Heat, Ambition, and Effort
The Australian Open
There is something mesmerizing about seeing a group of people do what they love. Of hearing their grunts of effort, and studying their faces to pick up on disappointments. Of seeing them vulnerable enough to curse, to cry. To see them angry enough to smash a racket and bend their head down as they receive a penalty.
The Australian Open was my first time watching live tennis. I have to say, It felt remarkably like the movie Challengers, where everyone’s heads turn right and then left and then right again, eyes fixed on a green blur. Like dogs chasing bones, except with the hush of collective concentration.
Then there was the heat. It’s clearly not the worst in the world, but as the sun moves (slower than turning heads), and the plastic blue seats drink up its rays, it’s hard to pretend like you’re unbothered, like in the stillness of the match you don’t feel the little beads of sweat intermingling with your hair, like your skin doesn’t start to sizzle. And yet, in respect of the sport or in defiance towards the high paying viewers in the shade, we remain calm and composed, pretending we’re unbothered and stare on.
The heat is a greater testament to the tennis players, to how they persevere, almost ignoring it, letting their dreams and desires to win, be greater than the inconvenience of strong rays.
It was the first time I truly understood the benefit of playing in your own turf, as the Australians, many of them with thick mullets that stretched from the base of their sweaty necks and curled up like skunk tails at the top of their shiny sweaty foreheads, were less unbothered than most of the international players that came from white Christmases and rainy seasons.
With heat and sun, came shadows. It was a challenge, especially because I was trying to finish a film roll, but between the oil and water that are light and shadow, I got two film photos that in my opinion really look like they could have been taken at any point in the last 20–30 years.
Perhaps the thing I like the most about tennis is how intimate it feels. There are hundreds if not thousands of eyes on just two people, and the courts tend to not be that big, so unlike in other sports, you really feel close to all the action. In fact, because of this, Djokovic is probably the famous person that I’ve been the most physically close to in my life. For over an hour, I saw him train, probably only 20 meters away from me, displaying his signature backhand hit, which is even more impressive in person.
It took me a long time to write about this experience, because after I edited my photos, I was unhappy with the results. It was only a few days ago when I looked at them out of curiosity that I really saw this one. It’s about watching tennis almost as much as it is about playing it. It’s about the relationship between the tennis player, famous but small, and the audience, who enable fame but are also entertained by it.
I think I admire tennis players because of that relationship. They are athletes, but success comes directly coupled with celebrity. They must excel in the court, but also absolutely everywhere else. Unlike other celebrities, the bulk of their performance is conducted under immense pressure, in a mostly silent court, where the sun’s rays sting, yes, but the real burn comes from the audience, holding up a magnifying glass—not just to watch, but to focus the heat, to see how much a player can take before they break.
S