From Ballpark to Courts, an Odd Coupling

By GEORGE VECSEY

Published: September 10, 2007

On one end of the boardwalk, Pedro Martínez took a curtain call like Pavarotti after hitting a high C. On the other end of the boardwalk, a few hours later, Roger Federer fell to his knees like Baryshnikov in a moment of joy.

There was passion in Queens yesterday, with Federer celebrating his latest United States Open championship after Martínez staged an unusual midgame celebration of his comeback from shoulder surgery.

The two sports overlap in these parts only a few days every year, putting the upscale tennis fans in the same traffic jam as the blue-and-orange-clad Mets fans (pictured) in their shirts honoring Piazza, Alfonzo, Seaver and many of the current worthies.

On this particular Sunday, Flushing Meadows had its own odd couple: Federer in his man-in-black garb in one arena and Martínez making his first appearance of the season in the Mets’ tacky old dive.

They both knew how to carpe the olddiem. Federer, 26, hit the floor after the final point of a 7-6 (4), 7-6 (2), 6-4 victory over Novak Djokovic, the 20-year-old who captivated tennis fans these past two weeks. (Federer is decidedly not amused by his imitations.) Martínez, soon to turn 36, gave the home fans a bonus when he emerged from the dugout to wave and do an odd little dance step after pitching five scoreless innings in what would become a 4-1 victory over Houston.

These tennis-baseball doubleheaders do not always work out for the Metsies. On a damp, ominous final Friday in 1987, Lori McNeil duffed an approach shot that would have put Steffi Graf in big trouble in their semifinal, and McNeil never recovered. A few hours later, Terry Pendleton of the Cardinals silenced Shea with a home run into the mist against Roger McDowell, effectively destroying the Mets’ hopes of repeating as champions.

The two sports coexist despite the lack of parking spaces, now exacerbated by the construction of the new Mets ballpark (Why do I keep wanting to call it the New Shea?). But everybody gets along, mostly in hope of witnessing something glorious north of the tracks or south of the tracks, connected by a wooden boardwalk with pedicabs shuttling fans back and forth.

The Mets went on first, with Martínez the main attraction. He came to New York three seasons ago to try to help win a World Series, but he was in tears last September when his body broke down. After surgery and hard training, he made it back for five innings in Cincinnati last week. Yesterday he came home, surviving his wildness on the mound and a couple of romps on the basepaths.

Normally charismatic, Martínez squirmed through 92 pitches, then openly celebrated after the Astros were retired in the fifth. Surprisingly, Martínez emerged from the dugout, a jacket on his arm, taking a wave, which no doubt thrilled the Astros. In the old days, a celebration after five innings would have earned a fastball in the ribs, and Roy Oswalt did indeed drill the Mets’ Lastings Milledge one inning later.

“I wanted to do something back for my fans and in front of my fans,” Martínez said later.

“I’m going to savor every little bit that I can get from the game from now on,” he continued. “I’m just coming back from a surgery that, if I have to do it again: ‘See you guys. No more.’ I’m going to enjoy every little moment that I have. Sign as many autographs as I can because it’s not going to last too long.”

He was entitled.

Petey went out before Federer and Djokovic took the court, with the usual assortment of celebs in attendance — Dustin Hoffman, Robin Williams, Charlie Rose, David Stern and, oh, lookie here, Maria Sharapova, who, for the record, was sitting in the Djokovic box. Djokovic says they are friends.

In a quickie television interview before the match, Federer said he was curious how Djokovic would handle his first slam final. Djokovic later said that he was affected by the stress, flubbing seven set points. (“My next book is going to be called ‘Seven Set Points,’ ” he joked afterward, as charming as ever.)

Nevertheless, Djokovic played three competitive sets, and Federer said he was sure Djokovic would be back in many more Grand Slam finals. Roger did not exactly predict that Djokovic would win those finals. That, for the foreseeable future, seems to be Federer’s job, since he has won 12 of his 14 finals so far. His presence is as emphatic as the one-handed backhand winner he struck down the line to win the second set.

Federer doesn’t waste energy on gestures, but he pumped his fist at that one. Later, he hit the deck after winning another slam title. No doubt Martínez can also fall to his knees in ecstasy and would be delighted to unveil this move in a month or so, on the north end of the boardwalk.

E-mail: geovec@nytimes.com

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Decoding the Style of Federer’s Game

By SELENA ROBERTS

Published: September 9, 2007

In his Eddie Haskell moments, Novak Djokovic can mimic Maria Sharapova down to the way she sweeps away imaginary bangs before every serve, and he can deliver a dead-on Rafael Nadal to include the Spaniard’s habitual tug of his Hanes.

But how do you impersonate an evolving image? How do you copy Roger Federer?

He is fluid, still creating new angles out of geometric impossibilities as he did to close out Nikolay Davydenko yesterday at the United States Open on his way to a 10th straight major final today.

