A break in the autumn rain clouds is about as frequent as a break in Federer's serve here in the Big Apple, but fortunately the day of the 2009 US Open men's semifinals dawns warm and clear. Let's play some tennis!
But first, let's look at some random photos to set the scene.
Welcome to the US Open! Need I say more? Thankfully, no.
Time for a little celebrity spotting on the concourse of champions. Who's the babe in the hat? Must be a star from the Real Housewives of Wuhan.
The scene is set for two epic semifinals. Del Potro vs Nadal followed by Djokovic vs Federer. Followed by Rock vs Footlong Hotdog.
Wall of Champions. What does it take to get on this wall? Probably a bit more than a bit of free advertising for Continental.
The men's honor roll reads a bit like this blog. Same old, same old.
Before Serena's pleasantries, John McEnroe was considered the bad boy of center court.
Unless I'm very much mistake, Mr Bronze Dude in the background seems to have failed to take advantage of the numerous tennis gear shops around the grounds to kit himself out. Brings a whole new meaning to 'new balls please'. Fortunately for those readers who actually made it this far, Rock takes a much less Olympian approach to his game. In both senses of the word.
The cauldron of champions.
The stage is set. The ball boys are in position. The crowd is expectantly hushed. And most importantly, the ketchup is on the darn good crinkle fries they serve outside of gate 20.
Let the games begin! Nadal launches into his first serve of the match...
...but as things go on, it becomes clear that the time for another crinkly fry is now. Oh, and that Nadal is struggling valiantly with the stomach strain that has hampered him all tournament.
Forget Federer, forget Nadal, here comes the real star!
The brunch of champions.
Rock succumbs to the relentless marketing drive: if you dress like the stars, you'll play like the stars. Advantage Capitalism.
No way! It's the 42nd president of the United States of America! The crowds still love him.
Back to the action. Federer steps up with an incredible US Open record. The man just doesn't know how to lose here (disclaimer: most of this was written before the final)
Poetry in motion. The only poetry you'll get on this blog.
The roar of the crowd competes with the roar of twin turbofans every few minutes as another jet lines up for short finals to La Guardia.
The DirectTV blimp takes great delight in circling Rock's seat and launching an aerial bombardment of ridicule on those poor fools stuck with Time Warner Cable. You mean you can't watch eight football games simultaneously?!?
Apparently the dude in the hat and sunnies looking right this way is Justin Timberlake. Must be trying to work out who the cool chick in the hat is up there in the cheap seats.
Sunset over Arthur Ashe stadium. Magnificent.
He must get sick of doing post-victory interviews. There's only so many times you can laud your opponent for putting up a good fight before you just have to tell it like it is: everyone else sucks. Of course, the alternative is you can throw away the final...
But first, let's look at some random photos to set the scene.
Welcome to the US Open! Need I say more? Thankfully, no.
Time for a little celebrity spotting on the concourse of champions. Who's the babe in the hat? Must be a star from the Real Housewives of Wuhan.
The scene is set for two epic semifinals. Del Potro vs Nadal followed by Djokovic vs Federer. Followed by Rock vs Footlong Hotdog.
Wall of Champions. What does it take to get on this wall? Probably a bit more than a bit of free advertising for Continental.
The men's honor roll reads a bit like this blog. Same old, same old.
Before Serena's pleasantries, John McEnroe was considered the bad boy of center court.
Unless I'm very much mistake, Mr Bronze Dude in the background seems to have failed to take advantage of the numerous tennis gear shops around the grounds to kit himself out. Brings a whole new meaning to 'new balls please'. Fortunately for those readers who actually made it this far, Rock takes a much less Olympian approach to his game. In both senses of the word.
The cauldron of champions.
The stage is set. The ball boys are in position. The crowd is expectantly hushed. And most importantly, the ketchup is on the darn good crinkle fries they serve outside of gate 20.
Let the games begin! Nadal launches into his first serve of the match...
...but as things go on, it becomes clear that the time for another crinkly fry is now. Oh, and that Nadal is struggling valiantly with the stomach strain that has hampered him all tournament.
Forget Federer, forget Nadal, here comes the real star!
The brunch of champions.
Rock succumbs to the relentless marketing drive: if you dress like the stars, you'll play like the stars. Advantage Capitalism.
No way! It's the 42nd president of the United States of America! The crowds still love him.
Back to the action. Federer steps up with an incredible US Open record. The man just doesn't know how to lose here (disclaimer: most of this was written before the final)
Poetry in motion. The only poetry you'll get on this blog.
The roar of the crowd competes with the roar of twin turbofans every few minutes as another jet lines up for short finals to La Guardia.
The DirectTV blimp takes great delight in circling Rock's seat and launching an aerial bombardment of ridicule on those poor fools stuck with Time Warner Cable. You mean you can't watch eight football games simultaneously?!?
Apparently the dude in the hat and sunnies looking right this way is Justin Timberlake. Must be trying to work out who the cool chick in the hat is up there in the cheap seats.
Sunset over Arthur Ashe stadium. Magnificent.
He must get sick of doing post-victory interviews. There's only so many times you can laud your opponent for putting up a good fight before you just have to tell it like it is: everyone else sucks. Of course, the alternative is you can throw away the final...
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