Bill Simons and Vinay Venkatesh
The French Open gives us a dazzling display of artistry and athleticism. Lyrical shots delight. Creativity is its password. Power and subtlety do their dance. I’ve had the rough assignment of covering it for decades. And here are 14 of my favorite moments and memories.
THE KING IN HIS COURT: No other player has dominated a Grand Slam as Rafa Nadal has in Paris. So, not surprisingly, there were few more wondrous experiences in tennis than watching the singular Spaniard close-up from the first few rows of the Suzanne Lenglen Court press box.
After all, just 15 yards in front of me was the magnetic clay court savant, with his explosive power, uncanny anticipation, crazed sprints and relentless focus. His muscles bulged, his sweat glistened. Every twitch was apparent. Every game, every point, every stroke burst with urgency. Mary Carillo once asked, “Have you ever seen anyone who has the same sense of recognition of the rhythms of a clay court match?”
THE LOOK OF LOVE: After Gustavo Kuerten scored a miraculous comeback win over Michael Russell in 2001, the beloved Brazilian drew a heart in Roland Garros’ precious clay, and then, in relief and ecstasy, collapsed in the middle of it. No wonder Yannick Noah said, “Guga has this look in his eyes. There’s love there. It’s almost religious. He’s not like, ‘I win, I’m the best.’ It’s not an ego trip. It’s, ‘Oh, my God, I won. I’m so happy for my people.’”
ROGER’S REDEMPTION: Literary students know that Captain Ahab obsessively pursued Moby Dick. And your local tennis nerd can tell you that for 11 baffling seasons, Roger Federer sought to gain the French Open title. Then, at last, in 2009, the man from the high mountains finally dropped low to his knees. As he beat Robin Soderling to win his first and only Roland Garros trophy, his face was flushed with astonishment and relief – tears flowed.
TENNIS HEAVEN: There was nothing like watching tennis from Paris’ elegant, old-school Bullring court. Circular and oh-so-intimate, it was tennis’ answer to Fenway Park, a tennis arena like no other. Here players, fans, media and the magic of sports seemed to merge. Before it was bulldozed in 2018, no other venue outside Wimbledon’s Centre Court so amplified the soul of tennis. I’d watch from the subterranean photo pit just beyond the baseline. It was tennis heaven.
TRUMPETS SOUND, RITUALS DELIGHT: Here’s a news flash: the French have flair. Style is celebrated with a religious fervor. The French Open’s slogan – “Move the Lines with Style” – is plastered everywhere at Roland Garros. Fans sport elegant hats, crisp jackets and flowing scarves. Strike a pose.
At Roland Garros, trumpets sound and rituals delight. Ball boys sprint out on court with a youthful bounce. Workers sweep the gorgeous orange clay with stunning precision – such a lovely carpet. Goodness, even the clouds seem puffier. And meals are all but required to be grand gatherings. In this baguette-friendly world of foie gras and beef filet, cream puffs and dreamy cheeses, food is a sacrament. Lunch is a serious happening. The mighty mingle, munch and chat – after all, one must see and be seen.
LET’S GET READY TO RAFA: The introduction of Rafa at Court Philippe Chatrier induced goosebumps. It was an art form. With a lilting crescendo, the operatic PA announcer put his deep voice on full display as he offered a list of the years Rafa had won the French: “He’s won 14 titles at Roland Garros, in 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2022.”
They sing “My Old Kentucky Home” before the Kentucky Derby. Boxing announcer Michael Buffer tells the crowd, “Let’s get ready to rumble!” Still, the shoutout to Nadal was long my favorite introduction in all of sports.
SERENA’S SIZZLE: Seventy-one years before the American Civil War ended, France abolished slavery. In 1803, the first wave of African-Americans sought refuge in Paris. France has long attracted notables seeking to escape the grip of American racism: think Josephine Baker, Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, Charlie Parker, James Baldwin, Nina Simone and Eartha Kitt.
African-American Althea Gibson won Roland Garros in 1956. In 1998, Serena first appeared in Paris. Drama often said, “Bonjour.” She had a testy feud with Justine Henin, wore an outfit that backed the controversial Cameroons soccer team and ruffled many French feathers when she wore her gorgeous black bodysuit. Incredibly, bodysuits were promptly promptly banned.
In 2012, Serena suffered one of the most shocking losses in WTA history, a first-round loss to the local favorite, No. 111, Virginie Razzano. Just days after her humbling setback, Serena sought out French master coach, Patrick Mouratoglou, who led her to victories in ten of her next 18 Slams.
All the while, the bold American grew to adore all things French. She bought an apartment in Paris, learned the language and enthralled the crowds when she gave speeches in French.