“Some points he play like so good,” Davydenko said. “I don’t understand how you can.”

Federer is adaptable, able to mentally map an opponent, to zoom in with a mind that seems one part Google Earth.

“I don’t need to sit down and talk about an opponent for an hour,” Federer said. “Takes me 15 seconds. I know everything I need to know.”

In so many ways, he is like a fashion line — constantly rolling out a new him. There is the crested Great Gatsby blazer Federer wore at Wimbledon, and the tuxedo shorts he sported during his night matches at the Open.

These aren’t simply wardrobe changes, but this is a look at Federer in a mode of constant self-discovery.

“Maybe seven years ago, when I started to date Mirka, it was, oh, God, you know, I had jogging shoes and a pair of jeans,” Federer said in a recent interview. “That was it, you know. And maybe one T-shirt. I’d wear that out to dinner.

“Then, I started to really enjoy dressing up. What is my style? Is it a suit? Is it casual? What is it? I’m young now. So I can make mistakes with my choices. It’s a way to discover what I like, who I am.”

Djokovic has the task of dismantling an amorphous man, a complicated talent. Is Federer the same Federer he upset in Montreal last month as the surprise Serb? You can tell that Djokovic, the master impersonator, can’t quite figure out Federer.

“Roger is too perfect,” Djokovic said in a YouTube clip of his Rich Little antics. “You cannot imitate him.”

He has tried, though. There is YouTube footage of his Federer attempt. There is proof that Djokovic has studied the ticks and quirks of Federer.

Djokovic, in many ways, is a reasonable facsimile of Federer in terms of his touch and speed, serve and versatility. He is a multitasker, just like Federer.

It makes for an intriguing final. This is the way it was supposed to be: the rising phenom vs. the establishment.

This is the way it had to be if you’re the United States Tennis Association. By dispatching Davydenko, Federer saved tennis from an awkward ending. Imagine a major final with all the scrutiny swirling around Davydenko, who is at the center of a match-fixing controversy triggered when a British Internet betting firm voided $7 million in wagers on one of his matches. Did the mob know Davydenko would retire in the middle of a match? Was it just a coincidence? Imagine the U.S.T.A. searching Davydenko’s box today for Sopranos-like figures.

Instead, the class clown will play best in class.

“I’d like to know if Roger is carbon-based like the rest of us,” the CBS analyst Mary Carillo said in an interview before the Open. “I’m not sure he has a navel. It’s like you need proof he’s human.”

Djokovic has the chance to uncover Federer’s faults. Federer doesn’t take any threat lightly. He is more protective of his history the closer he gets to making it. He is one final victory away from 12 majors, two short of Pete Sampras’s record. The burden has created pressure for Federer.

“It’s not like I’m 25 away from Pete Sampras,” Federer said. “I’m so close. So I think about it.”

Djokovic is so far away. He is new to this. If he can deal with the moment, Djokovic will be free to come out swinging, with nothing to lose.

“I’m not trying to look at Roger,” Djokovic said. “Roger has his own career, his own life. I have my own thing. We are two different personalities.”

True, Federer is more wry. Djokovic’s humor is overt — a Chevy Chase type in love with physical comedy. At 26, Federer is an adult. At 20, Djokovic is working on it.

Federer plays to sophisticated audiences. He is close friends with Tiger Woods, icon of the globe, and Anna Wintour, the fashion stickler of Vogue. Djokovic goofs around with his locker-room pals, nameless players who egg him on to be a ham.

Yes, Djokovic has pulled some impressive upsets — and he has earned his No. 3 seeding — but it is hard to take him seriously. Is he for real? Or just a copycat?

“Actually, I need to say in the last two days the people were more congratulating me for the impressions than for my tennis,” Djokovic said. “I was wondering, guys, am I here for the impersonations, entertaining, or to play tennis?”

Can Djokovic impersonate a fluid champion?

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Sisters of the World United 50 Years After Gibson

By GEORGE VECSEY

Published: September 9, 2007

Exactly 50 years ago yesterday, Althea Gibson (pictured) became the first African-American to win the American tennis championship, receiving a trophy from Vice President Richard M. Nixon.

It was her second major celebrity encounter of the season. In early summer, she had received the Wimbledon trophy from none other than Queen Elizabeth — not a bad season for a woman from uptown.

After winning in the United States, Gibson spoke from her heart and from her pocketbook, saying, “After all, I’ve got to start earning a living,” a reference to the prevailing pretense of amateurism, with its meager under-the-table payoffs.

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Gibson never did make much money from her sport, but 50 years later Justine Henin earned a cool $1.4 million last night for winning the modern version of that tournament, now known as the United States Open — “open” referring to the coffers.

