The embrace shared by Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi in the Arthur Ashe stadium at Flushing Meadows on Sunday night was about as fine and moving a sight as sport has to offer. Two men with more than a decade of intense rivalry behind them, and now in the evening of their careers, had emerged into a sudden blaze of late sunlight that would dazzle even a person watching the match on television in the dead of night more than 8 000km away.
In that second or two it was impossible to tell, from either their smiles or their body language, which of them had just won and which had lost an epic contest. One comparison was inescapable: Pele and Bobby Moore shared similar emotions while swapping shirts after the 1970 England vs Brazil World Cup match in Guadalajara, a moment captured in a now immortal photograph. And then someone had to go and spoil it.
After Sampras had run up the grandstand steps to kiss his wife and greet his associates, after Agassi had spent a couple of minutes drying his sweat, packing his bag and silently reflecting on defeat, the nonsense began. As Sampras and Agassi stood waiting to receive their prizes, a man from the American tennis tour took the microphone to explain that this event had been all about the city of New York and its ability once again to stage a great public event.
On the rim of the stadium the ”heroes’ flag” — the stars and stripes that survived the inferno of the Twin Towers — fluttered for the cameras. The crowd, conditioned by a year of public mourning, readily applauded themselves.
So what had been a magnificent struggle between two great athletes, an unforgettable contest in which each vied with the other to repossess the gifts of his younger self, became just another strand in the continuing September 11 narrative.
The man from the tour added that he had been hoping for all-American finals in the men’s and women’s singles, as a symbol of the American spirit. And, of course, he got his wish. Without wishing for a moment to trespass on the enduring grief of those who suffered as a result of the September 11 attacks, or to cast doubt on the validity of the wider sense of distress, this was teeth-grinding stuff.
And it was made worse when he was followed to the microphone by the president of the Ford Motor Company, sponsors of the event, whose speech amounted to a commercial for the Lincoln-Mercury dealers of the New York metropolitan area.
And Americans wonder why some people just occasionally find them hard to love. Their prayers for total domination extend even to the tennis court, and even to their own tournament, where they might have been expected to act as gracious and courteous hosts. And they can’t help but turn everything, no matter how innocent or frivolous or noble, into a commercial opportunity.
Sampras and Agassi, tucking cheques for around $900 000 and $600 000 respectively into the pockets of their tennis shorts, were certainly not about to stage a protest. But those who had wished to enjoy their sunlit moment could have done without the invasive shadows of global politics and industrial muscle.
No doubt we shall be in for more of this sort of thing in two weeks’ time, when a dozen United States golfers and their captain arrive in England to defend the Ryder Cup in a tournament postponed last year in the immediate aftermath of September 11. Flags will fly, speeches will be made, silences solemnly observed.
On American soil, Ryder Cup matches are preceded by a quasi-military ceremony that is part West Point passing-out parade and part prom night. The players’ wives make an entrance, a dozen matching blondes in uniform.
The Star-Spangled Banner is sung, with an audible hum of excitement when Francis Scott Key’s verse reaches the lines: ”And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” The last line — ”O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave” — has not yet died away when four F16 fighters come swooping in a tight diamond formation up the 18th fairway at treetop height in a crash of noise before climbing heavenward, afterburners glowing against the sky.
I used to laugh at this, in a friendly sort of way. I used to tell people that it made even a pacifist want to go out and invade a small nation. Now I don’t laugh any more. And I hope such displays are not wished on the organisers and spectators at the Belfry.
With the War On The Shore and the Battle of Brookline in its history, the Ryder Cup has witnessed more than enough surrogate bellicosity. This time around, let the game speak for itself. —