Yankee Stadium's Other Tenants

Playing on a field whose dimensions are dictated by America’s pastime is emblematic of NYCFC. The size of the NYCFC field is a testament to the club’s tendency to grovel to the basest tastes with panem et circenses.  

Take the most billed match of the year—LA vs. NYC. Or as you more likely saw it pitched: Stevie G vs. Super Frank (ignore that Lampard didn’t even make the bench). As for the match itself, the cameraman completely missed a goal because he was hell bent on a close-up David Villa. There was no goal build-up and not even a glimpse of the ball flying into the net. Viewers saw Villa walking near the halfway line, heard a cheer, and then saw a replay. It’s great that soccer is growing in the US. And it’s swell that aging internationals are willing to live out a well-paid early retirement on our shores. But can we please show goals live?

The NYCFC field fails to meet minimum size requirements—this much is clear to the naked eye. Opposition teams spoke of how they practiced long throw-ins before coming to Yankee Stadium because a good throw-in is equal to a corner at the Bronx stronghold. All media requests to measure the field were denied, confirming the open secret: soccer is ancillary to the NYCFC machine.

The restricted field at Yankee Stadium can hardly be expected to produce topnotch soccer—but NYCFC offers something else. The bulk of NYCFC’s allure is its landlord.

Soccer in a baseball stadium is a phenomenon in itself. It’s a novelty that might turn apathy to curiosity. There is inherent, American history at Yankee Stadium so a supporter will get something out of the experience no matter how poor (or confined) the soccer is. There is something of value simply in visiting the storied stadium.

The oddity of seeing a soccer match played on a baseball diamond is reason enough to go. A sort of athletic freak show, NYCFC’s strangeness is its appeal. Sure, NYCFC might have Pirlo, Lampard, and Villa, but throw in the Great Bambino, Mantle, and Jeter then Americans will watch this FIFA declared “ethnic sport for schoolgirls”.

The problem with the NYCFC setup is that the focus is not on the game but on the spectacle. Designated players take precedence over goals. The MLS caters to our wants as consumers, though. Does it think we’d rather see a DP walk around more than we’d like to see a homegrown MLS player score? Maybe we do. The number of Pirlo shirts at Yankee Stadium prior to his arrival indicates the MLS is simply giving us what we want.

For all that Yankee Stadium is doing to bolster soccer’s status in the US, is it doing so at the expense of the most iconic winning team in the world? The Yankees bought the MLS expansion rights with Manchester City. Imagine—how would you feel as a Yankees player? With baseball declared dead or dying daily, Yankees players must be resentful that their owners don’t even have the respect to wait for the autopsy report. You have just one foot in the grave and they’re already building a “football club” on top of you. Perhaps the Yankees can feel vindicated that their pitcher mound took precedence over decent football and constrained the pitch to a minute size. Perhaps they don’t care.

It’s unclear after just one season whether sport or spectacle will triumph for NYCFC. The appointment of Arsenal’s Patrick Vieira as manager speaks to the club’s prioritization of marquee names. NYCFC is on the egregious end of the spectrum in the gimmick arena as compared with other MLS franchises, but their impressive attendance indicates that there is a shrewd business mind behind their pageantry. NYCFC average 29,000 fans per match. The Red Bulls, Eastern Conference leaders, have an average attendance of 19,600 (capacity 25,000). Maybe it will end up being a ‘come for the Villa, stay for the Poku’ success story. Would Dog Day Afternoon or Serpico have reached so many people without The Godfather? A love for the sport, sprung from an initial interest in seeing a Champions League winner in the flesh is plausible enough.  

On Historicity

In Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle, a counterfeiter explains to a customer how historicity is a construct. To drive home this point he presents a lighter, which belonged to FDR, and a replica that does not vary from its authentic referent. The counterfeiter instructs the customer to identify which lighter was once a possession of FDR and which one is merely an imitation. She picks each one up and examines them, but she can’t tell. The historicity of Roosevelt’s lighter does not make it in any way physically distinguishable or “heavier” than the replica. There is no intrinsic quality that belongs to the real object that is lacking in the fake. Historicity cannot be seen or felt.  

This so-called pretend quality, though, is real in sport. You can sense it when you watch certain matches. It’s what makes you feel that you’re a part of something greater than yourself. It’s that thing that makes you feel you’re witnessing history and that the moment you’ve just witnessed will be talked about time and time again.