Henin defeated Svetlana Kuznetsova, 6-1, 6-3, on a night when Carole King sang “Girl Power” in the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, named after the instigator of the Open era for women. Billie Jean, Martina Navratilova, Chris Evert, Tracy Austin and Pam Shriver were all present, from the far more lucrative golden age.

It is fair to say that Gibson, who died in 2003 at age 76, would recognize as her spiritual heirs not only the two African-American sisters, Serena and Venus Williams, but also Henin and Kuznetsova.

The Belgian and the Russian surely caused conniptions for CBS, which would have much preferred to show the two American sisters or the glamorous, and don’t you forget it, Maria Sharapova from that posh Russian tennis resort of Bradenton-on-Gulf.

None of these were available, having lost earlier in the tournament. Althea Gibson’s spiritual daughters run in all sizes and shapes, colors and humors. The Williams sisters annoy some people with their self-preoccupation. Then again, Henin turns off some fans because of her tense demeanor and a few past examples of gamesmanship, the type that made icons of Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe. Can’t please everybody.

Gibson ran into the perceptions of her own generation. After her great triumph in 1957, The New York Times used words like “lithe” and “muscular” and “saunters.” She was said to display “little emotion” and demonstrated a “powerful net attack” and was said to be “too strong” for her opponent in the semifinal, Dorothy Knode, who was described as “tenacious.”

These days it is somewhat more acceptable for the trim Henin to be a driven jock with a killer one-handed backhand. Looking like a waif with her oversized ball cap and rather Spartan outfit, Henin whacked sister Serena in the quarterfinals and sister Venus in the semifinals.

Half a century after Gibson expressed gratitude for being allowed into the white enclave, the Williamses behave exactly as they want, even if they are criticized for it. Serena was a tad grumpy after her loss to Henin, but no more than Andy Roddick was after losing yet again to Roger Federer one night later. Apparently, white males still have more leeway in the churlishness department.

After losing to Henin on Friday, Venus answered all the questions properly peppered at her by reporters about the trainer’s visit late in the match as well as her moments of lethargy. Her family is saying she may have anemia and they may have to check it out, but Venus did not push any alibis.

In this multicultural age of tennis, the tone is also set by people from different lands. On Sept. 11, 2004, two Russian finalists in prime time, Kuznetsova and Elena Dementieva, mourned violence in both nations, the horrors in the United States in 2001 as well as the more recent massacre of innocents at a school in Beslan, Russia, on Sept. 3, 2004.

In this Open, three of the most charismatic figures have come from war-ravaged Serbia. Novak Djokovic, who will meet Roger Federer in the men’s final today, has not only been hilarious in his imitations of his peers, but has also been thoughtful in interviews, as have the two vanquished Serbs, Jelena Jankovic and Ana Ivanovic.

With her warm smile, Jankovic captivated the crowd by applauding a few great shots by Venus, who beat her in the quarterfinals. Later, Jankovic said: “I think you have to have fun sometimes on the court. I don’t think you have to always be so serious like some of the players are. You have to enjoy it.”

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Gibson might recognize Venus Williams’s stoic refusal to go easily in several taut matches. Asked if she had faith in her ability to bounce back, Venus said quickly, “Always.”

Going into this Open, Venus had career earnings of $17,801,117 50, a heritage from Althea Gibson, whose frank faith in professionalism helped open the door so all her sisters could make a living.

E-mail: geovec@nytimes.com

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Laughs Can’t Bring Wins for Roddick

By GEORGE VECSEY

Published: September 6, 2007

It was the ninth of August, summer of 2003, when Andy Roddick beat Roger Federer in a semifinal in Montreal.

“It’s about time,” Roddick said that day, smiling at his own audacity. “No one beats me five times in a row.”

Roddick can be a funny dude, full of sardonic asides while coping with spending his career bumping into Federer in major tournaments.

Since that day in 2003, Federer has beaten Roddick 10 consecutive times, including last night’s quarterfinal at the United States Open. Federer edged Roddick, 7-6 (5), 7-6 (4), 6-2, a match so close that it could only break Roddick’s heart a little that he served so well and still lost in straight sets.

Roddick generally walks the fine line between being what no athlete at this exalted level wants to be — the proverbial good sport — and the kind of cranky loser that Serena Williams was Tuesday night.

Roddick has not made any recent pronunciamentos about beating Federer. He has been equal parts respectful and remorseful while running up a 1-14 record against Federer in official tournaments. He did beat Federer in the final of an exhibition in Melbourne early this year, but that does not count for much.

None of this has been easy for Andrew Stephen Roddick, who does not have the hustler’s patience of Brad Gilbert, his coach for that memorable match in 2003, or the monomaniacal gall of Jimmy Connors, his current coach.

If the naughty Jimbo had run into a serene force like Federer during his estimable career, he would have aggressed the gracious Swiss or upended the potted flowers at center court or bent the rules about bathroom breaks or trainer visits, just to disrupt the flow. Jimbo is older and wiser now, sitting in Roddick’s box last night and looking conservative of dress and demeanor. He knows Roddick will not pull any of his patented disruptive stuff. He urges Roddick to concentrate, to play hard, but it’s not easy.

