By Thomas Swick
swickt@bellsouth.net
I’m going to the U.S. Open for the first time, and while I’m looking forward to watching the greatest tennis players in the world, I’m also eager to see their families.
I never really grasped the star power of players’ relatives until a few years ago, at the Sony Ericsson on Key Biscayne. I was wandering around the practice courts when I heard someone announce loudly, “Uncle Toni’s on Court 8!” And immediately there was a mass movement toward the avuncular.
Uncle Toni, of course, is more than the brother of Rafael Nadal’s father; he is Rafa’s coach, manager, steadfast supporter and, now, fellow celebrity. People have a natural desire to view with their own eyes someone they’ve seen on a screen, and television has made Uncle Toni’s unchanging expression as he sits in the stands as familiar as the corporate logo on his ever-present cap. (He has masterfully combined becoming a celebrity with being a shill.)
There have been famous kin of tennis players in the past; Martina Hingis’s mother Melanie Molitor stands out, if only for her hair. But in today’s slowed-down game, the TV cameras have much more time between points to linger on the parents. As a result, they’ve become almost as recognizable as their children.
What tennis fan doesn’t thrill at the sight of Richard Williams’ white stubble? Or Oracene’s easy and gracious smile? She is the only parent who consistently applauds opposing players, and if there is ever a Tennis Parent of the Year Award – and at this rate why not? – it should be named for her.
Andy Murray’s mum always makes me think of a strangely nervous librarian. Roger Federer’s mother has the air of a strict but compassionate headmistress. Jelena Jankovic’s mom looks like she’d be the life of the party.
On the whole, the mothers seem to be a more reasonable bunch than the fathers. Though Williams père has toned down his act in recent years, and we no longer have Yuri in the Sharapova box. In a perverse way I sort of miss the Putinesque pop he brought to the game.
With the rise of Marion Bartoli has come the fame of Dr. Walter Bartoli, a man who looks so tortured during his daughter’s matches that you wonder why he ever left medicine. But then, you wonder that anyway. He is the anti-Yuri, scrunched in his seat, mumbling to himself, perhaps thinking wistfully of prostate exams.
There are tennis parents, like Caroline Wozniacki’s, who cheer as a couple, which seems to work. Anna, stylish and feminine, probably exerts a calming influence on Piotr. And you can be sure that, unlike a lot of people, she never tries to slip a vowel between the ‘t’ and the ‘r.’
With Novak Djokovic you get the whole clan: mother, father, younger brothers, occasionally in matching outfits. Except for the outfits, it’s a heart-warming sight, the closely-knit unit bonding over the success of the oldest boy. They are, for the moment, the First Family of Tennis. I can’t wait to see them in person.