The Dirt Awaits

Written by: Staff on 22nd May 2012

The Dirt Awaits |

We Americans adore solid impact, the forceful propulsion of a ball leaving our racquet at Mach speeds as it heads across the net and slams into the back fence for an un-returnable winner. Our kidneys pulse out the adrenal surge and we succumb to a momentary euphoric state. The high is addictive in ways that only heroin junkies and hopeless romantics can understand. And then we return to play, more macho, the arrogance of power still dripping from our racquets as though it could produce such triumph upon request. Yes, we Americans love winners.

Clay court mentality suggests it is more macho to wear your opponent down than to hit a winner. The clay courters get their adrenalin rushes from an opponent’s unforced errors, or a cramping adversary, or one who breaks a racquet in frustration. For clay court enthusiasts, macho is mental. They simmer the pot, let your liquids run out, force you to endure the long dehydrating pain. Whether you are the screaming lobster or the slow-boiling toad, you will eventually succumb to the slow but constant heat. Clay masters love losers.

I am a few kilometers from La Tour Eiffel, staring across a crimson sea of skid marks, ball imprints and the bloody remains of scraped knees and knuckles. This is the terre battue of Roland Garros, battleground for the impending French Open. Today, a few future qualifying participants scatter around the courts and your curious tourist/correspondent can gather a sense of the clay court game.

First, there are the grunts. You hear them from fifty yards, vaguely pornographic elongated moans that hint at digestive distress. When you arrive, the courts throw off an orange hue, the crushed brick lightly soaked from below, the fine grains flounced into a level canvas. Before play, they appear wave-swept, untainted by human passage and one gets the sense of virginity. But then, nothing threatens like unblemished clay.

Two shirtless Spanish kids are here, smooth skin soaked with sweat, their flowing hair reminiscent of their nation’s idol. Presumably they are preparing for the early rounds and I pause for study. The clay court thud is different, as though the players are trying to impart something artistic upon the ball. The requisite vocabulary sounds kitchenesque – carve, dice, slice, brush, chop, delicacy – and one gets the sense that maybe, along with ESPN, the Home and Garden Network should be here.

Once warm, they begin a Pythagorean display of geometric genius – yes that was pedantic but it sounds pretty cool, right? – angles begetting angles as puffs of clay lift and spray above sock tans. They drift twenty feet behind the baseline and perform enough lunges to make Richard Simmons cringe. If one looks closely, you can see limp lip lassos and upturned noses as players turn Picasso-esque in their expressions. Pulse rates look like a New York skyline. As time passes, I witness the battering of groundstrokes, struck high, deep, and with spin that would make political pundits envious. Balls whiz here. Before the sun apexes, one player is rubbing his quadriceps and sporting a raised eyebrow that suggests cramping is imminent. But resistance to pain is an integral part of clay court tennis. And this is what Americans haven’t bought into – not since Courier.

Americans want to impose their will, upon the ball, the opponent, and the crowd. They enter the arena with great force, drop large bombs upon the dirt, and expect victory. But the French is a war of attrition – reminds me of Afghanistan – and the clay courters understand that, to win, it is more about eroding one’s will than imposing it.

The Spanish kids continue for another hour, ingesting three more liters of water and rifling through bananas with primate passion. They are practicing suffering, preparing for pain, while somewhere in Southern Florida a few desperate Americans are loosening their strings and hoping they can break groundstroke speed records in the quest for the Coupe des Mousquetaires.

Soon there will be an overabundance of leather and invisible, but odorous, clouds thrown off by distant smokers. We will hear battle cries of “Allez!” and “Vamos!” Impolite people will cover croissants with Nutella spreads and mock each other with the sort of arrogance the French have mastered over centuries of malicious ridicule. Sculpted men and women with an obscure talent for battering a three ounce ball will arrive in search of fame, fortune and a piece of history. Television announcers and journalists will spend sleepless nights scouring Thesauri for color commentary. Until then, however, the clay remains pure…waiting….

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