Although Roddick is still relatively one-dimensional, throwing serves 10 miles an hour faster than Federer’s, he does have top-five skills. Still, he finds himself locked outside the rivalry between Federer and Rafael Nadal. Now, with the aching Nadal bounced out Tuesday night, there is the busy-haired and versatile Novak Djokovic looking to invade that rivalry — three in a marriage, as Diana, Princess of Wales once said in a context decidedly not about tennis.

That leaves Roddick to confront his own place in the world, often with a smirk and a comeback as quick as Federer’s returning his serve.

The other day, a sportswriter suggested that because of defaults by two injured opponents, Roddick had not yet found his “emotional rhythm” in this tournament.

“You sound like my therapist,” Roddick said.

The other day when Tomas Berdych had to default, Roddick admitted, “Then, of course, I’m trying to eavesdrop on his whole conversation he’s having with the trainer.” One reporter said Berdych was having trouble breathing. “Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Roddick said. “That makes tennis difficult.”

The transcripts from Federer-Roddick outings, courtesy of asapsports.com, demonstrate that Roddick has been mostly a mensch, an adult, even after his worst moments. Immediately after the 6-4, 6-0, 6-2 drubbing by Federer over 83 minutes in this year’s Australian Open semifinal, Roddick used words like frustrating, miserable and terrible, and even earthier than that. “Besides that, it was fine,” he added.

What did Connors say to Roddick right after the match? “He gave me a beer,” Roddick said.

Asked after that match whether he would read about it the next day, Roddick said: “Probably not. But it’s kind of tough, though. I read the sports section every day of my life. I’m going to kind of have to like maneuver my way around it somehow — like get an oversized coffee mug, kind of like smoke and mirrors or something.”

When Roddick lost to Federer in the final at the United States Open last year, he said: “He’s the best player in the game. There’s no question in my mind or if you ask any player’s mind about that.”

After the three-set loss in the Wimbledon final in 2005, Roddick said, “You know, listen, I want another crack at him till my record is 1-31.” And he added: “I still want to go against him again. You want to compete against the best. He’s the measuring stick, so you kind of know where you are and where you go. So, you know, I’d love to keep playing him.”

Roddick also volunteered: “I have loads of respect for him, as a person as well. I told him, I’ve told him before, ‘I’d love to hate you, but you’re really nice.’ ”

Isn’t there something negative about Federer? “I’m sure there is, but I don’t know if I know him that well,” Roddick said, adding, “I can look into it for you.”

To date, he has come up with nothing. But in showing respect for Federer, Roddick has earned respect for himself.

E-mail: geovec@nytimes.com

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Two Titans Set to Meet in a Clash of the Contented

By SELENA ROBERTS

Published: September 4, 2007

The veneer of the bold one with the curves of a question mark and the slight one with the bod of an exclamation point belies the depth of similarity between Serena Williams and Justine Henin.

Yes, Serena (pictured) tenderizes fuzzy orbs while Justine dusts them like rare vases. And, quite visibly, Serena is the fashionably late sort who accessorizes for each match while the prompt Justine is more functional with her displays.

“I cannot live without my watch,” Justine said, adding, “I sleep with it. I take my shower — everything.”

Justine and Serena will never be in sync on the surface, playing the part as the odd couple when they appear in tonight’s quarterfinal of the United States Open.

And, ordinarily, there would be some delicious drama surrounding the differences between two players who have not always been on each other’s buddy list. But now, the contrasting rivals have a common bond: Out of complex family dynamics, they have managed to convert personal happiness into a performance strategy.

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Joy has been good for their games. Hooray, inner peace.

Justine and Serena have recently found an almost Zen center amid their peripatetic careers and, along the way, discovered a professional respect for each other. Revenge is so yesterday.

“We both have been very strong mentally on the court,” Henin said of Serena, whom she has beaten in the quarterfinals of the last two majors. “She won Grand Slams; I did. She’s been No. 1 and I’ve been. So it’s great. You know, now let’s go and play and we’ll see what’s going to happen. But there’s a lot of respect professionally between the two of us, that’s for sure.”

What happened to the “Mean Girls”? Now there are bouquets between these two players, but are heart-dotted I’s good for the Tour? A little friction would be a welcome element to a women’s draw at the Open that has had the same sedating effect as Ambien and the same numbing result as John McEnroe’s endless commercial loop on audiences this past week.

The men’s side of the Open has consistently wowed fans with intense rallies that only end with shots from a pool shark’s repertory. Who was Minnesota Fats yesterday? Tommy Haas or James Blake during a five-set match of double dare?

In the past, you could count on Justine and Serena to tuck a dull women’s Grand Slam event under a revival tent with a match peppered with hot shots and steely glances.