In the 2015 Basel final, loose games decided the result. Despite taking place between the foremost two paragons of the tennis world, the match had none of the emotion of AO 2009. There has always been respect between Roger and Rafa, but their present phase of rivalry has less urgency. Perhaps the relative flatness is due to the notion that whatever might happen now will not how the rivalry is perceived.

“Fedal” is in a strange immunity zone with regard to History. It’s still considered by some to be the best match up in tennis. Be that as it may, their meeting in the Basel final smacked of an exhibition or a testimonial because it lacked historicity.

The ‘obstacle’ at hand is that both players have achieved living-legend status while they are still playing. Very few athletes experience this oddity. Once you reach a threshold of achievement, what you do afterwards has less heft than what you’ve done in the past. Your will forever be defined by your own history. Coppola doesn’t have to worry about making a bad film. DeLillo doesn’t have to worry about what critics say about his next work. This luxury isn’t afforded everyone. You must have an inordinately successful career to immunize yourself while still adding to your career.

Federer and Nadal can stand to rest on their legendary laurels more than others for the same reasons De Niro’s poor role choices now cannot take away from his illustrious career. Their respective achievements are so immense that any missteps taken can hardly dent perceptions of their greatness. Once you are granted living legend status, it is difficult to have it revoked (barring some Lance Armstrong level scandal) because it is bestowed only to the most deserving.

Hardly anything hinged on the outcome of the Basel final and with little but pride at stake it was difficult to imagine the impact the final score might have on their rivalry. There was a feel good vibe, but much less of the laser focus we grew accustomed to in the era when they consistently met in finals. Even so, there was a sense of awe cloaking the match—the sort that descends when you know you are privy to one of the greatest rivalries in sport of all time. This aura was a halo effect rooted in the undeniable historicity of the rivalry itself, even though the match at hand was not loaded with significance. It was good tennis, but it didn’t reach the next gear of Grand Slam tennis because the circumstances simply did not have enough gravitas to produce it.

Forget that neither player is in his prime anymore. Watching them battle, you felt more that they each wanted to win for tennis rather than for personal glory. With Nadal’s injuries, Federer’s age, and their remarkable records, it must be that they’re out there for love of the game. They do not face make-or-break moments as they did some six or seven years ago. All the tests that separated the “boys from the men” and the “good from the great” have already been passed and recorded. There is less weight of history on them now, as evidenced by the fact that there didn’t seem to be any deep sadness for the loser. Nadal was composed and unemotional when he made his runner-up speech and shook the ball kids’ hands.

Any matches that take place between Roger and Rafa now will necessarily lack historicity because the legend of the rivalry has already been cemented. I read a match report that that explained how the stats from the Basel final could change perceptions of the rivalry. That’s all well and good but, the thing is, without the element of historicity nothing can upend the established and hallowed mythos.  

By Our Misfortune We Are Great: A Highlight Reel Invective

The highlight reel is accessible to a fault. When I miss a match, I can find a condensed version online within a minute. Why it feels so cheap and unsatisfying to watch, and the accompanying highlight reel guilt I suffer from, is something I’d like to unpack.

 

It must be that watching a highlight reel is like walking into a theater to catch just the last scene of a play or reading only the epilogue of a book. How can you appreciate the pivotal scene if you weren’t invested?  To see a highpoint, or low point, without the context of the achievement or suffering is to witness the quotidian. The goals in a highlight reel all start to look the same.

 

Consider the following: Edmond Dantès' discovery of the treasure, Rachel getting off of the plane, Scarlett's return to Tara, Fredo's betrayal of Michael, Federer's capture of the French Open, and Iker Casillas' departure from Madrid. What these events share is that they lack resonance without the power of their rich backstories.

 

While all of the above are climactic moments in themselves, each is rendered a non-event without the appropriate appreciation for its emotional significance. To see a goal without the buildup is the same anti-sensation. A highlight reel is to watching a match as downing In-N-Out in your car is to enjoying an omakase meal. One is a quick, cheap thrill—the other, an experience.

 

Supporting a football club is like riding a roller coaster, but not for the reasons you might anticipate. It’s a known fact that the ride’s enjoyment factor is proportional to the amount of time spent waiting in line—the longer the wait, the better the ride. And so to cut the line is to eliminate the bulk of the pleasure in the experience. The highlight reel is the equivalent of the amusement park goer’s Fast Pass. There is no joy in the distilled three-minute version of a 1-0 victory.

