Gonna Get Dirrrty
ALISHA SULLIVAN
Any other year, I would be saying: what is a clay court season final without yet another Lois/Naomi battle? But then I remembered that Madrid clay is in our future, so I’m gonna pivot.
What is a Grand Slam final if not the perfect time to highlight two women at the very top of their game, and getting covered in splatters of clay in the process?
Side note, clay courts stress me out for that very reason.
Why are you finding clay on the back of your neck?
How am I seeing red smudges in the middle of a racerback dress?
How are they even holding on to the racquet when they’re getting clay all over the grip?
I’ve been assured multiple times that it’s not an issue by several people, including Naomi, but still, I’m not buying it.
Naomi also wonders how this wasn’t something I’ve brought up before, given that this is not the first time we’ve done a clay court season by any stretch.
I’m not one to call something a match for the ages, especially while they’re both still active players, but this French Open final was one of them. Three-set matches have no business lasting nearly four hours.
Grand Slam finals should probably be decided by the finest of margins, though. Even when those fine margins don’t go the way you hope they will.
How Naomi was able to find the strength to play for that long, given the amount of tennis she’s played between the singles and a very successful mixed doubles campaign, I don’t know.
(I do, it’s the previously mentioned boring stuff she does.)
How she was able to find the strength to do that after losing the mixed doubles final the day before, I also don’t know.
(Again, I do. We lose and move on. All that matters is what comes next.)
What I do know is that watching those two play against each other remains one of my life’s greatest joys, and I’m so glad I got to see it in person.
Our parents also saw it live (thanks to a last-minute save on the dog care front so they could hop on over to Paris), and I had no idea where they were sitting until sometime during the second set when I heard a whistle that could only belong to my dad.
He used to do a bird call if he ever lost us in a crowd, and we’d always be able to find him.
I could tell that Naomi heard it too because for a brief second her locked-in face broke and she laughed.
Right before she served a ball at over 100mph.
It’s a rare thing for the whole Sullivan crew to all be on one court (to varying degrees of visibility), but it’s always a fun thing.
What’s not so fun was watching the Men’s Final with a slight hangover on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year. Which both Naomi and I did. Wyatt was a responsible person and said no to the tequila, but Naomi’s French Open campaign was done, so we had to celebrate properly.
And then celebrate again because Wyatt is, once again, a coach of people who made three finals in one Grand Slam (he was less sensible the second time around, because, well, the tournament was done, his player won, and there was a birthday to celebrate).
Until next time, from the Eurotunnel. We’re coming home!