But respect doesn’t have to be boring. At Wimbledon, Serena and Justine traded shots for three sets. Bliss doesn’t have to mean a loss of edge. In fact, contentment may be the best chance to keep Justine and Serena playing through a whole season — each season.

What the women’s tour needs most is player attendance. Maybe all Justine and Serena need to sustain their presence is a healthy family circle.

Over the past few months, Richard Williams and Oracene Price, though never to be confused with amicable exes, have been tolerating each other enough to appear as a united front at big events for their daughters, Venus and Serena. They even shared the same player’s box at Wimbledon this year. Not long ago, at the 2002 French Open, Oracene let loose this telling remark when asked, Where’s Richard been lately? “In the States, where he belongs.”

The dysfunction has apparently softened. As one member of the Williams camp said privately this week, the regular vision of Richard and Oracene means “everyone is here for Venus and Serena and that’s what counts.”

The ins and outs of Serena’s career have paralleled the good times and bad of an off-the-court life that has been often described as difficult, but never fully explained. As a rule, the Williams family gives a little, but never tells all.

There has been similar murkiness around Justine’s career undulations. She has been all at once the feisty competitor who has played Open matches hurt and the mysterious one who withdraws without an explanation. This year, she discovered the art of full disclosure when she pulled out of the Australian Open with a good reason: She was divorcing Pierre-Yves Hardenne.

Hardenne was her boyfriend when Justine cut off contact with her family in 1999. Why is an unknown, but in April, after her older brother slipped into a coma, Justine raced to his bedside to be there when he awoke. The reunion stuck. Her family is part of Justine’s life again.

“I feel great with the decisions I took,” Henin said, adding: “Yeah, I decided to live by myself. Then being in contact with my family, which was great, it’s the best decision I took in the last few years. It’s just a great feeling.”

Justine and Serena have good vibes in common. If only inner peace can heal the curious injuries and end the disappearing acts of two rivals who don’t have to loathe each other to help the Tour. Just be around to play.

selenasports@nytimes.co

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Two Champions, and Two Levels of Preparedness

By SELENA ROBERTS

Published: September 2, 2007

The threat to Maria Sharapova (pictured left) materialized as an anonymous Polish player who is neither intimidated by willowy stars with frigid stares nor fat rodents far from the cuddly “Ratatouille” variety.

In fact, Agnieszka Radwanska keeps them caged as pets. (The beasts, not the beauties.)

“They’re dangerous, I think,” Radwanska said of her rats. “They’re aggressive.”

The danger to Roger Federer arrived as an unknown named John Isner, equipped with a college résumé and a periscope’s body. Federer is not acrophobic, but dudes at great heights can freak him out.

Over the years, Max Mirnyi, Mario Ancic, Tomas Berdych and Ivan Ljubicic have formed a 6-foot-4-and-over league of players who have, on exceptional occasion, stolen a match from beneath Federer’s greatness.

So at 6-9, with a big serve that kicked like Beckham, Isner wasn’t simply a tall tale from the first week of the United States Open. He was the real deal.

All of Arthur Ashe Stadium witnessed it yesterday as Isner took the first set from Federer, creating the most raucous rumble this side of the 7 train. Holy upset, was everyone seeing double?

A couple of hours earlier, Sharapova, who like Federer walked into Queens as the defending Open champion, had dropped her first set to Radwanska.

The similarities ended there. Federer decoded what hit him. Sharapova was flummoxed by it. Federer survived in four sets. Sharapova exited in three.

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In her evolution as an elite player, if she can ever go beyond her rigid father for coaching advice, Sharapova may learn to adjust to the unforeseen, to greet Tour risers with respect. As it happened, Sharapova allowed herself to be psyched out on her serve when Radwanska jumped to and from the service line as if engaged in some tennis hokey-pokey.

As Radwanska explained, “I knew that she doesn’t like if somebody is moving if she serving.”

Sharapova responded, “I don’t worry about what my opponent is doing.”

But part of the game is recognizing an opponent’s tactics and strengths and hot streaks. Part of being a champion is to fret over every detail, no matter how small or how tall. Federer personally scouted Isner against Jarkko Nieminen in the first round.

“I will probably never be surprised on a tennis court because I don’t underestimate opponents anymore,” Federer said last night, adding, “I knew the danger and was ready for it.”

Federer is on heightened alert — now more than ever. He is the dutiful caretaker of his legacy, not in a paranoid way, but in a preservationist’s way.

“It’s different now than maybe two or three years ago,” Federer, 26, said in a recent interview. “Before, I was happy to be No. 1. I know I’m the best, and it’s easy and I think everything I’m doing is the right thing. Now it’s a bit more different.

“You start to think a little more. You’ve done it over so many years now, and you start to wonder how many more years can you do it.”

