches under a roof reminiscent of Suzanne’s pleated skirts in the twenties. I wish the cognac she took with her to court, surely a strengthening elixir, was part of our snack corner.
Mark is mending sentences while the rain unmends his hair. The stage managers are doing their best to salvage the cables. I am not bothered as I lock in on the players’ gazes and faces, the stress in their eyes when a match threatens to slip through their fingers. There is a tiny drama unfolding on each court, in each match. A tight match with stakes as high as they are at a major tournament becomes an entity in itself outside the regular space-time continuum. The only participants are the players and the ball kids and the chair umpire and the lines people and the audience, tightly sealed off, a vacuum, with an impenetrable exterior layer.
As an observer, I can only watch Rafael Nadal lose, I cannot help it. But I can also see the tension melting off his face in the aftermath. At last at peace with his body. When will he be at peace with retirement? Maybe never. When you were born to do a thing, can you ever really let it go?
Did you know that Michael Phelps’ skin between his toes and fingers is distinctly developed? Like a frog with webfeet. Did that excess skin grow back when he retired?
But we’re in Paris, it’s still raining, matches are still going on. The world does not care about an individual’s fate. The wheels keep turning. French players keep losing. Iga Swiatek keeps winning. She barely escapes the fangs of a champion in her own right. Naomi, who is as soft-spoken as her fangs are razor-edged. But even a champion’s fangs need sharpening on the biggest stages and Naomi’s have just gotten a whole lot deadlier.
At night, I walk to the Métro surrounded by like-minded people, by tennis lovers who are buzzing with the excitement of the day. Cheeks rosy from the cold and the wine, they chatter about the daily dramas, the vacuum-packed happenings, they played a part in. Umbrellas open, the streets are glistening, the lights of Paris reflect in the wet on the streets. It’s a tightly knit pack. One for all and all for one. Without the players, no crowd. Without the crowd, no players.
I hear a growling sound. Could it be? I sigh. I forgot to eat again. Too much excitement. Too many dramas to accompany. I buy crisps at Monoprix and swallow them greedily on the train. I see others munching on chocolate and cookies, baguettes are handed down to children, bananas shared. They, too, have forgotten to eat. These Grand Slam tournaments will be the bane of our (the Métro 9 crowd’s) existence. But, boy, does it feel good while you’re at it.
Things that make me happy:
Holger Rune is quickly becoming the king of things that make me happy and unhappy, that’s how many times he has already graced these sections. But of all the crazy matches that have already gone down this week his five-setter against Flavio Cobolli, who, by the way, I would instantly cast in a Hollywood movie (those eyes) has made me very happy.
Things that make me unhappy:
I don’t mind the crowd being rowdy at times. I really don’t, I thrived in these kinds of atmospheres. The only thing that does bother me is that it feels like some of the protagonists are being particularly loud and obnoxious because they are filming everything on their phones at the same time. Nobody wants to watch a boring Instagram story when you can watch the same thing in better quality on TV (same thing goes for concerts, nobody wants to see your shitty phone video of Morrissey). However, if you manage to provoke the player and capture it on video or capture a particularly raucous crowd, you might get 50 instead of 5 views. Was it really worth it? You tell me.
I’m sending you a short vignette from Paris this week. It has been a whirlwind of re-scheduling and adjusting due to the rain and very little sleep. I’m hoping to have an extended version next week. I’m sending you wine in small glasses from Paris, bisous and red, swollen eyes. À la prochaine!
Yours truly, Andrea
You look oh-so Parisienne in your pink pant-suit!
It is your writing. It is so clear, thoughtful, and interesting. The stories themselves, yes, they can be interesting. But it really is your writing that brings them to life. Thank you.