Australian Open: Strutting and Sinning Edition

The first and only time I watched most of the Australian Open unfold in real time, rather than via replay, was in 2008, when my doctor prescribed something for a non-intestinal IBD-related issue. A few days later I developed serum sickness, a rare reaction in which your immune system goes berserk in response to animal proteins in the medication.* Among other irksome symptoms, my body was covered in welts and my swollen feet barely fit in my shoes, even with the laces quite relaxed.

Prednisone kept me out of the hospital, which is where the doctor said I was heading if things got much worse. One of the wonders of prednisone — until it becomes one of its horrors — is that it boosts your energy, sometimes while causing insomnia. My mom still remembers when I was three or four and taking high doses of it. She returned late at night from a rare evening out with friends to find my dad and Felix asleep on the couch. I was beside them, wide awake, watching reruns of I Love Lucy or Leave it to Beaver before the station signed off for the night and went to color bars or static.

Though I would’ve preferred not getting sick at all in 2008, the timing couldn’t have been better: I was enthralled by Jo-Wilfried Tsonga’s run to the final, where he lost to Novak Djokovic but won my heart forever. There’s no Grand Slam that’s harder for the average North American viewer to enjoy live than the Australian Open; the time difference is simply too great. Early risers might catch the tail end of the previous night’s action, but if you keep a strict bedtime it’s hard to watch much of the day session. Marquee matches are played overnight, including finals.

In the Federer and Williams sisters eras, I set alarms for the wee small hours and watched their finals live. This year, there was no need for that: Iga Świątek didn’t make it past the third round and Carlos Alcaraz flamed out in the quarters. His loss to Alexander Zverev in four sets paved the way for a dramatic semifinal pitting the German — whose history of domestic abuse allegations makes him impossible to support — against Daniil Medvedev, a mischievous and mercurial Russian whose wife is friends with one of Zverev’s accusers.

There’s no love lost between them, and when Medvedev completed a thrilling comeback to book his spot in the finals, he appeared to celebrate trollishly (as he often does, even if he denies it). He must like his chances on Sunday against Italy’s Jannik Sinner; he owns their head-to-head by a comfortable margin and has already won a hardcourt major himself. But Sinner, long hyped alongside Alcaraz as the future of the sport, found a new gear after vomiting into a trash can at the China Open in October. He went on to beat Medvedev in that tournament’s final and won one of two meetings with Djokovic at the year-end championships.

If anyone was going to break through against Djokovic in Melbourne, Sinner was the likeliest candidate. Not only did he have the momentum, he seems to possess the mental makeup: he’s fully in control of his emotions on-court, a quality lacking at times in his fellow semifinalists. A typical Sinner outburst, if such a thing exists, entails knocking something over and then retrieving it himself so the ball kid doesn’t have to. After soundly defeating Djokovic, the 22-year-old — who hadn’t faced a single break point against the greatest returner the game has ever seen — didn’t even shout. He just lifted his arms and smiled.**

Maintaining that level in his first Grand Slam final won’t be easy, but tennis has made a giant leap forward no matter who prevails on Sunday. Here’s hoping the men’s winner gives us his best impression of Aryna Sabalenka’s strut after hoisting the trophy. The Belarusian, whose sense of humor is as endearing as her excessive double-faults, debuted the move today after easily defending her title against China’s Qinwen Zheng.

* If you ever wonder what the hell’s wrong with my immune system, just picture Joan Crawford swinging an axe in Strait-Jacket.

** I might have pledged to name my firstborn child, or at least my next dog, after Sinner if he ousted Djoker. Jannik Sinner-Lesbian has a certain ring to it.

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