For Ralph Gardner Jr., his best wasn’t quite good enough
ENLARGEBall boys at the 2015 U.S. Open in Flushing Meadows. ENLARGE
Ball boys at the 2015 U.S. Open in Flushing Meadows. PHOTO: TIMOTHY A. CLARY/AGENCE FRANCE-PRESSE/GETTY IMAGES
By RALPH GARDNER JR.
Updated June 28, 2016 6:03 p.m. ET
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Add to my list of disappointments the failure to qualify as a ball boy at this summer’s U.S. Open. The rejection came on an overcast morning last week when several hundred hopefuls reported to the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in Flushing Meadows, Queens, to try out for this year’s Open. The tournament starts Aug. 29.
I might have had a better shot in 2015.
“Last year you had a lot of older people,” explained Cathie Delaney, the tournament’s assistant director of ballpersons, “because the Open started later and so many people had to go back to school.”
The tournament didn’t end until Sept. 13 with Novak Djokovic’s four-set defeat of Roger Federer in the finals. Older people, with no academic demands on their time, were golden; even if their speed and ball handling capabilities may not have been what they once were.
“Most of the people doing this older in life, they tend to be in the backcourt,” as opposed to the net, where foot speed is more essential, Ms. Delaney said gently. “Their stamina is a little less than an 18-year-old.”
Make that a lot less.
If I were truly serious about wanting to hang out under the center-court lights, feeding Federer balls and hand towels, I suppose I should have upped my workouts beyond my once-a-week revolution of the Central Park reservoir. Or cleaning the gutters on my home.
Once you reach a certain age it’s amazing the number of activities you decide qualify as exercise.
I knew I was in trouble when I got winded during my initial attempt to snag a tennis ball on the run—our first challenge consisted of impersonating a statue, then bursting into a sprint, retrieving the ball, rushing to the other side of the court and returning to a state of suspended animation.
I don’t think I did that bad. I might have bobbled the ball once or twice. But I never fell or broke my leg. OK, so maybe I’m not center-court material. But some of the ball boys and girls I’ve seen working the outside courts in years past don’t seem in any particular rush either.
The next challenge—as Ms. Delaney stood over her clipboard taking notes like some sporty version of Nurse Ratched—required throwing a ball from one end of the court to the other.
It took me a couple of throws to find my range. But I thought I did a fine job considering I’ve been having solemn discussions with my orthopedist about shoulder surgery.
But I realize that’s no excuse.
I’m willing to concede that fans who pay good money for box seats to a quarterfinal nail-biter, especially those on their fourth Heineken, would have little patience for a balding ball boy whose last three attempts to lob the ball cross-court landed in the net.
As mine did during the tryouts.
Ms. Delaney didn’t pull any punches when I returned to her side to see how well I’d scored.
“I don’t think your arm is strong enough,” she said.
I politely disagreed. I launched the projectile with appropriate violence. The problem was my aim, not my velocity.
“You need a little more speed in the net position,” she added.
Let’s see how fast she runs with chronic tendinitis. Once I resume my stretching exercises I’ll do fine.
Besides, I was also impeded by Ms. Delaney’s admonition to grab the ball with two hands. What self-respecting Major League shortstop does that, let alone a seasoned ball person?
I’m not suggesting that ball people should be held to the same genius-level physical standards as Novak, Roger or Andy Murray. But the fans deserve a little style from every person, no matter how lowly their station, who steps onto that sacred DecoTurf surface.
Laray Fowler comforted me that her tryout in 1998 didn’t go especially well either. “I was nervous,” she remembered. “I fell.”
At 31 years old, she’s regularly assigned to Serena Williams’s matches. “I know what she likes,” Ms. Fowler explained. “I know she wants water, a box of tissues on the chair, extra towels.”
Extra towels are something I’d be good at.
— ralph.gardner@wsj.com