The number I like to play in head best when on the tennis court is the Ellington/Armstrong version of “It Don’t Mean a Thing,” a 1931 composition by the Duke with lyrics by Bubber Miley. You may like the more up-tempo, exciting way Ella Fitzgerald sings it. Either way, it is one of those pieces you feel nothing tops it, and while I would not say that about all the matches at the Washington Open last week — fair and accurate, I take a strict stance on grade inflation — I will say they included dizzying displays of athletic genius, marred by shocking errors, and boy did they make for a great sport show. Because what else is sport but triumph and disaster? Is that not, with all it connotes, why it fascinates?
The great Ellington number would have been right at home at any of the finals. There was the gritty, lovely, never-quit dynamo Leylah Fernandez, coming back to win a very tough semifinal match against Elena Rybakina in three sets, all going to tiebreakers. Then she cruised through the final with mastery against Anna Kalinskaya, 6-1, 6-2. Triumph! Happiness! Tennis glory, and home to Canada for a shot at the Rogers Cup without even a week’s rest. It was big win for her, a 500-level title at the end of a hot and humid week that included a tough two-setter against American star Taylor Townsend in the quarters.
Though Taylor Townsend lost in singles, she won in doubles, teaming with the steady, comforting, quick and calm, and kind and faultlessly polite Shuai Zhang, which earned her the No. 1 ranking in the world, a triumph for a good-natured and articulate American young lady and proud mother, Chicago-born, at the top of her game after more than 10 years of hard work and discouraging moments from which she always rose stronger. The all-American team of Sofia Kenin and Caroline Dolehide, good as they are, simply could not handle the adroit and relentless shots to the corners off Shuai’s racquet, nor Taylor’s bombardment — as well as soft hands — at the net.
The Washington Open has been a summer custom since its inception more than five decades ago, the brainchild of civic-minded, patriotic tennis men, notably John A. Harris (whose name honors the court on which the Townsend-Zhang team triumphed). Their purpose was not only to showcase the game but to encourage young dead-enders to get the discipline and focus you need in life. In this regard, they were extraordinarily successful, building on a neighborhood private charity, the Tennis Patrons Foundation, that since the 1950s had been putting kids on the straight and narrow by getting them on courts (out of their own pockets). Evolving into the Washington Tennis and Education Foundation, WTEF, the organization has become widely imitated, and indeed such tennis stars as Andre Agassi have built sports and learning academies and after-school programs that have helped slow the slide toward nihilism.
Lleyla Fernandez has a family foundation that works in this area, and Venus and Serena Williams have supported, for many years, the Southeast Washington Tennis and Learning Center, which relies on both private and public funding.
Tennis has been popular in Washington as long as anyone remembers. Black Washington is called Chocolate City, as several players mentioned during the tournament, referring perhaps to the increasingly apparent variations in attending fans’ color. The District’s black population always had fine tennis players, and greater numbers took up the sport when Arthur Ashe was among the best and best known American players. The trend slowed toward the end of the last century, then gradually began again with the unprecedented success of Venus and Serena Williams. (Ashe died prematurely in 1993, a victim of blood poisoning during a heart procedure).
It is now quite popular again as a spectator event as well as a sport to take up. The fans at the Washington Open are — which regularly sells out its tickets for the entire week — by unscientific observation about half and half, or rather third and third, the third third being composed of foreign visitors interested in the internationalization of the sport. Just a small observation, the fans of color are by far the most best dressed, a welcome stand against the slovenliness that afflicts the capital city that not long ago observed dress codes. They cheer their champions with unabashed bias, attentive to the silence-during-points rule.
The men’s doubles was played on the John A. Harris Grandstand court between Italian and French teams (in smart kits) that between them could boast of five major titles. Simone Bolelli and Andrea Vavassori took it, dominating Édouard Roger-Vasselin and Hugo Nys 6–3, 6–4: power over finesse. Which is not to say the French could not make the net unpassable and their volleys unreachable; but the Italians were more consistent in their smashes and their ability to create and exploit gaps in their opponents’ line.
As thrills go, nothing could compete with the men’s final. Alejandro Davidovich Fokina stopped American hopes Taylor Fritz and Ben Shelton in the quarters and semis; Shelton had stopped his doubles partner, American hope (and local favorite son) Frances Tiafoe in the quarters. Thus Fokina met near-contemporary and friend Alex de Minaur, who himself had stopped a remarkable run by lucky loser Corentin Moutet. The latter’s unusually varied game, a mix of counterpunching power, changes of pace, and tricky drop shots and underhand serves, had got him past Jack Draper and Daniil Medvedev, past champion and finalist respectively.
De Minaur’s extreme speed and resilience at the baseline neutralized Mouter’s ability to mix things up and disrupt. It was a tight three-setter just the same; but against Fokina, who like de Minaur has a Spanish tennis education, it was something else, a victory seized from the jaws of defeat, or the opposite if you look at it with Fokina’s eyes.
Fokina’s parentage is East European but he was born and raised in Spain. De Minaur, of mixed South American and Spanish parentage, is a native Australian. De Minaur states that his old friend (they are both 26) is feared as one of the tour’s most dangerous competitors, gifted with classic form, a rocket forehand, and just about everything else, including a highly effective drop shot. De Minaur’s strategy was to keep him back, get him into extended rallies — which Fokina often won. It came down to an excruciating third set, de Minaur battling back from 2–5. Both players lost track of the break points they saved — and lost. De Minaur saved three match points on serve at 4–5; in the tiebreak he dictated against an exhausted and demoralized but still battling Fokina, closing with a service ace at 7–3.
That was the end of a fine tournament. But not quite. The Spaniard covered his face with a towel and slumped on the ground. The trophy ceremony was about to begin, with the dignitaries from Mubadala and Citi (sponsors) and tennis establishment and WTEF all lined up and Mark Ein, who has done a great deal to get the tournament in step with what looks like yet another tennis boom, waited to make his congratulations and offer his thanks, and Alessandro was still dejected, his face hidden.
Alex approached, sat down next to him, and said something. Maybe it was, “You’ll get there.” Of the two friends, Alex now has 10 titles, whereas Alessandro has none, which everyone in tennis knows is a fluke of bad fortune that sooner than later must be corrected. Whatever he said, it gave his friend what he needed to speak brave and courteous words as he accepted the finalist’s trophy and said he wasn’t quitting.
“It don’t mean a thing/ If it ain’t got that swing… It makes no difference if it’s sweet or hot/Just give that rhythm everything you’ve got…”
Louis Armstrong grew up in New Orleans, moved to Corona Park later, near Flushing Meadows. I cannot just now place any great New Orleans tennis players, though I am sure there have been a few; and tennis has a part in one of Louisiana’s greatest novels, All the King’s Men. And Edward Kennedy (“Duke”) Ellington was from Washington; I do not know if he played tennis, but they tell me he played baseball. I’ll look it up.