Who's next for American tennis?

By Will Brown

James Blake closed his 14-year tennis career with a heartbreaking loss to Ivo Karlovic late Wednesday night in the first round of the U.S. Open.

Despite winning the first two sets, the 34-year old could not cope with the power of his Croatian opponent. The American, who was once ranked in the Top 5, lost 6-7, 3-6, 6-4, 7-6, 7-6.

As the fifth set tiebreaker approached, Blake looked cooked. Once Karlovic ratcheted up a couple serves well over 130 miles an hour, the longtime member of the U.S. Davis Cup team didn’t appear to have an answer. Despite a crowd sticking around until well after midnight it was not to be.

Blake’s departure means yet another black person has called it quits in professional tennis.

The legacy of Althea Gibson, Arthur Ashe, Zina Garrison and MaliVai Washington was continued by former Harvard letterman who combined grit, talent and class to carve out a nice career. Blake may not have won a major tournament, nor appeared in a final, like the aforementioned quartet, but he was a valiant figure in post-Sampras, post-Agassi era of American tennis.

Garrison had retired and Washington was on the downside of his career in the late 90s when I started playing.

Well before I played organized basketball or baseball, my dad enrolled me in a tennis class at the YMCA. The teacher, a gentleman named Artie Guerin, taught the rules, basic tactics and reigned in my forehand.

For three summers I would take lessons and play in a recreational league that Guerin coordinated. Those mornings in the sun on the Florida hard courts cemented an appreciation for the sport.

The more interested I became, the more I realized there were few people who looked like me playing professional tennis. Washington’s surprise run to the 1996 Wimbledon finals was a false dawn. Eventually, the Williams sisters took the mantle and ran to the record books, while Blake was the standard bearer for African-American men during the first decade of the 21st century.

Blake’s retirement is yet another reminder at the paucity of blacks at the top level of tennis.

The women’s side has Serena Williams, Sloane Stephens and a handful of talented players behind them in Madison Keys, Taylor Townsend and even Victoria Duval, the 17-year old who stunned 2011 U.S. Open champion Sam Stosur in the first round of this year’s U.S. Open.

Once you get past Blake you have… .

Donald Young, a former phenom in juniors tennis, who is ranked No. 157 in the world. Former Australian Open finalist Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. One of the most exciting, and erratic, players on tour in Gael Monfils.

None of those are names that resonate with the casual American tennis fan.

Dustin Brown had an interesting backstory that was told when he won two matches at Wimbledon this year. But, the German a 28-year-old journeyman, plays serve and volley tennis and has made the main draw of five Grand Slams in the last five years.

The U.S. Open has been the en vogue event for American tennis stars can exit to one final ovation. Agassi, Sampras, Michael Chang and Andy Roddick are all men whose swansong came in New York. Blake may not have been nearly as successful as those major champion winners, or like notable blacks before him, but the niche he carved in the sport will certainly be missed.

Laughs and liveliness,
-Wb

How does one live an unconnected life?

At times the interstate in Florida can be one outstretched tease of the paradise that is ahead. But, on that Saturday afternoon pellets of rain pelted it with perfunctory precision. Dashing through the drops my wife and I were making our way to Miami for a family reunion.

With the rain providing the dour drumbeat, the music muted and my wife submerged in her stationery business I had plenty of time to think. One such thought was to see whether I could remain off social media for a week.

I have Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, and Youtube profiles. I dabbled in mediums like Banjo and Snapchat and Shazam. But, the plan was to go a week without paying attention to any of them.

Then George Zimmerman was acquitted of murder. And I was in Miami.

The temptation to tweet was so strong my wife snatched my phone. She assumed I was bound to say something reckless. She believed the vitriol online would seep into me. In short she wanted to save me from myself.

Rather than tweeting my shock, I sent snarky text messages to my friends before writing an essay.

The experiment was over in 72 hours because a close friend needed me and social media was a big part of our communication. But, it led me to wonder how many other people withstand the urge to share on social media.

It was a search that was completed in two weeks.

My wife has a handful of family members who choose to live untethered to social media. Her older sister is one.