 

As the roller coaster example sought to demonstrate, soccer embraces a waitlist mentality. Our suffering is directed at a very specific aim—to make our glory that much greater. You know the adage: All goals and no draws makes Jack a dull Evertonian. It’s that much more gratifying to get a last minute reservation or off of the standby list for a flight because the long wait consecrates the act of suffering. I’m reminded of a scene in Clueless where Cher’s lawyer father commends her negotiation skills,

 

Mel: You mean to tell me that you argued your way from a C+ to an A-? 
Cher: Totally based on my powers of persuasion, you proud? 
Mel: Honey, I couldn't be happier than if they were based on real grades.

 

The lawyer in Mel predicts that he values Cher’s negotiation acumen more than her ability to earn her grades fair and square. His philosophy speaks to the idea that overcoming obstacles to achieve success is much sweeter than straightforward winning. Would we remember Istanbul 2005 if Liverpool never conceded three goals in the first half?

 

We look down on the highlight reel because we believe our suffering is proof of our worthiness. The lean years are always respected and time invested is the easiest way to measure sincerity. Disparaging a bandwagon fan is the same as a kid yelling, “You’re not my real mom!” at his father’s new wife. Take Real Madrid’s journey to La Decima, riddled with heartbreak. Picture Sergio Ramos, devastated after 2013’s bathetic semi-final against Dortmund. His match-changing header in the 93^rd minute of the Champions League final versus Atleti was poetry at its most just.  The setbacks en route to La Decima served to make its achievement all the more meaningful. Ramos is living proof of Tacitus’ statement "the miserable have more fury and greater resolution".

 

In the Stanford marshmallow experiment, three to five year old children were offered a choice of one marshmallow immediately or two marshmallows after waiting fifteen minutes. The study found that picking the second option, delaying gratification by deliberately electing to forgo the instant reward, was an indicator of intelligence. By this logic, Arsenal supporters must be geniuses. The only way to rationalize being an Arsenal fan is the expectation of an ungodly payout upon a Sisyphean victory. The highlight reel is the single marshmallow. The choice evinces a failure to grasp the superior value of putting in the time. 

 

It’s not that surviving on a diet of 0-0 draws is a noble endeavor. The point is not to endure Park the Bus matches for the sake of asceticism. The point is to enjoy a match in the context of a season—to enjoy it as part of a narrative and as one of the climactic moments at the beginning of this essay, rife with meaning and emotion.

 

Again, this is no purist condemnation. One of my favorite matches was experienced entirely through a live feed on my phone. On April 8^th I had Periclean Athens in Cohen Hall during the 13-14 Champions League quarterfinals. Chelsea had lost the first leg 1-3 at home to Paris Saint-Germain. Part of me was glad I didn’t have to watch a torturous second leg on an illegal stream. Instead, I got to neurotically refresh the feed under my desk. At the Parc des Princes, AndréSchürrle scored in the 32^nd minute. We needed another goal (and a clean sheet) or else we’d go out on away goals. I grew desperate as class drew to an end and it looked like PSG were going through. I allowed myself one last perfunctory refresh and glanced down. In the eighty-seventh minute Demba Ba scored. It was a consummate “get in there you beauty!” moment. 

 

If you’ve ever wanted to scream or cry or laugh in a situation where social propriety forbid it, then you know how I felt. I desperately wanted to emote because the closeness with which I follow Chelsea forces me to care deeply about the result of that match and every other. It didn’t matter that I was privy only to sentence fragments imperfectly describing the action every couple of minutes.

 

There are wholly valid non-pure consumptions. I have no problem with alternative methods, just lazy ones.

 

Certain stories lose very little when they are distilled into concentrated versions of themselves. Take Young Adult novels for example. A Wikipedia summary is often preferable to slogging through chapters of decent ideas and bad writing. You lose hardly anything when condensing a work that has little nuance and few layers. But if a work has depth, there is no way an abridged version can do it justice. A summary of Proust or Joyce or Woolf wouldn’t work because the story is not plot driven. Counter-intuitively, neither is a soccer match. Though you can follow a live feed, much of the experience cannot be conveyed.

 

Every match has depth and depth is the highlight reel’s primary victim. A highlight reel of a 0-0 draw sounds like a paradox, but the 0-0 draw can be one of the most telling results when watched in its entirety. It means that the match favorite failed to capitalize on opportunities or that the underdog had an incredible match. Or it could mean that one side was really lucky, that the other was unlucky, that one side dominated and failed to score, or that the match was utterly neck and neck. The 0-0 highlight reel is just a montage of off-target shots.  It’s jejune to think the highlight reel could ever compare to the real thing.

