The problem with tennis in America

In my youth — that is, a few years ago — America was known for Big Business, Disneyland and Tennis. Having observed (with mild amusement) British aristocrats in white flannels and full-sleeved shirts moving sedately around the court and sipping tea afterwards, the Americans took up tennis with gusto and soon began to dominate it. In the Eighties and Nineties the US had so soundly established its supremacy over the game that it was difficult to find a non-American male player in the top 10. Today things are reversed: Sam Querrey, the highest-ranked American man, is at Number 20!

When I visited the United States two weeks ago, I came face-to-face with the problem with tennis in the country. I landed on the weekend of the Rome Masters 1000 tennis finals, a much-anticipated repeat of the phenomenal rivalry between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, Obviously the first thing I did, even before ironing my shirts, was to check out the room television set.

“Wow, digital!” I said and began looking for Tennis, the only channel showing the match. After clicking through the hotel’s 43 channels three times, I rang the concierge.
“I can’t find the Tennis channel on television.”

“Which channel, Sir?” he asked.

“Tennis.”

“How do you spell it?”

After I helped him out, he checked while I waited.

“Sorry, Sir. We have many options: entertainment, sports, news, travel… we just don’t seem to have this particular channel.” His tone conveyed a hint of reproach at my unreasonable, exotic request. “Perhaps you’d like to watch the action-packed thriller Taken 2 available ‘on demand’?”

“No! I want to watch Federer versus Nadal!”

“Mm, first time I’m hearing about this movie, but do you want me to check if it’s available?”

“No, but can you point out a couple of nearby sports bars?”

He did so and I called the first – at the mall opposite the hotel – only to learn they would open at 11 am, an hour after the match began. So I called the second establishment on his list, a few kilometres away.

“Good evening!” said the cheerful woman. “How can I help you today?”

“Hi!” I said. “What time do you open tomorrow?”

“10 am, Sir.”

Perfect! “And do you show tennis?”

“Of course, Sir.” She sounded affronted. “We’re a sports bar. We show all sports.”

“Thank you very much!” I said, my faith in American tennis restored. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

The next day I left the hotel at 9.50 am and drove in my rented car to the sports bar, aiming to reach at 10. But after meandering through a dozen streets in the vicinity before spotting the bar and then finding a parking spot half a kilometre away, it was 10.20 when I entered.

It was dark inside. I was the first customer. But one television set above the bar was on (showing CNN) and an elderly man with a wrinkled face that bore a scowl sat on a stool at the end of the bar, cutting a carrot. He was cutting it slowly, at the rate of approximately one carrot per hour.

“Hi!” I said. “Do you show tennis?”

Without looking up, he carefully measured the spot for the next cut. “We’re closed,” he said. “Will open at 12.”

“But the woman on the phone woman told me you open at 10 am.”

“Mondays to Saturdays – 10 am; Sundays – 12 pm.” He pointed to the sign on the glass door briefly with his knife before beginning cut number four on his carrot.

“Can you please change the channel to tennis?” I asked him. “I’ll sit here quietly and order something when you open at 12.”

His scowl became bigger.  “I’m busy preparing for the opening,” he said and made another cautious cut.

I could see he needed to work continuously if he wanted to get both carrots cut by 12 pm.

“Mind if I change it myself?” I asked.

Taking his grunt for a yes, I picked up the remote and experienced déjà vu: many channels but no Tennis. Without disturbing the Tsar of Carrots again, I quietly tuned the set back to CNN and left. My watch showed 10:32 am and the app on my phone showed Nadal already leading 4-1 in the first set.

I walked quickly to the car, drove back to the hotel, parked and trotted to the mall, reaching the second sports bar at 11.05 am. It was open. Over 30 large digital television screens on the walls were showing either baseball, ice skating or golf. Meanwhile my phone was showing me that Nadal was leading 4-1 in the second set, having won the first.

“Hi!” said the waitress wearing a crisp uniform and a bright smile. “I’m Margie and I will be your server today. Here are the drinks and food menus. Shall I tell you about our specials?”

“Can you first change one channel to Tennis?” I asked.

“Sure!” she said and walked away. She returned two minutes later. The screen near me was still showing ice skating. “They haven’t changed it yet?!” Disgusted at the inefficiency of the inner office, she went inside again.

“Sorry, Sir,” she said, smiling ruefully when she returned a second time. “It looks like we don’t subscribe to Tennis channel. But have you looked at the menu? Are you ready to order?”

I had not come there to eat! Declining politely, I walked out and sat on a bench in the mall to follow the rest of the match on my phone (Nadal won 6-1, 6-3) and ruminate about the sad state of tennis in the US. I think I was beginning to understand the problem:
Americans have not just stopped playing tennis: they seem to have forgotten the game itself.

The author is a freelance writer based in Singapore.