Though we are 13 months apart, when it comes to social media we are worlds apart. She hasn’t posted anything on Facebook in months, while my sabbatical earlier this month was the first time in years I had an extended break from all social media.

Spending a weekend with my wife, her sisters and much of her extended family on a vacation was an experience in how rewarding an unconnected life may be. All of us were hundreds of miles away from our typical stressors. The genuine time spent conversing, eating and relaxing made me wonder how authentic our relationships are in this social media age.

Well before our twin trips south on the Florida interstate, my wife mentioned that we have been on Facebook for nearly a decade. Initially, I figured she was mistaken, but a quick look back revealed I have been a member since April 2005.

More than 80 percent of people my age use social media. Facebook is by far the most popular medium for online adults. LinkedIn is a distant second while Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram are further behind.

But, is it worth it? After spending an extended weekend with my wife’s sister I admired her ability to stay away from the online tumbleweeds. It takes a certain level of maturity and sense of self to own a smartphone, but acknowledge that online profiles are not for them.

Even if I wanted to live an untethered life, my career requires I interact with the public.

But once I turned the data off on my cell phone over the weekend, and the only way people could contact me was through a call or text message, my connection to the world seemed quieter than an uninhabited island in the Florida Keys. Both were things to marvel at from a distance, but not anything that required additional attention.

At least I was not alone. An overwhelming percentage of Facebook users have admitted to taking sabbaticals from the most popular social medium. Their decisions to depart from online life were varied.

As for my reason for retarding my social media consumption: a hallelujah chorus is an excellent ego accelerant. But, too frequently that chorus conjures a sound more monotonous than raindrops in paradise.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

Fish Fanaticism

There has always been a hat.

The first one was a teal adjustable hat I bought at Woolworth’s. I wasn’t a fan of the black stripes stitched into it so the cap rarely left my closet.

There have been others, adjustable hats, warm-up hats, vintage hats and more. But, through the years, I have always had a Marlins hat.

The caps serve as my connection to a team and a sport that captivates my attention only long enough to elicit frustration. For 20 seasons my relationship with baseball recedes and flows like slow waves to shore.

On occasion there is a high tide and the Marlins are having a successful season. In others the sea is gone, revealing shells and other undesirables that are masked by a winning season.

Through it all, there has always been a baseball cap.

It’s a relationship born out of proximity, and a lust for leaning my baseball fanaticism on some team I could relate with. Atlanta appeared to be an alternative universe to an inquisitive baseball fan in Southwest Florida. Miami felt just as foreign, but at least it was in Florida.

Spring training in Sarasota brought all the stars to me. But once April came, the players and teams were only as tangible as the television or newspaper box scores would allow.

That hideous teal cap made Charlie Hough, Benito Santiago and Jeff Conine more than names in a box score. Even if I was never closer than a box television in my bedroom, the Marlins seemed to be a team there for my own summer entertainment.

A collection of errors has hindered any ability to see this routinely mediocre team in person. But, the hat has always been there. In the good years and the bad, the hat has been a tether to a team teetering along in the National League.

Every April my optimism would heighten that this would be the year. They would flirt with my emotions for five weeks, only to go on a losing spell, stinking like rotten citrus as May drifts toward June. Father’s Day would be the barometer for the rest of the season, saving cranks like myself from suffering through summer’s dog days in the fabulous Florida sun.

I was never too good at baseball. My swing had a hitch in it. My throwing motion was never consistent. Plus, I always took circuitous routes to fielding my position.

Personal shortcomings never hindered my Marlin-inspired mania.

Mr. Marlin winning the All-Star MVP award in ’95 was the highlight of my summer. Meeting Charles Johnson six years later was such an experience I nearly hyperventilated. Little compares to dressing up as Marlins player — hat and all — for a Halloween party days after Craig Counsell floated home.

It’s been nearly a decade since Josh Beckett tagged out Posada to shutout the vaunted Yankees. Since then, there have been occasions, large and small, to proudly wear the hat of a team that defiantly represents Florida — whether it’s the booms, the busts or the steady promises for future growth.

As I’ve grown up with the Marlins, the hats have changed. My fanaticism has never wavered, even when the team is floundering in fourth place.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb