I’ve been fortunate in being whisked across the globe for decades by this game, and I’ll be sharing some of the fascinating experiences and destinations.

Meanwhile, keep on hacking. While your own game may not take you to Wimbledon, it’s more important than Nadal or Federer’s because it keeps you moving (in whatever manner) and, for a valuable while, rescues you from the cares of the day.

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New York, NY — The ghosts of New York’s Third Avenue will stay with me.It was Black Tuesday, 12 days ago, and the ghosts were easily identified: those survivors able to walk away from the shambles of the World Trade Center – ashen apparitions, dirty-faced, smudged by debris, coated with the grime of tragedy. They were among those surging northward on clotted sidewalks, refugees marching to the unending threnody of sirens and the barking horns of fire trucks headed way downtown.Anxious, but not acting panicked, they were fleeing the billowing cloud at the south end of the island, the mountain of smoke marring an otherwise clear azure sky. Offices, schools, and apartments were emptying. When I encountered survivors, the horror of the day took on life and reality.

Tina Clark was one of the ghosts in flight. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks as she said into the cellphone: “Mommy, I’m all right. . . . I’m alive.”She had been able to hold it all in as she staggered, dazed, away from flaming disaster. But now, reconnecting with her world, she wept in relief after a stranger, offering her the phone, asked, “Miss, do your people know you’re safe?”

Safe. Yes, somehow Clark, a tall, 34-year-old clerical worker from an office across the street from the vanished towers, was safe though she was coated with the vestiges of closest of calls. Splattered with the grime and dust of fallen buildings through which she waded, Clark had begun her getaway, stumbling, staggering, dazed, pointed toward home on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. At least Tina’s mother knew at last, about three hours after the attacks: “I’m OK, Mommy. Don’t worry.”

Clark had been walking for about three miles, and had about three to go. “I just got out of the subway near my office, Health First, on Broadway when the first plane hit. Lucky I was late for work, so I wasn’t in the building. I began running. I saw the second plane coming – unbelievable! A 747, I think. It hit the building. . . . I don’t know how I got here.” Onward she lurched.

Traffic was snarled. A man named Jeff Klein was able to maneuver out of gridlock to a space beside the curb on 41st Street and got out of his car. “I don’t have enough gas to last through this standstill,” he said. “I’m just gonna find a bar with a TV and camp. The car is on its own.”

“Walk north! Walk north!” cops were shouting. “You can walk over the 59th Street Bridge to Queens.”

Otherwise, Manhattan was a shut-in island.

There was no escape that Tuesday for this Bostonian. I had been swimming in the pool at the Millennium UN Plaza Hotel on East 44th Street. The pool deck offers a splendid view of Manhattan through a glass wall on the south side of the 27th floor. While I swam I heard a man, obviously not a New Yorker, exclaim to a companion, “Hey, there’s a penthouse on fire.”

Curious, I climbed from the water to recognize a World Trade Center tower aflame. By the time I got to a TV the other had been hit. Evacuees were pouring from the nearby United Nations complex.

John’s Cafe at the corner of 44th and Second Avenue, was crowded yet almost silent. Usually it’s a clamorous, jovial mini UN, as orders are yelled in Greek, Spanish, and English at Anwar, the short-order cook from Bangladesh, or Peter, the owner from Greece. However, the clientele was concentrating on a TV screen that day, a set almost never used, and tears flowed like coffee. Nobody knew if more brutal surprises were to come – or where.

My friend Aurelio and I headed to Third, then downtown, and the apparitions began appearing.

People were rediscovering their feet. No transportation available. People like Joseph (who withheld his last name), an engineer in his 60s with the Port Authority in the South Tower. “I was in my office on the 74th floor. I felt the building shake when the plane hit, and I headed for the stairs. This is my second one – I was here for the car bomb in ’93.

“So I walked down 74 flights into the concourse. The ceiling fell on me, and . . .”

The ceiling?

“Yeah, just sheet rock, but I got out.” Joseph was a mess, but a meticulous mess. Though his clothes were ruined, his necktie was in place, his hair freshly combed. He was standing at a bus stop.

“Do you need anything?” a solicitous woman asked.

“Just a bus. I don’t know if it’ll come. But I want to get home to Westchester. Maybe,” he sighed, “it’s time to retire.”

Shyamal Roy, an investment banker who escaped the 13th floor of the South Tower, hadn’t bothered to comb his hair, which looked beaded, speckled with chunks of a catastrophic morning.