Can he top Pete Sampras’s 14 major titles? Can he keep up his streak at No. 1? How long will his body continue to glide lightly, almost ghostlike, over the court?

“Because I’m getting so close to all these records, I think, well, these guys before me didn’t make it longer than this age or that age; so for me, time is getting shorter to some degree,” Federer said. “I know I can do it, but there are more questions now. Can I do it? For the past few years, I have. I’m proud of that.”

His pride doesn’t inhibit self-awareness. He knows there are challengers to his extended dominance. Beyond the Rafael Nadals and Andy Roddicks, there are other Isners lurking. Federer doesn’t dismiss his vulnerability, understanding he is the sitting target in the carnival dunk tank.

“You do feel a little like everybody is trying to figure you out,” Federer said. “I really felt that in the very beginning when I became No. 1. It was like, ‘We’re happy for you, but now we’re going to take you down.’ I think once you prove you’re worthy of No. 1 and then, say, win Wimbledon back to back, then people will say, ‘O.K., he’s not just here to go away.’ And then the respect starts to builds and then the aura, you start to create that. Like some people say I sometimes win matches in the locker room even though I don’t believe that.”

He doesn’t rely on aura to win. Sharapova seems to use it as a crutch. She is graced with as much talent, power and intensity as anyone on the Tour — even the Williams sisters — but she has yet to develop a Plan B when her strategy of glowering and attacking fail to intimidate fearless Poles with pet rats.

“I just didn’t quite feel like me out there,” Sharapova said.

The key isn’t just to know yourself, but also your opponent. Fear the unknown. It works for Federer.

E-mail: selenasports@nytimes.com

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Women’s World Cup Team Looks Back and Looks Ahead

By GEORGE VECSEY

Published: September 2, 2007

Abby Wambach knows how much she owes the ’91ers, the self-styled old ladies who built women’s soccer in the United States. She starts with the car she drives and the home where she lives.

“They were my source of income,” Wambach said recently about the pioneers of her sport. “I want to say to them directly, ‘You guys did good.’ ”

Wambach, a bruising striker, plans to say exactly that to Kristine Lilly, the last member of that fabled 1991 team still in uniform, when they take the field for the FIFA Women’s World Cup in China, which begins in a week.

Those ’91ers became one of the greatest national teams the United States has ever fielded, winning that first World Cup in China. In talent and charisma and results, they were the equivalent of the 1992 Dream Team of men’s basketball.

But Jordan and Bird and Magic merely upgraded a popular sport, whereas the ’91ers seemed to be building a dynasty. Only it did not happen.

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Instead, the fuss over Mia Hamm and Julie Foudy and the rest has left a rosy glow in the darkening sky as the United States prepares to play in this World Cup, literally in the middle of the night back home. To make matters worse, the professional league that began in 2001 did not make it past the third year.

“The Greatest Team You’ve Never Heard Of,” that’s how the media guide describes this year’s team. No matter how well the United States does over there, it will never match the excitement in the Rose Bowl on July 10, 1999, when Lilly stopped a Chinese shot with her head, Briana Scurry defended the goal during the shootout, and Brandi Chastain scored the winning penalty kick and promptly pulled off her jersey to reveal a sports bra more substantial than a lot of outfits seen around Manhattan, her gesture quickly becoming the symbol of that dashing squad.

“Unfortunately, people don’t know our team,” said Kate Markgraf, a leader of this squad who also played in that final.

“They call it the Mia Factor,” said Wambach, 27, who was not on that 1999 team. Wambach adores Hamm, who tutored her when they were teammates with Washington in the first year of the overly ambitious Women’s United Soccer Association.

Wambach, however, feels that the news media and the marketing people often seemed to “focus all your attention on one person. With Mia, it was difficult to know the other faces.”

And therein lies the paradox. Hamm was one of the most reluctant American superstars, displaying a genuine deer-in-the-headlights look when facing the hordes of reporters. She had an ego, of course, but it functioned best on the field, accompanied by sharp elbows and opportunistic feet. (Hamm may not have been the best American player; I would pick Michelle Akers, stalking some hapless opponent who temporarily possessed the ball.)

The news media and public helped create Hamm’s mystique, but now she is a retired mother of twins. Her absence seems linked with the end of that era, as indicated by the tiny corps of seven American news media outlets traveling to China to cover this World Cup.

Have women’s sports been downgraded in a time of news media austerity? Or is this World Cup, on the other side of the globe, running smack into the first month of American football? Probably both.

China was supposed to be the host in 2003, but the tournament was shifted to the United States because of the SARS epidemic there.

With little preparation time, and overlapping with baseball and football in early autumn, the 2003 Women’s World Cup did not match 1999 in any way, as the United States finished third.

Also, the W.U.S.A. folded, a victim of its own grandiosity, although it served a purpose by developing Wambach and Shannon Boxx, two mainstays of the current team.