Clay was hardly Serena’s best surface, but, more than any other modern American man or woman not named Chrissie, she won more French Open titles at Roland Garros – three.
FRENZIED FRENCH FANS: In Paris, American players and fans have to endure frenzied French fans backing their local heroes. The anti-Yankee vibe is palpable and not so pretty.
It didn’t matter whether the French player was a little known wildcard with a triple digit ranking or a beloved star named Yannick, Henri, Gael, Jo Willie, Amelie or Alize – patriotic, thunderous passion always fills the French arenas. Just ask any battle-scarred American star, say Andy Roddick or Taylor Fritz, who felt the wrath of the surging locals.
AN AMERICAN IN PARIS: For young travelers, going to Paris can be simply magical. But it can also be daunting, even lonely. It’s hard to navigate a beautiful language you don’t understand and a culture that delights but is so foreign, and doesn’t exactly invite Americans in.
It’s a little like that for American journalists in the second week of the French Open. By then, most of the American men have packed up their racket bags and left Paris to lick their clay-infested wounds.
But on a cold gray evening deep into the 2003 French Open, I was delighted as two young bounding Californians, Bob and Mike Bryan, won the doubles title on Court Centrale in front of just 800 fans huddling in the chilly stands. It was a moment of red, white and blue redemption – a good time to be an American in Paris.
UNCLE TONI HOLDS COURT: For years after a huge match, there would be a giddy gathering just under the stadium’s International Box, where girlfriends, pals, family, coaches and hangers-on of every description would gather in a giggly moment of group ecstasy. Amidst the joy, a pack of grizzled reporters from California to Catalonia would press in a tight scrum to gather quotes. And the prevailing master of the scene was Rafa’s tennis-savvy coach. In French, Spanish, and eventually in English, Uncle Toni would brilliantly reveal the essence of his nephew’s triumphs. Rarely has there been a more generous beneficiary to tennis journalism.
THE NIGHT I GOT LOCKED INTO CENTER COURT: The old Roland Garros press room was a curious wonder. The French writers had their own room, but in our cramped, sweltering space there were always lively Italians. Steve Flink’s booming New York voice would rise above the din as he provided urgent, rather brilliant match analyses for WCBS radio back in Manhattan.
The wise-cracking British press corps couldn’t resist joking that cabbies weaving their way up Third Avenue were captivated by Flink’s flawless reports. The New York Times’ Christopher Clarey, who lived nearby in the Bois de Boulogne, would bicycle to Roland Garros and offer everyone fresh blackberries from the market. Bud Collins was always jolly and collegial.
Right outside the steamy press room, it was delightful to hear dancing Brazilian fans endlessly chant for their man, Guga. But the press room was way too small. There was no room to maneuver, and often it was an oven.
So, after play was over, I liked to escape and write my stories in the solitary quiet of the outdoor press seats on Court Centrale.
Unfortunately, one night at 11:30 PM, I got locked into the stadium. I panicked, thinking I’d have to stay the whole night. Desperate to be rescued, I pounded on the doors. Finally, the AP’s Howard Fendrich heard the ruckus and saved me from a long night alone in one of the world’s greatest tennis stadiums.
THE TENNIS GODS TAKE A LOOK: In 2023, Novak Djokovic’s two young children hugged their daddy and then sprinted around Court Centrale in gleeful celebration. Just 45 minutes earlier, Nole had won a record 23rd Slam and his victory seemed to cement his position as the GOAT.
I wrote, “Deep in this epic battle a golden light bathed Court Philippe-Chatrier. The sun at last pierced through white puffs of clouds, and cathedral-like rays of light descended. And we knew why. The tennis gods wanted to take a peek at the man, the myth and the legend of Novak Djokovic, who just did what no other man had ever done.”
QUITE ODD, QUITE MAGNIFICENT: Each year there were an assortment of perks for the press, including all-you-can-drink burgundy receptions. But my favorite one was the free massages provided under the creaky rafters of the old center court. There, massage therapists would soothe my aching muscles while thousands above me roared thunderously. It was odd – but magnificent.
THE MYSTERY GIRL: The old press room opened right onto a crowded corridor, where hundreds of fans constantly walked by. Once when I emerged, an attractive American blonde in dark sunglasses looked me in the eye and said cheerfully, “Hi, Bill, how ya doing?”
Gads, it was one of those awkward moments – a social disaster. I knew full well I should have known who she was. She did look just like my sister Brook. But Brook was way back in Southern California. I was dumbfounded.
Then the mystery woman let me off the hook. Taking off her sunglasses, she said, “C’mon, Bill. It’s me, Chrissie [Evert].”
