Match Point 08.28.03
Samantha (I need a nickname for you. Skids is too dirty. How about Baby Sam? Like a reference to Baby Cham?) is a sweetheart, thinking of me when she obtained some US Open tix from her place of employment. And she took me. As she put it, the evening was great because it wasn't like us trying to catch up (which is somtimes simply forced) but more of an everyday hangout. We made fun of almost everyone in Arthur Ashe, on the grounds, in the seats; there was a solid wind, almost chilly, which is an improvement over usual US Open weather-- the confluence of all the smutty dripping weather of the summer in one place.
Samantha also pointed out that we probably annoyed everyone around us with our quips and commentary; but we didn't have to give anyone the finger, so that's good. I was only attacked by the grasshopper once, who took to pacing throughout the whole James Blake match. That was an hour and a half.
As for the matches, Lindsay Davenport really whooped the hell out of her "opponent" who has no name but will be heretofore called Italian-Flavored Fodder Only Here For the Money. "IFFOHFM" flailed, she whiffed, she bored the crowd, she was worse than "Cats."
The actions of Mr. Blake's opponent, Zabaleta, was wonderfully pronounced by our British-accented announcer, his strong serves given a hot-weather tropical grace; Blake's relentless (yet sloppy, reactionary, and unplanned) athletic abilities given an urban Grey Goose feel. Blake outlasted him in three sets. Or more appropriate, Mr. Blake stopped f**king up and getting in his own way.
On my way home, the evening was marred by a slow roll from Flushing down through Queens, where I saw a random act of violence at the Sutphin Boulevard station. A man is with a crew of I would guess thugs-- this, based on their retro outfits (of teams that did not win in retro or current times) and the depth with which they rolled. This man walks up to a woman, who is talking with them. She is closer to the road than the KFC which lights their backs. Mind you, the bus windows are streaked and there is a greasy afro-stain on my window. I reach over to watch the people, as I always do. The man strides to her, and I believe I saw him grip her by the shoulders and lift and bodyslam her to the ground, on her back, with the kind of speed you only see in Governor Swarzenegger's movies.
This seems incorrect, because I wonder how he could just stand up as if nothing happened, while she seemed to protest, timidly give him the finger, and drift up the street towards Jamaica Avenue, rubbing the back of her head. He was swaggering, from what I could see. Watching her body language, I thought she would soon return to enjoy the company of thugs.
The light changed and I left them to their stories, they unknowingly leaving me to mine.