The U.S. Open once gave us Rosewall, Evert, and King in white-on-green elegance. Now it’s pot smoke, $20 beers, and a 37-minute security circus so Trump could soak up boos in Flushing Meadows.
Welcome to the U.S. Open, folks—once the cathedral of tennis, now a carnival midway with overpriced beer, clouds of pot smoke, and loutish drunks hollering like they’re at a Rangers game.
The grand finale, the men’s singles final, should’ve been the kind of clash Ken Rosewall would’ve played in knickers and Rod Laver would’ve finished before teatime.
Instead, what did we get? A 37-minute delay, lines stretching longer than the Mississippi, fans missing the first serves of Alcaraz and Sinner—all because Donald J. Trump decided to grace Arthur Ashe Stadium with his Rolex-sponsored posterior.
I can hear Bud Collins now, in his Technicolor pants, calling this a “zoo break” instead of a tennis match. Imagine paying thousands for a ticket, only to be herded outside like cattle, stripped of your water bottle, frisked for metal trinkets, and funneled through a “ring of steel” that would’ve made Brezhnev proud.
By the time you got to your seat, the first set was half over.
And there he was, Trump, plastered on the big screen during the Star-Spangled Banner, basking in forced solemnity. The crowd, God bless them, booed. They booed again after the first set, louder this time, a Bronx cheer in Queens. The USTA, terrified of reality, ordered the broadcasters not to show “disruptions.”
Disruptions? That’s code for democracy in action. Laura Robson and Martina Navratilova broke ranks, bless them, telling the truth that the emperor had been jeered, loudly and deservedly, at center court.
But here’s the kicker: this fiasco wasn’t just a momentary embarrassment.
It was a mugging of tennis itself. Alcaraz and Sinner had to adjust their schedules, arriving at the crack of dawn to avoid the Secret Service chokehold. The rhythm of preparation—crucial for players at this level—was trashed so that Trump could preen in his box like a patron saint of Rolex.
John Newcombe and Margaret Court never needed armed guards to get through a baseline rally. Billie Jean King fought for equality on the court, not for VIP lines at the gate. Chris Evert didn’t need a no-fly zone to hit her backhand down the line.
And what of the fans?
Some climbed benches and jumped barriers just to make it inside.
Others lost gifts to overzealous security goons. Thousands waited, fuming, outside a stadium they’d mortgaged their credit cards to enter.
The USTA spokesperson droned on about “TSA-style security,” but let’s be honest: it was a shambles, a disgrace, an abdication of planning. The only people served were Trump’s ego and the sponsors’ champagne flutes.
John McEnroe would’ve lost his mind. “You CANNOT be SERIOUS!” he’d bellow, and for once, the entire crowd would agree.
This wasn’t a tennis final. It was a hostage situation in the name of politics.
Here’s a sport where they used to wear white and whisper in reverence. Now it’s $20 beers, clouds of weed, and a 37-minute delay because the orange guy needed his entrance.” Civilization is just a thin crust. At the U.S. Open, that crust cracked like a cheap racket.
The U.S. Open used to be about tennis. Now it’s about queues, jeers, and chaos. Rosewall, Laver, Evert—they wouldn’t recognize the madhouse.