“Anytime a game is not being played, it limits visibility,” Markgraf said. “Or course, with the league, we’d be much farther along. But that didn’t happen.”

She hopes that the energy from this World Cup and the 2008 Olympics in Beijing will be a stimulus for a proposed league to begin play in April 2009.

Right now, the women are in Shanghai, training for their first game against North Korea in Chengdu on Sept. 11, at 5 a.m. Eastern in the United States, televised on ESPN or ESPN2. The players are thankful to their federation for financing the year-round program that got them to China.

“U.S. soccer puts us in an environment to play,” Wambach said. “All of us are excited about ’09. It gets kind of hard kicking each other in practice.”

•

The 5-foot-11 Wambach is not shy about muscling opponents. If she had come along a few years earlier, she would have been a force even on that great 1999 team.

Now she can only hope that Americans will discover her team in the post-midnight hours of the next few weeks.

E-mail: geovec@nytimes.com

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Safin Has Changed but the Grandstand Is the Same

By GEORGE VECSEY

Published: September 1, 2007

Primal screams. Pile drivers. Babies crying. Spectators virtually hanging over the court. Welcome to the grandstand at the United States Open, sometimes known as the Graveyard, where tournaments have ended abruptly for highly ranked players, and careers have sometimes begun to teeter.

Because it is intimate, the grandstand is invaded by the clatter of the Long Island Rail Road, a reminder of time and distance. Yesterday, the train of life was rolling onward for Marat Safin of Russia, who won this tournament in 2000 when he was 20. Now an old man of 27, Safin was ushered out in the second round by Stanislas Wawrinka of Switzerland, 6-3, 6-3, 6-3.

“You know how many times I have like this?” Safin said later in nearly perfect English, his third language. He added: “And one bad day off, there is not much you can do. That’s it. The day is over and we move on, back to our lives.”

Not everybody has taken an upset on the grandstand court with as much pragmatism, whether feigned or real. Boris Becker was not amused when he was eliminated by Brad Gilbert in 1987, and Vitas Gerulaitis did not wax philosophical when knocked out by the 16-year-old amateur Aaron Krickstein in 1983. And fifth-seeded Kevin Curren staged an epic tirade when he was upset by Guy Forget in the very first round in 1985.

“I hate the city, the environment and Flushing Meadow,” Curren said. “There is noise, the people in the grandstand are never seated and it takes an hour and a half in traffic to get here. It’s sickening that with all the money they get from TV, the U.S.T.A. doesn’t build a better facility. The U.S.T.A. should be shot. And they should drop an A-bomb on the place.”

•

The Open has since upgraded its facilities, but the grandstand still hunkers down on the east end of campus, a magnet for grounds-pass-only fans who want to get close to good players.

“Hit the ball,” Essie Herron, a fan visiting from Milwaukee, blurted yesterday as Ahsha Rolle of the United States dinked a volley rather than drill her opponent, Dinara Safina of Russia, sister of Marat.

“She does that every game,” added Herron’s friend Lolita Bevenue, also of Milwaukee, part of Rolle’s frustrated gallery, a few rows up behind the baseline.

Rolle was not helped when the pneumatic pile drivers at the Mets’ future ballpark (why do I keep wanting to call it New Shea?) began booming as she served in the 10th game. Perhaps distracted, Rolle lost, 6-4, 6-3, and then Safina’s older brother came out for his grandstand moment.

Strange things have happened in this joint, where Wilt Chamberlain used to sit and schmooze away the lazy August evenings. Bud Collins, the vibrant memory of tennis, recalls rushing over to the grandstand in 1995 when Shuzo Matsuoka of Japan suffered leg cramps and was essentially counted out as he writhed on the court. And for sheer macho tennis, there was Chip Hooper’s second-round knockout of Roscoe Tanner in 1982, volleys hitting body parts like heavyweight punches.

•

Safin’s loss yesterday was nowhere near that epic, just a 25th-seeded player on his way out. Somebody remembered that after Safin beat Pete Sampras in the 2000 final, Sampras predicted Safin would win many more Grand Slam events.

“See, even the geniuses make the mistakes,” Safin said yesterday. Safin has since won one Australian Open and was not predicting any more yesterday.

“Only the most beautiful moments still to come,” said Safin, a figure out of Tolstoy or Chekhov ruminating on life. “The past wasn’t bad for me, but the future is — that’s why I will hope for the best. That’s why moving through life, I think the best moments are still to come. It can be tennis or anything different.”

Safin said his life was so much better than he could have imagined when his mother, Raouza Islanova, a tennis coach, moved the family from Moscow to Spain and gave him $500, saying: “You have luck or you don’t have luck. So this is your last hope.”

He added: “To come from there, from having nothing, zero, and to become what I achieve right until now, well, it’s a long way. I could have ended up anywhere in Moscow or Russia, doing God knows what. I’m sitting here, and you’re asking me pretty nice questions, so I think I did pretty well in my career.”