 

Ideally, I’d watch every minute of every match my club plays. I’ve argued that in doing so I would achieve maximum emotional investment and thus maximum emotional fulfillment. I’ve said that the trudging and toiling through dull (but deep) matches is what imbues a season with meaning—and that is how I feel, for the most part.

 

But, having discovered that MLS in mid-July can rival the good feelings of a Champions League quarterfinal, it’s also important to be able to justify spending the better part of two hours watching a scoreless draw, regardless of what country it’s taking place in.

 

The crux of what drove me to self-reflect is: If you starve yourself, anything will taste good. And during the non-European league months, one can get desperate. Without the Premier League or La Liga competing for attention, MLS’ appeal is greatly enhanced. When starved for soccer, Orlando City SC versus NYCFC more than fits the bill. And so to find oneself entertained and, more or less, satisfied with MLS begs the question, is nothing sacred?

 

Imagine yourself in August before any European soccer has started—would you rather a highlight reel of El Clásico or an MLS match? I know my answer. MLS has the potential to rival top-tier European soccer because there’s prospect for a story. As with every league around the world, there shines through a human element in MLS that is not transferable to a highlight reel. In ninety finite minutes, there are players to detest and get attached to, coaches to pity, and fans to admire. You simply cannot eke a story out of a five-minute highlight reel. The match as a chapter in a longer story, ultimately, is what gives sport meaning.

 

Too Good: Federer's Mastery of the Random

If asked to make a list of tennis strategies, serving and volleying might be at the top. Then the drop shot, lob one-two. Maybe I-formation doubles. But you’d be under duress to come up with a name for the strategy Roger Federer used to unnerve Novak Djokovic in the finals of the Cincinnati Masters 1000. In August, Federer executed a carefully planned strategy of randomness and variation. A veritable Sybil, his pace, spin, depth, and angle were entirely unpredictable from point to point. Few players have the range and confidence to play such a game.

The constant change-ups kept Djokovic honest, kept him guessing, and kept him from controlling the match. Federer was impossible to read so Djokovic could never find a rhythm. Federer reified a consistent un-readability that tennis tacticians only dream of. He embodied Baudrillard’s “magic of concept and the charm of the real” simultaneously. Randomness is perhaps a misnomer. Random insofar as the best penalty takers are random. Those who aim left once, right the next, then dead center, top corner the next time with no apparent method prevent goalkeepers from anticipating what to expect. Random in a paradoxically systematic fashion.

Federer’s random is carefully calculated. He doesn’t go for winners on "random" points or take unnecessary risks. He hates the swing for the fences style, as evidenced by the following example. At the 2011 US Open semifinals, Djokovic saved five match points to beat Federer. One shot that particularly angered Federer was a go-for-broke forehand that John McEnroe praised as “one of the all-time great shots”. Federer didn’t regard Djokovic’s risky behavior as a strategy, but as desperation. He vilipended Djokovic’s game, “I mean, please. Some players grow up and play like that – being down 5-2 in the third, and they all just start slapping shots. I never played that way... For me, this is very hard to understand. How can you play a shot like that on match point?”

Djokovic closed out the 2011 semi playing with the why the Hell not? attitude that many qualifiers adopt against top seeded players in hopes of an upset. It’s Lukas Rosol tennis. Dustin Brown tennis. It’s hopeful giant slayer tennis. In other words, Federer saw it as aleatory and beneath the level of tennis that should be played in the semifinal of a Major. In the post-match interview Federer could hardly contain his disdain. Luck, more than anything, had given Djokovic the advantage (well, Federer implied, luck and a shameless willingness to let fly). The 2011 semis was a sour loss. The memory may have informed his decision to adopt a strategy of methodical randomness at Cincy this season.

What’s funny is that Federer rarely deigns to bother with strategy. Players and coaches alike know how Roger is going to play beforehand. Doing so, though, is no advantage because they’re still without a means to win. Cassandra can tell you Troy will be sacked, but you cannot stop the inexorable. If you are incapable of returning the Federer serve or of passing him at net, expect to lose. Federer has the luxury of playing a predictable game because the sheer quality of his strokes and vision preclude his opponent from competing. He has no need to hit to an opponent’s ‘weaker’ side when the ‘stronger’ side poses no threat to begin with. Unless you consider waiting for unforced errors a strategy, Federer can usually rely on an intimidating combination of his talent, sangfroid, and living legend status to beat opponents before they step onto the court.