“I’m pinching myself. I can’t believe I’m alive. I thought I was dead several times. We thought the first hit maybe was a rocket, or the weather helicopter in an accident. I got to the street somehow, tried to run . . . this way, that way, through the rubble. The smoke, God, the smoke. You couldn’t see or breathe.

“Then the North Tower went down like a pack of cards. Right in front of me. The noise! Ooooh! Buh-buh-buh-boooom! Then . . . quiet.”

His tightly drawn face creased in a sudden smile. “I’m alive. But worried about my friends. When that building went down, death moved in. Dark. Hushed.”

A middle-aged man named Bob (holding back his last name) looked very businesslike. Well-cut gray suit, yellow-figured tie, attache case – except that he was streaked with sludge. “I got out of the building and ran with others down into a parking garage. Smoky, dark. We thought somebody had closed the doors. But, no, it was dark everywhere. I guess our country has been invaded.”

Walking south, you couldn’t avoid the grim bloom of smoke. At 34th and Fifth Avenue – a strangely vehicle-free thoroughfare – a policeman shouted at the walkers: “Move east! Move east! Now! Get going!”

Why? One policeman said there’d been a gas leak. Another said they didn’t want anybody near the Empire State Building in case that landmark – once again New York’s tallest – was attacked.

A young man on a bicycle had Broadway to himself. He was pedaling and shouting, “Go downtown . . . go downtown! Blood donors are needed badly!”

Farther south, yellow police lines kept gawkers about 12 blocks from the dirty tower of smoke that had replaced New York’s loftiest cloudscrapers.

A bystander asked a cop what he could do.

“Get over to St. Vincent’s Hospital,” said Officer Jason Arbeeny. “They’re dying for blood.”

People stood in clusters listening to the turned-up radios of workmen’s parked panel trucks. Plumbers, carpenters, electricians had no work to go to.

An unmarked car with a flashing red light stopped near a couple of policemen to consult. The driver identified himself only as Bob, FBI. The car was covered in soot. Bob had been down there. “Words can’t describe it,” he said gloomily. “Massive death.”

Neil Pellone was out of a job. “Until they move me to another place,” he said from beneath his layer of filth. “I’m with Ace Elevator, maintaining the elevators in the towers. Uh, the former towers.

“I escaped death at least three times. Everything was on fire. Cars, everything. Breathing was tough. The building imploded . . . bodies were flying everywhere. Sickening. I’m lucky. I made my way to Battery Park, ready to go into the water if I had to.”

Ambulances kept coming and going, their chilling claxons nonstop. A young paralegal, Emery Ailes, was in Brooklyn when he heard: “My fiancee works in Manhattan. I had to get here. They said Manhattan was closed, forget it. Closed? Like a department store? Closed. Could you believe it? Believe anything today?”

But he did make it when one bridge opened, satisfied that his lady was well out of harm.

Travel, of course, will never be the same. Having experienced so much shoddy so-called security at numerous airports, I wondered if state and federal governments would really get serious about the problem. Anybody who has flown in or out of Israel knows what painstaking, thoroughgoing security-checking is – and knows that it demands much time and patience on the part of the traveler.

As Black Tuesday waned, free buses were provided to carry people north. Getting out near Times Square, a woman handed the driver a $5 tip. He handed it back with, “Thanks, but we’re all in this together.”

St. Patrick’s Cathedral was jammed for a late afternoon Mass. A survivor, one of the ghosts swathed in grit, was kneeling, crying. Another of the lucky on a very unlucky day.

Serena warming up

But how far back is she on arriving in the fourth round of the US Open, aiming at her fourth title, the first since 2008.

Having chased away two earlier hapless foes on the loss of three games, she was past scrimmaging.  It was all changed yesterday, a warm breezy afternoon with about 15,000 witnesses in Ashe Stadium. It was time for the real, bygone Sister Serena to go to work devastatingly in a blood raspberry frock.

Seeded No. 28 (what was the management committee drinking?), Serena touched off a mad matinee that left the crowd puzzled and roaring, gasping and cheering, wondering if Serena could actually blow such a big lead –and come within two points of falling to a spunky lady from Belarus, Victoria  Azarenka,

Serena did pull a decision from the fire, 6-1, 7-6 (7-5), after all, but Azarenka, No. 4, seemed to grow up before our eyes.  At the 17 minute mark, Serena had powered her way to a 5-0 lead.  Azarenka was helpless under the baseline barrages. She said : ”It was painful. To have somebody just going at you, like that, it’s a little bit painful. You know, you try to do your best, but somebody’s on fire.”  Here she was, one of the world’s best, and she was being treated like a punching bag.  If this were a prize fight some humanitarian would have screamed, “Stop the fight!”

However, Azarenka scrambled.  If she was as blue as her sky-toned dress, shoelaces and fingernails, she didn’t show it.

“Instead she lifted her game,” applauded Serena, who is 6-1 against against the skinny blonde.  And she nearly made it.”

Azarenka said, “When somebody is coming at you like that, I just had to find some space on the court.  She was pushing me. I was a little bit tight in the beginning, had to loosen up. I just tried to be aggressive, to step it up, but it took a little while.”

Victoria Azarenka

Victoria joined in the slugging that went on right to the end.  It was anything you can hit hard, I can hit harder.  They played deep and to the sidelines, mostly line drives that nearly smoked.  Serena banged 12 aces, most over 100 MPH up to 117.

Azarenka whewed, “Amazing that she is healthy. Serena is playing at the highest level I’ve seen her.  Definitely she should win.”  Still Azarenka kept battling, ducked three match points to 4-5, another to 5-6, drilled her way into the tie-breaker and had a set point at 5-points to 6 – but Serena closed it with forehands.

Serena is carrying the family load, what with Venus being sidelined by Sjongren’s Syndrome, after winning her first rounder. Next up for Serena is ex-French champ and former No. 1, Ana Ivanovic of Serbia.

It looks to me that the title will be  settled in a semifinal yoking Serena and No. 1 Caroline Wozniacki   But don’t overlook La Lionessa, the growling Italian, Francesca Schiavoni, current No. 8, who won the French last year.  “I am not like Serena – boom, boom, boom,” said the tiny dynamo.  “I have to work harder than anybody else to make my points.”

Working hard had nothing to do with her escape from South African Chanelle Scheepers, 5-7, 7-6 (7-5), 6-3.   “She had a match point on me [10^th game second set], and hit a terrific backhand past me.  But it was an inch long.  That kept me in the tournament.”

Says she, 31, the most successful of a slim crop of Italians: “I think we have talent, but we don’t work so good when we are young.  But there is a lot of good material first. Second, we play because we like to play, me, Flavia, Potito. It’s the key. But we are getting better.  In 10 years we will have much more Italians.  But not like China, of course, because they are too many.”

Arthur Ashe Stadium from 100 step up

“Physically you have to work every day if you want to be fit. I think this is the difference between young girls and old.”

Sister Serena is now in the category of old, in tennis.

Bud on Bloomberg radio with Tennis Channel CEO, Ken Solomon

Until he awakened a sleepy tennis tournament called the US Open.

Until he looked like a left-handed version of the Matterhorn that avalanched his victim from the Alps.

Until he laughed as happily as the full-house throng of 2800 at Court 17 as the last point fell – and the husky Swiss, Stanislas Wawrinka, fell with it.

It was a crash all right as Wawrinka ranks No. 14 globally and was Roger Federer’s Olympic gold medal collaborator.

Young – first name Donald – has been a problem child for US tennis administrators for a long time.  Plenty talented, but coached by his parents and failing to take advantage of many opportunities, Young, 22, was given numerous tournament entries on wild cards, and accomplished little.

It was another wild card gift that got him into this biggie at Flushing Meadows, and it looked like same-old as Young lagged behind 2-sets-to-1.

Gone.  Until.  Until he summoned the guts to win going away, breaking Wawrinka down with potent groundies in a fifth set tie-breaker.  Only the US uses the mental torture of a TB in a fifth set – and Young reveled in it, outgunning the Swiss, winning the first six points.

“It was nerves, nerves, nerves – but mine held up,” said the trim Atlantan.  “It’s the first five sets I’ve ever played. Kept looking at the clock – over four hours, could I be doing this?”

But what he did in 4:20 was the triumph of his on–and-off life, 7-6 (9-7), 3-6, 2-6, 6-3, 7-6 (7-1).  This landed Donald – with a record of 3-12 in singles majors –- in the third roundagainst No. 24, Argentinian Juan Ignacio Chela.

Changing bulbs in the fountains

With teeth and diamond earrings in both ears glittering as he talked, Young declared it “to be the beginning of a new life for me.  I’m ready to work and train harder.”

The crowd was everything in that fifth set, “I was kind of tired midway through the third, fourth set. They were chanting my name. Yeah, you know, just reminded me and made me feel great that all these people really wanted me to win here. I don’t know. It just pushed me through. I can’t describe how great it was.”

“There’s been a lot of pressure and problems, expectations.  But they can be fixed.  They will be.”   He was referring to the USTennis Assn ‘s  disappointments in him, and misunderstandings with black athletes, too scarce in tennis.”

He revealed a recent workout with Pete Sampras.  “Just fun.  Lot of laughs.  He called me a little princess.”  Only lockeroom humor, but some of the players regarded him that way, reluctant to put in the necessary labor.

He had been the world’s No. 1 junior as a 15 year old, but his high level performances were infrequent.

Maybe this was the firecracker.  Patrick McEnroe, former US Davis captain wasn’t impressed, but said after the match, “Donald became a man today.  He can make a difference for us.”

But if Donald Young rang the fire alarm at the somnolent tourney, others chipped in as the second week is about to begin.

It will begin without the fetching Wimbledon finalist, Maria Sharopova, a blow to male voyeurs.  Curiously for a woman of such talent – winner of three majors — she can’t fetch her serves over the net. She may be wealthy but can’t buy a decent serve.  Her 12 double faults were a major contribution to the slick Italian Flavia Pennetta’s, 6-3, 3-6, 6-4 victory.

Bud filming on Louis Armstrong Stadium

Gone but still remembered, for good reason, a man we’ve missed, Juan Martin Del Potro.  He’s not quite ready to repeat his 2009 title, but his damaged wrists are coming around, meaning danger for such as Roger Federer, his prize two years ago.

In a romp with an Argentine  countryman, Diego Junqueira, 6-2, 6-1, 7-5. Delpo socked nine aces.

But serving awards went to John Isner on 20 aces, 6-4, 6-3, 6-4, over ex-Davis Cupper Robby Ginepri, out for nine months with a badly fractured elbow.  It was an heroic hurt.  Dodging a squirrel on his mountain bike path in Kennesaw, Georgia, Robbie  saved the beast but not himself.

Into the US Open on a wildcard Ginepri said: “Nice to be back, even losing, it’s nice.”

Wonder how Donald Young’s new life will be.  Until… until … until.

Gael Monfils

Gael Monfils won’t give up on any ball within the ballpark, and some that have bounced beyond.  These tactics put him on the floor more often than a punch-drunk pugilist.  You hold your breath and wonder if the scrawny Monfils will get up.  Usually he does, but…

At 6-4 and 177 pounds Gael thinks he can fly, and his success is obvious.  Ranking No. 7 on the planet, and a strong cog on an outstanding French Davis Cup team, Monfils was in town yesterday as one of the favorites for the US Open crown.

It didn’t work that way, however, because the guy on the other side of the net, a Spaniard named Juan Carlos Ferrero, was  having a career evening, stretching over nearly five hours (4hours 48 minutes).  It turned into a screamer with higher and higher decibels heating the overflow gathering of 10,200 at Louis Armstrong Stadium. If a former neighbor, Satchmo Louis, were still with us, he would have blown a few dynamite choruses of “Saints Go Marching In.”

It was that good, a rip-roaring angled ground strokes duel that was suspenseful to the last swing, and went to Ferrero, 7-6 (7-5), 5-7, 7-6 (7-5), 6-4, 6-4 – the match of the tournament thus far.  Numerous injuries have cut down Ferraro, 31, since his grabbing the French Open in 2003, he was elated to have done so well from a No. 105 ranking.

Bud with pal, Nubia Murray

He said it was a very complicated match with Mofils due to his incredible movement. Ferrero had already played a five set match in the first round. He is not totally healed from his hip problems saying “it was better when I was running than when I was walking. It was such a physical match.”

Nevertheless, the crowd, as everywhere he goes, was with Monfils, celebrating his 25^th birthday, though the loser.  As Ferrero prepared to serve for the match, the patrons, on their feet, saluted both players with a long siege of clapping.  This wasn’t Paris, but Monfils was grinning.  “The crowd was very good to me.  It was like a great feeling.”

Ferrero was impressed and touched by the sportsmanship of Monfils. At the handshake he threw his racquet to his chair and clapped for Ferrero.

“This is a good day for me.  My birthday, my Mom was here.  She say, you win, you lose, you give your best.  I think today I sort of smile at my mom even though I lost, so I was quite happy.”

His was a “green” theme: an olive shirt with golden lightning bolts, and matching shoes topped by a billowing coiffure.  Often it hits the dirt when he dives in search of one more stroke,

He excites viewers, “acting like a swimmer,” says one, “plunging into the asphalt.  Great for spectators, but how tough is it for you.”

Gael answers, “It’s really tough because all the people think I’m like elastic.  You know, diving. If I stay a little bit longer on the floor, they’re like, ’he’s acting.’ I’m not like X Man, you know.  For 30 seconds I hurt.  But maybe something is missing upstairs.”

Head chef of all food services at the US Open, Jim Abbey with Bud and Bloomberg radio's Kathleen Hayes

“Do I say, Oh no’ when I take off in a dive.  Too late.  I know the dive is good for two seconds.  Then you’re like, ‘Oh shit, it’s too hard.

“Sometimes in the shower you dive and crash.  The shower is tough – but happens.  I think,” Gael smiles, “I can give diving lessons.”

Ivan Ljubicic with Bud

Possibly. But maybe the word hadn’t gotten around yet about the gallant failure of two Irishmen trying to break into the US Open, and create some tennis history.  According to tournament officials, no Irishman had ever pushed beyond the first round of the 130- year-old US Championship, so somebody had to be the bearer of sad tidings to Southie, the Irish capital beyond the Emerald Isle.

Not that Southie is a tennis stronghold.  “But we thought we could win a match or two,” says one of the two entries, Louk Sorensen, who divides his time between Cork and Stuttgart, Germany where he plays on a club team.  His colleague, Conor Niland, hailing from Limerick, is the Irish champ.

Although their rankings weren’t very high, the numbers were good enough to get them into the qualifying tournament. Where they won their way into the main draw with three wins apiece. They felt as proud as the patriots Daniel O’Connell and Michael Collins.

And rich, too, at age 29.

“The money was wonderful,” says Sorensen, especially the way things are at home these days. Nineteen-thousand-dollars apiece!  That’ll buy a lot of Guiness.”

Guess how many tennis balls make up this model???

I said, “You ought to buy it in Southie.  We could have a parade down Broadway.  You ever been there?”

“No,” says Conor, “ but every good Irishman in the world knows where Southie is.”

So it was time for the draw, and Niland’s face sagged for a moment. His opponent was only No. 1, Novak Djokovic. “It’s OK,” Niland” says to his pal. “I always wanted to play a top-ten guy.  Great experience.”

“Yes.  When they peel you off the court,” Sorensen says. “But don’t worry. I’ve got the match we need.  Also a top-ten guy, Robin Soderling.  He’s sick and defaulted to me, so I’m in the second round.”

For about 10 minutes.  An official informs Sorensen that Brazilian Rogerio Dutra Da Silva has replaced Soderling and will face Sorensen.

That’s when the cave-in took over. As you might suspect, Niland had a little trouble with Djokovic.  It took 12 games until Niland surrendered to food poisoning.   Backhand poisoning from No.1 didn’t help.  Now it was up to Sorensen to save the day – grab a match somehow, He held up, sort of, to Da Silva and 6-0, 3-6, 6-4, 1-0, quitting with cramps all over his body.  Ireland was ironed flat.

Bud filming on the new Court 17

It was enough to make you cry for dear old Ireland. I consoled them that the Irish physician, Joshua Pim, won Wimbledon in 1883 and 1884.  Life could get better.  In 1879 an Irishman, Wimbledon runnerup Vere T. Goold, was convicted of murder.  (Hot shots?)

“Never heard of them, but we didn’t want to win it that bad.” He seemed to be brushing aside a tear.

In her statement, Venus said: “I’m really disappointed to have to withdraw from this year’s US Open. I have been recently diagnosed with Sjogren’s Syndrome, an autoimmune disease which is an ongoing medical condition that affects my energy level and causes fatigue and joint pain.”

I enjoyed playing my first match here and wish I could continue but right now I am unable to. I am thankful I finally have a diagnosis and am now focused on getting better and returning to the court soon.”

Garden next to Press Center

Show over.

Wozniacki, she of the golden smile and plenty of gold in the piggy bank (over $ 10 million in prize money) is 21, has won 18 tournaments and intends to seize the US Open as the 19^th.  There’s only one thing wrong with this pretty picture of Polish parentage: Caroline is serving her 46^th consecutive week in that forbidding hideaway called No. 1.  It’s hers all alone – yet most of her colleagues and tennis degenerates believe she doesn’t deserve it, despite all her gleaming numbers.