This mood was far from the elation he touched off in 2000, when President Vladimir V. Putin praised him in Moscow while Safin partied the night away in New York.

Now, Safin said, he doesn’t hang out in the players’ lounge, preferring to rest up in his Manhattan hotel (“SoHo — I’m not a big fan of uptown,” he said) and perhaps take coffee in a cafe and watch the world pass by. He continued in that reflective vein for many minutes, far removed from the nihilistic Kevin Curren rant 22 years ago. The grandstand affects people in many ways.

E-mail: geovec@nytimes.com

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Blake Has the Shots, Including Some for the Camera

By SELENA ROBERTS

Published: August 29, 2007

James Blake wore a shirt the same color of blue as a pilot light, creating the feel that he was flickering as he darted from net to baseline in an illumination of his speed.

He chased down every angle in Queens — including a camera angle — when he raced to a lob by Michael Russell and, with his back to the net, whipped the racket between his ankles for a shot that rousted the United States Open crowd in the first set.

Blake pursued every shot — including a camera shot — when he sprinted for a corner lob in the second set of his victory yesterday and, with his unshaven face to the wall, swiped yet another get between his legs.

Which landed out? Which went in? It’s all good in a highlight-reel culture where the acrobatic scissor shot in tennis has become the new dunk.

“It’s a little like an ESPN thing,” said Brad Gilbert, the former coach to the stars, from Andre Agassi to Andy Roddick, and who is currently guiding Andy Murray.

“You hit one, you make one. And then all of the sudden you get on ‘SportsCenter.’ ”

The quickest route to frame-by-frame fame for American athletes is through the self-indulgent creation of a wow factor. It’s about rim-rattling jams from the free-throw line and daring shots between the inseams of a player’s shorts.

“I think everybody can hit them,” said Russell, who, at 5 feet 8 inches (on a street curb) doesn’t attempt many. “It’s so low percentage. For every one you make, there’s like 20 that you miss. The fact that you make that one, and the crowd goes crazy, kind of justifies” the misses.

The tricks are for the adoration of the crowd and for the love of the lens. And there is nothing wrong with selective showmanship. Roger Federer pulls rabbits from his racket strings at times, too, with nifty wrist work. And Rafael Nadal seems to escape from a padlocked trunk every time he tracks down an opponent’s sure winner.

But in the same way the dunk has come to symbolize the decline of American fundamentals in hoops, with the pursuit of alley-oops over ball movement, the rise of tennis wizardry has, in part, begun to parallel the drift between America’s dream teamers of tennis and the international stars.

How close are Roddick and Blake to Federer? Combined, Blake and Roddick are 1-20 against Federer. Obviously, in our jingoistic fantasy, we’d like to grab a megaphone from a cheerleader and shout, “We’re No. 1.” We love the sound of that. But it’s not true in tennis now — not even close.

What does the scissor shot have to do with the Federer gap? Flash is wonderful as long as it’s not a defining trait. Blake in particular and Roddick on occasion seem obsessed with identifying themselves as shot makers over strategists, as contortionists over court managers.

It must tear at Jimmy Connors’s Wilson T-2000 heart every time Roddick breaks his wrist on a volley, or worse, barrels recklessly to the net without a plan.

Nuance isn’t in Roddick’s duffle bag. A peek would reveal a variety of hammers.

Blake is no more subtle. He is the thinking man’s player — loaded with perspective, layered with intelligence — but hardly ever applies his notes on the court.

In action, he is a vision of dramatic forehands and slashing backhands, all whipped like a lasso above his head. He is, in effect, a court cowboy of the rodeo kind. He ropes points. That’s him, and he is sticking to it even if he has heard tennis insiders beg him to construct points instead of detonate them.

Patience is so un-American, though. Who has time for strategy when Blake and Roddick can finish a point with flair? That’s what Allen Iverson & Company thought until their 360-degree dunks were trumped by the backdoor cuts of international players at the 2004 Athens Summer Games.

But if Roddick and Blake are too stubborn to change their all-American habits, is despair inevitable on the tennis scene? Not necessarily.

There is a solution for our short-attention span gang: John Isner, all 6-9 of him. Remember how Pete Sampras once treated each point as an easy three-step program to being No. 1 — serve, volley, winner?

Isner wastes no time, either. Crack went the 140-mile-an-hour serve as he glided to the net on his way to a first-round victory Monday. He is ranked only No. 184, and he has miles to go before he reaches threat material, but Isner’s game may be the perfect antidote for the trend of rallying trick shots.

His points don’t last long enough to include the pursuit of a scissor shot for the sake of crowd reactions and camera angles. Isner is concise. It may not be highlight-reel material, but it’s at least a step toward a cure to tennis’s version of a dunk culture.

E-mail:
selenasports@nytimes.com

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