beetrock

Now that the Open has finally come to a close, I can speak freely about the anxiety and other chaotic feelings that I experienced a week or so ago. I never thought of myself as much of a sports’ fan with an exception of soccer and occasionally gymnastics and figure skating. Of course during the Olympics I show my national pride by rooting exceptionally for the Motherland and resorting to heavy vodka drinking when the Russian hockey team doesn’t get into the finals. While the biannual celebrations of sports are in session, I also love to send obnoxious emails to my international friends and say things like “Did you see how we totally kicked your ass in that last race?” So I guess I do get into it. And tennis, due to the recent Russian invasion of the sport, has been my obsession.

As time has proven, showing up at the Open with me can be pretty dangerous. Much like Maria Sharapova’s well-criticized father, I scream obscenities in two languages and jump up and down when my favorites are loosing. I also never fail to get slightly disgusted by the snooty Open audiences in their Lacoste polo shirts and brand-named baseball caps. I mean, seriously, does there really need to be a line to the Ralph Lauren store at the stadium? You can shop online, you know? This is to say that my rage shall befall whatever middle-aged upper-class couple might be in my way to the toilet or the fried food stand. Luckily for all the US Open patrons, I can only afford going to the championship once in two weeks. This year, for the stunning price of $55, accompanied by the wonderful SCatie, I was able to view 5 matches, observe the great Martina Navratilova, scream my lungs out, and see Maria play! What more can an amateur tennis fan want? But still later in the week I headed to Kym’s apartment to eat a delicious meal, empty two bottles of wine, and let everyone in her building know that I wanted Blake to win over Federer.

All in all, my liver and my friends are grateful that the tournament is over.