Father and son ace relationship at U.S. Open

As a kid I grew up on the countertops of lounges across the South Side of Chicago. The 50 Yard Line. Willa’s, when it was the 50 Yard Line. The Godfather, both I and II. Swingers. The Checkerboard. The 408 Club. Poor Woods. AKA: Pour Woods.

My father took my brother and me with him. We were a part of his Saturdays. Where he’d connect with his crew — at various lounges — for their “club meetings.” That was the ritual. Outside of club meetings on Saturdays (note: that my father would still attend every time he came to visit Chicago after moving to Denver in the mid-70’s), the other ritual my father and my “uncles” had was every year attending the Super Bowl. They’d take $20 from every paycheck they’d get throughout the year, put it to the side, and that would be their “Super Bowl stash.” Enough to get them plane flights, hotel rooms and, if lucky, tickets to the game. Brothas were certified genius.

Once I got to college, I was old enough to join them for two of their excursions. One just so happened to be in New Orleans, where I was attending school in 1986, you know, the one the Bears were in and won. But as time passed, the crew went to fewer and fewer Super Bowls, and the annual “meet ups” happened further and further apart. It became a “been there, conquered that” kinda thing with them. My father needed something new.

Now the ol’ man and I both loved tennis. Both played tennis. I was good, he was better. And outside of basketball, tennis was the sport that we imbibed on the most. So one year, I came up with the brilliant idea (well, I think it was my idea) to replace his annual Super Bowl retreat with a father-son escape to the U.S. Open every year. To make that our thang.

So for about 10 to 12 years straight, my Pops and I would make Flushing Meadows in Queens (often staying in neighborhood hotels in Corona to make us feel more “at home”) our annual destination. Met players, discovered players, sat one year next to John McEnroe Sr., watched practice sessions, was in Arthur Ashe Stadium for the epic Andre Agassi/Pete Sampras quarterfinal match, saw the game’s transition from everyone-to-Roger Federer, witnessed firsthand the beginning of Serena’s ascension. In 2001, we both caught last flights out of New York the day before 9/11.

We held on to it. Every year a different but familiar and ceremonious experience. We made all moments ours. The U.S. Open didn’t replace the Super Bowl, it simply became our Super Bowl.

Years passed, Opens missed. Only physically, never externally or spiritually. Our souls to the game remained and remain in place and intact. There’s a different engagement with this Grand Slam event than the other three. Maybe it’s because it’s one of the most popular and well-attended events in all of sports; maybe because it's America’s; maybe because the matches there just … seem … different; maybe it’s because with it, Dad and I have history.

I just saw my father for the first time since before the pandemic the other week when he came to visit Chicago. He’s 88 now. Which might make this year’s U.S. Open slightly more meaningful. Coco Gauff defending her lone Slam title; the possibility of Novak Djokovic and Carlos Alcaraz adding another chapter to what has become the new-best rivalry in sports (especially if it happens being an immediate follow to The Djoker’s surprising defeat of Carlito for the gold medal at the Paris Olympics just three weeks ago after losing to him in the last two Wimbledon finals but beating him in last year’s French Open semifinal); and with the recent doping results hanging over his warm-up title win at the Cincinnati Masters, what role will the No.1 player in the word, Jannik Sinner, play in not allowing Alcaraz/Djokovic VIII to happen.

This could be the year Iga (Swaitek) and Aryna (Sabalenka) either solidify or finally break through, respectfully, in New York. Or when Madison Keys fulfills her Grand Slam promise. Could be the one where one of the young guns, “Sascha” (Zverev) or Casper (Ruud) or Andrey (Rublev) — or one of the Americans, Francis Tiafoe, Taylor Fritz, Tommy Paul, Blake Shelton, Christopher Eubanks or Sebastian Korda — shocks the world.

This could very well be the tournament where Chicago’s very own prodigal daughter Taylor Townsend extends this city’s pride by following up her Wimbledon doubles finals win (and her U.S. Open 2022 finals appearance) with a second Grand Slam trophy of the year. We can only hope.

It will unfortunately be another one my father and I will miss. But trust, come Monday, we will be on the phone, U.S. Open 2011 souvenir towels either in hand or draped across our shoulders, damn near every day, for the next two weeks — talking, updating, replaying, predicting, bonding. Him pulling for Djokovic, me pulling for Alcaraz; both pulling for Coco. Using the U.S. Open, as we always have, to never miss a beat. To make sure our beats never skip.