A hazy sun rises through the trees of Flushing Meadows Corona Park that overlook Court 15 at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in New York. The court is empty. It is Tuesday, the second day of the U.S. Open.
Then, a junior tennis player starts to hit balls with her coach as Richie LeBron of Queens, New York, sets up chairs for players, fills coolers with water bottles and works a blower.
He is sweating in his blue staff shirt. It’s not yet 8 a.m., but already the heat feels brutal.
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A woman with pink Nike shoes and Lululemon leggings arrives at Court 15. She ties up her hair, puts on a hat, stretches. Then she methodically crushes groundstrokes, serves, volleys and returns as her coaches look on. She’s Hsieh Su-wei of Taiwan, ranked 43rd in the world. She will be playing on Court 15 in a few hours. After a 25-minute practice, she heads back to the players’ locker room to eat and hydrate.
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The first match on Court 15 is between Lesia Tsurenko of Ukraine and Alison Van Uytvanck of Belgium. They walk the baseline between points in small steps, conserving energy. The ball girls and ball boys, however, race around between points as if they just learned to run — gawky, with knees and elbows flapping. During changeovers, they give water bottles to the players, wrap ice towels around their necks and hold umbrellas over their heads. They are eager to please. More towels? More towels!
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The sun hangs directly above the court. A light wind kicks up, then promptly dies. It’s 93 degrees. There aren’t many fans for the second match: Hsieh versus Ekaterina Alexandrova of Russia. Most fans wear hats. Some drape shirts over their heads. The umpire, Reliford Sanders, whose white fuzz of hair resembles the fuzz on a certain type of ball, sits high in his chair. His awning gives him what all the other people at Court 15 wish they had: shade.
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After Hsieh wins her match, she signs autographs. A flushed Alexandrova exits the court, reaches the tunnel off the court, stops and sits. She’s ill. A trainer rushes over; Alexandrova lies against the wall. Fans walk past, oblivious. The trainer places bags of ice on the player’s legs and gives her electrolytes. Alexandrova manages a smile. More help arrives and rolls her to Arthur Ashe Stadium in a wheelchair for further treatment.
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The third match on Court 15 is France versus France. Nicolas Mahut is lanky and smooth; Corentin Moutet is compact and scruffy. And he’s melting down. He throws his racket, hits a ball out of the court, puts his hands over his ears when the umpire admonishes him, does some push-ups. Sometimes he encourages himself. (“Allez!”) Mostly he curses himself. He drops his racket and stares at it with disgust. Then his legs cramp and he falls to the ground in agony, screaming: “Will someone help me? Oh my God!”
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The match between Mahut and Moutet stretches through the afternoon; the players’ shadows are now longer than they are. Fans gather. Mahut’s sweaty shirt sticks to his back; he removes it during a changeover. When it is time for play to resume, he walks out on the court, shirtless. Oops. Returning to his chair, he shares a sheepish grin with the umpire. Clothed, he wins the match. When interviewed afterward by a French television station in the late afternoon light, Mahut glows.
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A slight, welcome wind rustles the trees. Planes from La Guardia Airport rumble overhead. The sun dips toward Manhattan as stadium lights blink on around the grounds. The sky turns milky, then dark. There’s a distant wash of applause from Arthur Ashe Stadium, where Roger Federer is playing somebody. But here on Court 15, it’s Yuki Bhambri time.
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“Yuki! Yuki! Yuki!” A small but raucous crowd urges on Bhambri, the best male singles player in India. Bhambri is playing Pierre-Hugues Herbert, a willowy Frenchman who hits the ball surprisingly hard, with a percussive thwack that sounds like he’s chopping wood. The match is close, then not. Bhambri spends a lot of time with a towel. During changeovers, he sits as motionless as his big blue racket bag.
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The players exit through a scrum of selfie takers and autograph seekers. Workers clear the court. Jennifer Chen and Emily Hayden, both of Queens, stack chairs, collect towels and empty water coolers, dumping ice down a drain. It’s almost 10 p.m.; their work is done. A yellow moon rises through the trees of Flushing Meadows Corona Park. Court 15 is empty again.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times.