"Come on, Pete!" The voice rang out loud and clear, unmistakably of a desi, the tenor and lilt made popular in the land of the greenback by countless Hollywood movies. "We are with you, Pete!" For the man battling to save the match, and his reputation, on centre court in Flushing Meadows (yes, this happened some weeks ago), the exhortation may not have mattered -- if he had indeed heard it. But to the countless other predominantly white American spectators in the stands, this came as a bright interlude, a welcome lightness while watching their favourite being demolished. A chuckle here, a guffaw there, and some under-the-breath taunts ensued. "Hey John, you hear that guy, do you think he did the voice for the monkey in...?" "Hey John, I'm going to stop wearing Tommy Hilfiger!" Too obvious a slur to be ignored, our pride bristling, we were about to join ranks in defence of a fellow Indian when the thought struck us that we were there to enjoy the first Grand Slam final we were witnessing. That, and the sight of the barn door-like companion of the speaker put paid to any thought of valour on our part. Luckily, the jibes ended soon. And as the tennis great's fortunes declined on court, so did the fan's ardour. After one last plaintive "You've got to fock-us Pete" -- the pronunciation leading to misunderstanding -- he settled down to watch Hewitt take apart the home favourite. Even as the rest of the crowd cheered Sampras, for us desis it did not matter who won or lost so long as we were treated to great tennis. Watching tennis here is like watching cricket at the Wankhede, Chepauk or Eden Gardens. The mood is decidedly festive, there are enough sights and sounds for those not really interested in the game, and hey, to score over the games back home, you even get to sip Heineken -- so what if it's slightly weak, better than none. And when we say festive, we mean FESTIVE! Twenty-three thousand people -- okay, okay, so a few seats were empty, big deal! -- cheering, shouting, talking, eating, drinking, swearing, their eyes pinned to what seemed like two little men on a little green rectangle, and the whoosh of a Sampras service as it hurtles its way across the net... Leaves you just a wee bit breathless. More than the match, more than anything, though, what is striking is the phenomenal marketing genius that the Western world, especially America, puts into such simple events as a tennis match, though a $850,000 cheque for the winner means nothing is simple anymore. Compound that with the all-American Lincoln automobile company sponsoring the US Open and things sort of fall into perspective. The plaza outside is selling memorabilia at various stalls, the food court is buzzing, there is even a jazz group performing live, with four swing dancers that have gathered an appreciative crowd. A spectacle, nothing less. But then it strikes us: this is the way sport is meant to be. One doesn't have to push and shove and jostle for a seat that one has paid good money for; ushers will smilingly guide you to your seat if you're lost; you can be pretty sure no one will pick your pocket; and getting up to go to the restroom doesn't invite boos and shouts to get out of the line of vision. And when a woman leaning a little too far over the railing drops her shades on to the next level, someone actually picks it up and waits for her to climb down instead of just letting it lie there. In short, the entire thing just adds up to a completely satisfying experience. Back to the match. Sampras has just lost a tight first set tiebreak to the up-and-coming Hewitt, who is being touted as the next big thing from Australia. During the changeover, we suddenly spot a moonlike object the size of a soccer ball swing across our eyes, and wonder what the hell it is. Binocs go up, only to discover a camera suspended in mid-air, held and moved by four cables from four corners of the Arthur Ashe stadium to take aerial shots of the crowd that are shown on the giant screen up there. What the heck? (This year, they say, the giant screen in the food court turned out to be more popular over Championship fortnight than a seat in the stands.) Did you guys catch us on TV? "Hewitt!" someone shouted. "Peeete!" responded our man's flat monotone. "HEWITT!" "PEEETE!" Around us, people were cracking up. "We love you, Peeete!" More howls. So what's the big point? Just this, that all sport is meant to be enjoyed, and that is precisely what you do in this country. Just like the desi who, oblivious to the laughter, some of it genuine, some derisive, went ahead and participated whole-heartedly in the proceedings, had fun, got his pictures taken, got his money's worth. Of course, at the end of the day we were also left ruing the fact that it could take a generation or more to see another desi -- not in the crowds, but down there, on the court, where the best do battle. New York-based Tanmaya Kumar Nanda is now addicted to Grand Slam merriment. Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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