Photo by AJA
Notes from Rome
It’s probably an interesting exercise to explore the parallels between the Colosseum and the Foro Italico tennis stadium – gladiators battling beneath a hot sun with crowds glorifying the victor, while the vanquished sulks off to the dungeon-like locker rooms. The rackets are swords, the umpire is Caesar, and somewhere amidst the battle, two warriors adhere to the code of “two men enter, one man leaves.” But, Rome is a magnificent city of artistry, architecture, and alchemy, so making analogies feels a bit vacuous.
For two days now, I’ve perched upon the cracked Italian marble, staring into the focused eyes of tennis’ champions. Three-thousand Italian speaking humans surround me and the week’s dress code appears business casual, although there is an uncomfortable amount of May leather. The color of the clay is a deep magnificent burnt Orange / red brick color and the air averages eighty-three degrees.
Because the clay is a surface for shot-making (the bounce slows the pace of the game), players frequently get into glacial-speed rallies, often to the point where crowd members begin to massage their own necks. Some points are so long, they require a halftime. Inside the rallies, the game is Pythagorean. Players start five meters behind the baseline, slide close enough to the stands to kiss spectators, and then sprint back across the terra argilla for the next shot. Some shots rise like American debt and then fall like OJ Simpson’s character, while others fly straight. After a set, the court looks like a Monet painting, or a Jackson Pollack on a one-color bender. Over time, balls and socks turn red (except for Roger whose socks remain white – and I bet the damn guy doesn’t even lose one in the dryer either), string tensions diminish, and athletes begin to breathe like post-derby horses.
The grace of Wimbledon is absent here, as players stretch, dive, scramble and lunge for shots with the kind of joint-wrenching athleticism that makes you know there’s an overwhelmed orthopedic guy in the trainer’s room. With gestures that hint at the profane, they swing from some very unnatural positions.
Interestingly, Italians use many of the same movements while talking, and, to avoid injury, I’ve frequently had to duck during conversation. Italian cursing though, is like the Roman fountains – flowing with an endless stream of rising and falling syllables – accentuated by whirling gestures, flowing hair, and the sort of romantic tones that make you feel like you’ve just been made love to. Getting cursed out in authentic Italian is pleasurable, and bucket-list worthy, and may explain why so many people choose to smoke immediately afterwards.
Regarding the clay, the elite four men have notable differences. When Roger floats atop the surface, small dust devils appear in his wake, as if a tornado of movement has recently passed. Rafa’s dark stare suggests he is playing for something beyond tennis, as though, when Uncle Tony yells at him, he is aware of Tony’s fear that life may soon come and take it all away. After Murray takes the court, you get the sense that he’s just angry about all of the dirt and wanting grass to grow. Djokovic’s flexibility is gynecological.
Today I noticed a ball kid displaying an obvious adolescent crush on Vika Azarenka Three times, while staring at Vika’s figure, he mishandled a ball, and then rose, red-faced, to apologize. I’m assuming he won’t make tomorrow’s cut, but to the kid’s credit, V. A. cuts quite the image out there. I’ll keep an eye out for the boy, in case he needs an introduction.
Tomorrow I am supposed to attend an event for Sony’s new wearable racket technology. I’ll be reporting on that for those interested, and then on Friday, I intend to get inside the matches a bit, to discuss what’s really happening on the court.
A domani!
Topics: Colosseum, Craig Cignarelli, Foro Italico, Rome, Tennis News
-@CraigCignarelli REPORTS FROM #ROME ON THE GREAT #TENNIS STADIUM #ForoItalico & THE #COLOSSEUM- http://t.co/PGw3HgbpTu #RomeMasters #clay