Why?  Because she has never won a major title.  The closest she came was as a US Open   runnerup to Belgian Kim Clijsters a year ago. But, no major – No No. 1.  That’s the silly way it is in the female game, dictated by Medusa, the WTA (Women’s Tennis Assn) computer,

Anybody who can figure out Medusa’s brain and the computer deserves an MIT  degree.  Suppose the Red Sox won the pennant but the Yankees scored more runs and were awarded No. 1?

You get the idea.  If she doesn’t win the title, Caroline will remain No.1.  Ask Medusa, not me.

Detail of plantings

Beating Spaniard Nuria Llagostera Vives, 6-3, 6-1 in yesterday’s first rounder at Flushing Meadows, Wosniacki “didn’t  miss; she was so confident, just kept balls going along the baseline” according to the No. 125 loser.

Caroline was having fun with reporters who wondered if she were bothered by the No. 1 debate and criticisms of the mysterious system.  “People can say what they want,” she said, her blue eyes glowing merrily,  “I’m No.1.  I’ve won a lot of tournaments.  Why shouldn’t I be high?  I just won a tournament, New Haven, and I’m improving.” She felt like a Phi Beta Kappa, winning four straight titles on the Yale campus.  “I thought about going to college.  It looked nice, fun, the college students were very friendly but I couldn’t do it with my schedule.”

She seemed amused by talk of her dating the golfing champion Rory McIlroy.  “You know, he has something I’m looking for, (he won the US Open in golf) and I have something he is looking for. He wants to be #1. So it’s good to have something on each other.”

Does being No. 1 seem a burden at times?

“No.  It’s definitely an honor, a dream.”

Mascot around Court 17

Then Caroline dropped a bomb.  She’s adding a coach – but it’s a mystery.  A he or she or it?  She won’t say who or what.  “Well, I know you like to add something to your stories, but this person wants to stay in the background.”

Maybe a Yale geometry professor to teach her improved angles.  Yale was fun.

Send her a bulldog that barks “Boola-boola!”

Folding the flag

Who knows?  Maybe the Kid might have preferred serving aces through the rich folks on their plush grass courts at Newport, Rhode Island.  Those well-coiffed lawns were easier on the feet than prairies, the food was better and the Kid could have been an earlier-day Bobby Riggs, hustling the robber barons for millions.

Easier than the celebrated Shootout at the OK Corral. Where the local lads, like the Earps and the Clanceys, were lobbing lead, not cotton balls.

It was 1881, and nobody had tipped off dear Billy that shotguns and shootouts were passé, and he could get his photos on the sports pages back East. Even though Wyatt Earp or one of the others finished Billy with an overhead smash, the little criminal may have dreamed of a better life.

Only a few days before Billy’s death, July 14, the big sports story in the US was the launching of the US Tennis Championships at the Newport Casino, August 31.

Folding the flag used in opening ceremony

“This year’s version was the 130^th birthday,” said Doug Stark, curator of the Tennis Hall of Fame’s Museum. “Of course we’re saluting the tournament that became the US Open.”

So here we were, yesterday, at Flushing Meadows, as another US Open rolled into view, one more Shootout, if you will, at the USA Corral.

Neither Billy the Kid nor Dick the Harvard was available for interviews.

But they were the boys of 1881. Bostonian  Richard Dudley Sears, a 19-year-old Harvard student, won the first seven US titles.  Billy Bonney had the shots to be a champ of something, but never quite was. Bad companionship?  Might have done better with a Harvard education.

Dick Sears, the proper Bostonian, possibly had a yen to be a cowboy.  Never can tell about a Harvard guy.  He and Billy might have been an awesome Partnership.

Night scene, opening night

It was Ryan the Kid –  19-year-old Ryan Harrison – who was supposed to show us a lot.  But his opening round was a timid loss to Croat Marin Cilic, 6-2, 7-5, 7-6 (8-6).

But it’s Mardy Fish and the indomitable Serena Williams (underplayed because of her injuries) who give the Americans a chance at their own OK Corral.  Otherwise it looks like another tourists holiday – but all with problems.  Rafa Nadal, the defender, has made the startling statement – particularly for a great athlete: “Djokovic is in my head.  I’ve got to solve it.”  After losing five straight to Novak, Nadal is desperate for a solution.  The Croat’s long distance run to No. 1 may have slowed him with strained muscles — but he’s also an award winning actor.

Federer?  He’s lost the key to No. 1 of late.  Andy Murray doesn’t seem able to crack the ice of pressure.

So, whom do I like?  Strange maybe., but it’s 27 year old Serena and Roger the 30-year-old Kid.