That there was a semblance of strategy in Federer’s game at Cincy is a testament to Djokovic’s strength as a competitor. Federer famously does not watch his opponents’ early matches or tapes, presumably because he figures he can neutralize any kind of game with his own. It’s possible to construe the careful and diligent use of strategy at Cincy as a concession of sorts. Is Federer acknowledging that he cannot simply go out and play his usual game against Djokovic?

The apogee of success is to be accused of champion’s arrogance: (n.) the unwillingness to adapt one’s game to an opponent’s game based on a myopic and bullheaded belief in the methods of a particular brand of play that produced previous success. It was Cicero who said, “I am blind and too attached to what is noble.” Though it’s difficult to oppugn Federer’s methods, his unyielding belief in his own daedal game as the best game could be a hindrance to success. If he believes too fiercely in the superiority of his tennis, there is little room for adaptation or change--especially if he does not possess the same self-awareness as the famed orator. There is such a thing as over-belief and indulgent loyalty to the purity and integrity of a certain style of play.

You might be inclined to say that Federer’s random strategy embodies a crack in the façade of his champion’s arrogance because he is adapting his game to his opponents’ game. But consider: the random strategy is not tailor-made for Djokovic. It would unsettle any player. We don’t see the strategy on tour often because hardly anyone has the range of shotmaking to execute it and Federer rarely needs to make use of it.

So rather than the random strategy speaking to a decline in his “champion’s arrogance”, the strategy is further proof of said arrogance. The random style Federer adopted against Djokovic is an ever-more distinctly singular brand of Federer tennis. It’s the Federer-est tennis he’s played in years. For a while Federer tried to baseline grind with the rest of the Big Four, but it wasn’t his natural game and he experienced mixed results. The random game, which he alone has the range of shots to make use of, is Federer tennis in its purest form.

He is returning serve closer to the baseline than even he typically does, taking balls earlier, and half-volleying returns of serve. This last one proves that he’s playing more like himself than he has in years.

The ‘rush of blood’ service return is irreverent. It’s difficult, risky, and pays dividends. It’s aggressive and altogether Federer-ian. Funnily, if anyone but he performed such a cheeky act, it would be deemed disrespectful (and he would be the first to express as much). There’s something supercilious about the shot that smacks of mockery. Still, it’s nice to see he’s experimenting in his relative old age, even if it is at the expense of other players’ dignity.

To move in on a second serve is humiliating for an opponent. But Federer did so with aplomb, to Murray and Djokovic both. Federer hasn’t needed to alter his game to his opponents because his personal style of tennis only increases in efficacy as he ages. The only adjustment he has made is to play a more concentrated version of his extant game. His quickness in ending points and the fast pace at which he plays suits an older player as well as it did a young player, unlike the physical game Nadal specializes in.  

It’s a tautology that Federer’s tennis can only be made stronger by amplifying the facets that are singular to his game. He has distilled his game to its purest and most efficacious form. What he brings to court nowadays is his most basic game, no frills. Though, one could argue, his game is composed entirely of frills. And therein lies its beauty. 

Bouleversement at the Open

It happened for me. I saw a 5-set upset, evening session, in Arthur Ashe. I was one of the people creating the electric, charged, incredible atmosphere you occasionally hear John McEnroe describe on TV. I was ‘shushed’ by the umpire. I got to feel that I was a part of tennis history. I contributed to the famous US Open crowd on September 4th and into September 5th. 

Committing to a third round US Open ticket is a crapshoot. In the past two years I’ve seen Sharapova, Federer, and Djokovic in Ashe as is standard. An evening Ashe ticket guarantees you’ll see a big name. But, typically, the big name will crush his or her opponent in fewer than 2 hours and, in all likelihood, in straight sets. It’s fun and you enjoy it because it’s a masterclass in one of the most important venues on Earth. You see tennis royalty and feel the buzz of the hallowed stadium. And the atmosphere is always above average because of the immensity of the event. But, still, you always hope for a thriller in five sets.

Even when you’re lucky enough to witness a special match, it typically follows a set formula.  The marquee player begins poorly, falls behind a set (or two), but pulls it together and ultimately wins. But what I saw was giant killer stuff. Fabio Fognini was, predictably, down two sets to Rafael Nadal. People began to leave the stadium with their young kids. It was getting late, probably around 11 pm. The third set looked like a forgone conclusion. I was yawning and considering leaving, too.

