The 2010 US Open—America’s Wimbledon, but with less rain—got under way last night. The opening festivities included fireworks, Gloria Estefan, Mike Bloomberg, two master-class thrashings by Venus “No Penis” Williams (wearing a black lace quasi-negligee in lieu of standard athletic wear), and perennial badass-turned-weeper Roger Federer. I was there for the second straight year, perched in the last row like a branched owl overlooking the event—equal parts sport and spectacle. Women in all styles of WASP-wear fanned themselves with programs, dads stroked their Venus-inspired daughters’ corn-rowed braids, boys bounced over-sized tennis balls, and I silently philosophized, wondering what David Foster Wallace would say. Wallace was arguably our greatest living novelist, but he was certainly our greatest living tennis critic. He wrote of the sport he loved with an inimitable mix of passion and cerebral analysis. He drooled over Roger Federer, once played through a tornado, and wrote an 1,100 page novel set at a fictional tennis academy. But now he’s gone. Someone needs to fill the giant void he left behind in the world of tennis writing. That man is Lil’ Wayne.
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