A Bird’s-eye view of the L.A. Open

Written by: Staff on 22nd July 2012

A Bird’s-eye view of the L.A. Open

epa03289314 Brian Baker of the US returns to Benoit Paire of France during their third round match for the Wimbledon Championships at the All England Lawn Tennis Club, in London, Britain, 30 June 2012. EPA/FACUNDO ARRIZABALAGA |

By: Craig Cignarelli

This year’s Farmer’s Insurance tournament reminds me of something. All the cool kids are over in London playing for gold while each nation’s also-rans have hopped a flight to La-La land in search of a predictably easy draw and a quick $75k. It’s like the band camp kids coming to party. The thing is, if you watched the movie American Pie, you know band camp has its allure – One time at band camp I….

I’ll be on site all week, but here’s an eyeball over the tournament:

Parking is $10, and assuming you don’t mind the Dantean spiral into underground garage hell, your car will stay relatively cool. The Will Call window is made up of three glass cubicles (think prison-visit and you get the idea) and the chances of the octogenarian employees hearing your name properly is equal to wining the lottery.

Ticket takers average somewhere North of age seventy and suffer an arthritic tremor, meaning the dexterity with which they employ the ticket scanning devices has a Kubrickian chimps thing about it. Outside practice court number three, there’s a pine tree that drops needles faster than a Philadelphia crack dealer. When leaving the practice court, pro players pause for photos with the crowd and perform pen strokes that resemble autographs but suggest either poorly-attended homeschooling or meth addiction.

Even though the elite aren’t here, the axe whack of racket on ball echoes throughout the stadium. One can often see fluff leave the string bed in a way that can make you think Susan Powter getting a haircut. Grown males apply sunscreen like they are slapping mosquitoes while adult women massage themselves with the sort of long strokes that make mosquito-slapping men raise intrigued eyebrows. LAX is only twenty minutes away, so in between points, gaping-mouthed ADHD children frequently succumb to aviation’s fascination, their tongues stumbling from their jaws, an erect finger extended skyward, the beginnings of a drool string, their tiny heads rolling backwards to vertebrae snapping extremes, curiously. In the main stadium, the tournament’s top seeds battle for a place on the wall where Sampras Agassi and Tommy Haas have their marquis.

Back on court two, where fans sit close enough to hear the spinning whizz of Sam Querrey’s second serve or see sweat beads dribbling from Lukas Lacko’s sideburns, the competition doesn’t get the loud roars as much as the personal winks and fist pumps that keeps court security on their toes. Most professional tennis players have one Popeye arm and one that looks like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. Day session tennis crowds sport shorts and sandals, which reveal an uncomfortable delineation between tan and un-tan. Post match, players perform on-court interviews and meet the fans outside the locker room to do photo-ops with half-clad women who can’t seem to stop smiling.

By late afternoon, most spectators have Rorschach swamp-ass and there’s a rather depressing amount of chest-hair visible above sunburned stomachs that appear to have achieved notoriety at the buffet more so than the tennis matches. L.A. fans tend toward the minimalist golf clap until someone hits a sideways drop shot or bloodies himself, at which point they will erupt in a way which reveals their frustration with $200 ticket prices and $13 sandwiches. The stadium steps are dicey and if you wait long enough, someone in high heels will face plant dramatically. When applied liberally, sunscreen smells like a burnt coconut. Player credentials come on a lanyard and if you accidentally meander toward the player’s lounge without proper identification, hirsute and beefy security guards are not shy about going aggressively TSA on you – the male ones too. In between matches, the Southern California Tennis Association recruits local juniors to perform for the crowd. Few things bring out tennis crowd ire like extreme-Western forehands struck with a four-second grunt and an inside the service box bounce. Then again, the kids are cute and try hard, so generous applause follows the grimaces. Pro tennis players fail to restrain giggles when high-heeled women fall over on stairs.

Bottom Line: Even thought we’re not talking Grand Slam tennis, for tennis aficionados, the atmosphere here is fantastic.

Lovey hooked me up with press credentials this week so I’ll be ranting prolific. Enjoy the event!

Topics: 10sballs.com, Brian Baker, Cipolla, Craig Cignarelli, Farmers Classic tennis news, jack sock, LA tennis news, London Olympics, Ram, Sports, Tennis