Bill Simons
January has arrived in Melbourne, the season is starting, and I’m not there. After more than four decades of chasing tennis around the world, my absence is new – unfamiliar, unsettling – and it changes the way the city, the tournament, and the sport of tennis comes into focus.
I always loved Melbourne’s trolleys, their bells – and that murky river.
The civility of this town delivers much dignity, with a subtle twist of chic and an Asian sensibility. The town’s Federation Square is such a sensible hub, near sunflowers and back alleys, with swirling, rage-free graffiti.
The city’s warmth embraces – a mid-winter escape. Its train tracks are wide, its parks are proper. Australia Day is a romp with few limits – imagination sings with ease.
Most of all, I remember the arena – Rod Laver Arena, its packed, chatty hallways, its intimate power – not a bad seat to be had. Few ghosts linger. The grandeur of Wimbledon’s cathedral takes a pass. The continental flair of Paris doesn’t visit. Compared with Ashe, its roar is tame.
All the while, delight reigns at the well-named Happy Slam. Aussies are gleeful.
But wait – I’m a tennis writer. My task is clear. The season is starting. I should be gathering breathless storylines. Can Carlos Alcaraz thrive without his once-beloved coach? Can the Spanish conquistador win the title to become the youngest man to claim a career Grand Slam? Can an Italian Sinner three-peat? Can Madison again capture lightning in a bottle? Will Coco soar?
I should be dissecting the draw with surgical precision. Right out of the gate, Southern California’s best, Iva Jovic, meets Northern California’s best, Katie Volynets. What a dream matchup it would be if Venus and Coco faced off in the second round. A Djokovic–Sinner semi would demand popcorn. Can old-man Novak, 38, possibly win his 11th Aussie Open? And, of course, there’s that journalistic law requiring writers to go out on a bit of a limb. C’mon, Ms. Anisimova – if Keys could do it last year, what’s stopping you? Go, Amanda!
But now, I’m retired, semi-retired – or something. And, no surprise here, I’m mourning. I’m allowed – yes?
After 44 years of hustle, there are no maddingly slow press elevators, no mid-day, free-form tennis chats with Italian or Serbian fellows, and no tales without end.
I’ll miss the late-night press room hush as scores of writers shape their stories. I’ll miss the deadlines – hard or soft.
But I tell myself, “Relax, fellow. You had a spectacular run. Who could have imagined? And didn’t, just the other day, Roger tells us that the retirement he dreaded turned out to be just dandy?”
And if Federer can do it, I can do it.
Yes, I feel hefty psychic jabs when, on YouTube, I hear The New York Times’ Matt Futterman, with his Big Apple accent, ask a question or two of Stan Wawrinka with a measure of intelligence and a deft, disarming tone. There’s no mistaking Carole Bouchard’s deep French accent. Simon Briggs projects his British queries – crisp and authoritative.
But I’m not there.
I can deal with it – can’t I?
Sure FOMO – fear of missing out – is a nasty curse. But then again, I was there when Chrissie Evert offered her last farewell wave in New York. I saw Stefan Edberg vanish from Wimbledon with the quietude that was his signature. And I marveled when Andre Agassi tapped his inner Lou Gehrig and, in tears, offered the finest farewell speech this sport has heard.
Still, I think of the arena – Rod Laver Arena, such a grand Grand Slam venue. Yes, it can punish. More often, it’s kind and user-friendly.
Just over there is Ken Rosewall, with his Jay Leno chin. The still controversial Margaret Court seems to want to be invisible. But Laver himself – thin, aging and gentle – is hard to miss.
The stadium is not the A-list celebrity hub that Wimbledon and the US Open are. But Prince William, Will Ferrell and Russell Crowe will do.
Here, pop-up interviews come with ease. Serena’s husband Alexis Ohanian and master coach Patrick Mouratoglou were glad to chat. And every night, the game’s most savvy seagulls, dipping white in a dark Down Under sky, circle calmly, knowing that prize morsels will soon be theirs.
And, of course, the Aussies of this city have mastered more than a few of life’s secrets. They seamlessly relish the joys of the moment – their parties and tall ones. Laughter and delight like to visit.
As for me, I savor the Australian days – sensible and fine. And long after the tennis battles of the day are done, after I’ve reflected on the narratives that have unfolded, I head off to wander the empty, late-night streets of the town, past a massive cricket stadium and Victorian houses that cling to tales that could be told.
Alone in the Down Under quiet, so distant from the winter chill of California, the solitude seems like a dream.
But times and seasons change – memories fade. And now 128 men and 128 women are starting their quest – and I’ve started mine. I’m retired, or semi-retired or something like that.
