It’s Judgment Day. Will I make it as a U.S. Open ball person?
When I showed up for my tryout at a public court just outside the U.S. Open facility in Flushing Meadows, New York, I was already sweating. It’s July, unusually hot and muggy, and fifth-set-tie-break tense.
Standing at the net, the Ball Czar, a tall, lean, authoritative woman in tennis whites and shades, is very much in charge. When it’s my turn, the Czar directs me to a corner of the court, and a kid, probably 16, is directed to my side’s other corner. An older woman, probably the kids’ mother, stands off to the side.
So The Kid and I are across from one another. In front of us, one of the Czar’s underlings, Racket Man, stands at the net holding a racket and a handful of balls. As I stand, perspiring, waiting, the Czar lays out her agenda. When she gives the command, Racket Man’s gonna smash a ball into the back fence, directly into the middle portion of the court.
Photo courtesy Washington Post
Note to Reader: John McEnroe, a former Open ball person, refers to this area as no-man’s land because it’s an area of the court that’s not assigned to a particular ball person. Hit there, it’s anyone’s ball.
Once the ball enters no-man’s land, the Kid and I are supposed to race after it. Whoever gets to it first will scoop it up, and we’ll both return to our respective corners—one of us empty-handed. So there are two of us, and there’s one ball, one winner. It’s a race to the ball. It’s mano a mano. I mean, mano a kiddo.
Finally, the Czar nods. Promptly, Racket Man slams the ball, and it ricochets off the fence. Momentarily, I’m taken aback by the slam’s force. Before taking off, I wait to see where the ball hits—big mistake. In a blink, the Kid has the ball and is running back to his corner. I barely got off the block.
It’s 15-Love in favor of The Kid.
It wasn’t so much that I lost. It was how I failed. He easily beat me to the ball, which had landed just barely on my side of the court.
I practically limp back to my corner, empty-handed, perspiring more than ever. Worse, I’m sucking wind. Instead of practicing throws for this tryout, I should’ve been doing sprints. I’m also getting my ass kicked by someone who just had their braces removed. Actually, for all I know, he might still have his braces on! This punk’s making me look old—ancient, actually. In the kids’ world, I’m a relic, practically Smithsonian material.
As I wait in the corner for the Czar’s following command, I ponder the road I took to get to this point….
Photo courtesy NY Times
About five years earlier, it started with a classified ad seeking U.S. Open ballpersons. Immediately, I thought that this was something I needed to do. So in the early summer, I showed up for the open tryout, where hundreds of kids and very young adults were assembled. Eventually, I ran in front of the net, scooping up balls as evaluators scrutinized my every move, taking copious notes. I threw balls across the length of the court. Besides momentarily fumbling a ball at the net, I nailed the audition, certainly good enough to get the $ 7.75-per-hour gig. They’d be in touch, or so they said. Days after the tryout, I heard nothing.
A few weeks later, I received this form letter:
Dear Prospective Ball Person,
I appreciate your interest in being a U.S. Open Ball Person. As of this time, all positions have been filled. We will keep your information on file until August 14 in the event an opening becomes available.
Sincerely,
Tina Taps, U.S. Open Director of Ball Persons
Yes, Tina Taps is her real name; yes, that is her real title; and yes, it was a firm rejection. Officially, I was a ball person reject.
I didn’t give up. The very next day, I got Taps on the phone and passionately petitioned for another shot, claiming that an egregious error had been made. Surprisingly, she granted me another tryout.
Unfortunately, I was away and couldn’t make it. Thus, I remained a ball person reject.
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
