As to the action itself: Fernandez squeaked by Sakkari in a mini-tiebreak decider, 6-5, while Paul beat the big-serving Shelton, 6-2. Former pro Sam Querrey served as the whimsical chair umpire, while Andy Roddick—still the last American to win the US Open, in 2003—acted as a sort of comic compère. The crowd—limited to 400 or so lucky tennis fans—headed back to the ballroom for an overflow of desserts: There was a summer berry Eton mess, a red velvet tartlet, a cheesecake trifle, and so much more—but, alas, I had a 9am appointment back on the ballroom court the next morning, and so I headed home to (try to) sleep.
As it’s not every day one is offered an hour-long private one-on-one clinic with a tennis legend and three-time Grand Slam champion (including the US Open, exactly a decade ago), sleep didn’t exactly come easy. But I was back at the Waldorf ballroom at 9am, where I met the so-called Stanimal, aka Stan the Man. (The hour-long private clinics are part of the extracurricular offerings from the so-called Waldorf Astoria Racquet Club.)
Stan had already had quite a week: On Monday, when the wild cards were announced for the US Open, he—shockingly—wasn’t among them. (Wild cards, awarded at the discretion of tournament directors, are a way for players who may be lower-ranked—whether because of a lighter schedule, injury, or other factors—to enter the main draw of tournaments. And while Stan is winding down his epic career and retiring at the end of the season, he saw this year’s Open as an opportunity for an emotional farewell to the city he’d come to love even before winning the tourney in 2016.)
Stan Wawrinka celebrates with the US Open trophy after beating Novak Djokovic at the 2016 US Open finals.Photo: Getty Images
The tennis world erupted in outrage; another wild-card player announced an injury and withdrew from the tournament, Stan was given a wild card after all, and all was right with the world. But he’d flown back to his home in Switzerland immediately after the first wild-card announcement on Monday night, and had only returned the night before meeting me at the Waldorf.
Suffice to say that he came ready to play. For an amateur—really most any amateur—hitting with a pro is both an experience of a lifetime and a crucible of terror. One desperately hopes that one’s game is, if not exactly on fire, at least competent enough to avoid bringing shame down upon one’s family name. My own experience in this regard has run the gamut, from absolutely shameful (hitting balls off the frame of my racquet with Andre Agassi on the court at Arthur Ashe Stadium) to middling (with Andy Roddick on the same court a few years earlier); at other times, it’s not the overall play that sticks in the mind but the single shot—lucky or otherwise, as when Garbine Muguruza drilled a forehand directly at me during a doubles game at an indoor court in midtown and—despite the baked-in terror—I deftly parried it away into a game-winning drop shot.