When Fognini took the third set, I didn’t believe he could upset Nadal. The atmosphere had improved from the flatness of the second set, but it still had a straight sets vibe. It seemed that the third set had just slipped out of Rafa’s grasp. And it was probable he would win the fourth set. Why he didn’t puzzled me. I still believed the Spaniard was controlling the match, contrary to what was playing out in front of me. I had no idea that in the fifth set there would be break, after break, after break. The crowd had been growing rowdier throughout the fourth set, but in the fifth it transformed entirely.

Spectators from the last rows of the upper promenade stands started to come down and fill the seats of those who had vacated (what a mistake). Earlier, the crowd had been pulling for Fognini, pulling for another set, pulling for more tennis, pulling for more bang for their buck. In the fifth, the crowd wanted Rafa to win. I was cheering for tennis.

As a Federer fan, part of me wanted to cheer for Fognini. Rafa and Roger couldn’t meet before the final, but still, I didn’t want them to meet at all. Regardless of their rivalry, as a tennis fan (and former player) it’s been difficult to watch Rafa’s confidence plunge. The hesitant shots he struck in the fifth set were pitifully uncharacteristic. So I cheered when he broke and when he was broken both.

I saw John and Patrick McEnroe leaning forward in the commentator’s booth, engrossed in the action like everybody else. The Open hands out personal radios so you can hear the live commentary that is broadcast on TV. I had my radio tuned on, but the McEnroe brothers’ commentary was often drowned out by the stadium sounds that I was part of making.

I knew that if I ever had the chance to see a 5-set, Grand Slam, Big Four match it would be magic. But I thought it would be the sort of magic that happens at a really great concert. At a special concert, you slip into a sort of dreamy anonymity. You feel part of this large unified creature that bobs and hums in unison. There is an energized calm in which you are free of self-consciousness and removed from time. My US Open experience was nothing like a great concert. I was acutely aware of myself and the incredible tension felt by everyone at once. Moments of eerie silence broken by deafening noise do not make for a feeling of calm euphoria. Instead, what I felt was the incredible reality of what was occurring on court. There’s nothing like seeing someone fight for his life. Every shot and every point had real life repercussions. You felt with each stroke Nadal’s fear of crashing out of an early round and Fognini’s fear of thinking about what victory might mean.

Far from being removed from time, I was hyper aware of every second. Once the match came to an end I felt like I could finally breathe. The feeling that something is at stake every moment is exhausting. Once home, I watched some of the match again on DVR. I imagined I could hear my own voice screaming and whooping.

On Sunday, I was watching Federer and the commentators were still talking about the previous night’s match. John McEnroe said the Fognini-Nadal match ranked in his top-five best US Open evening matches ever. This is high praise from someone who has witnessed first-hand (and played) so much phenomenal tennis for so many years. For me, it wasn’t that the match itself lived up to its hype, but that the experience—being at one of those mythical upsets in the flesh—was even better than I had daydreamed it would be.

Take Me to Forest Hills

In the same way someone who attended Yale might say they went to school in New Haven, tennis tournaments are often referred to by their city or stadium's name. For example, the French Open is called Roland Garros, the California hard court tournament is spoken of as Indian Wells, and the US Open is Flushing Meadows. This practice emphasizes a degree of exclusivity (pretentiousness?) wherein one must already be somewhat in the know to follow the conversation.

Last week, I went to an Ed Sheeran concert that was held at the Forest Hills Stadium. The 23,000 seater was renovated in 2013 after a near twenty-year period of inactivity. The stadium is nestled in a cute residential neighborhood in Queens. There is no parking lot or structure. When you attend an event at the Forest Hills Stadium, you park in front of someone’s home and do your best to read all of the signage and avoid the private streets, for fear of being booted.

Forest Hills Stadium is where the US Open was held from 1915-1920 and 1924-1977. Ten Davis Cup Finals took place at Forest Hills. Billie Jean King, Vitas Gerulaitis, and Arthur Ashe are just a few of the icons who played at the stadium. John McEnroe speaks at length about the experience of playing at Forest Hills in his autobiography. For anyone with an interest in tennis and its history, Forest Hills is a storied venue. It is history incarnate. Forest Hills Stadium is now listed as a “concert venue” on Facebook.

The West Side Tennis Club (the home of the stadium) is still operational. It has 38 private courts and offers every surface. Yet still, so iconic is the name "Forest Hills" that the website for the club is simply foresthillstennis.com--it continues to command historic relevancy and respect in the tennis world.

When Sheeran took the stage, it was still light out. And from my side-stage, nosebleed seats, I could see two kids rallying on the har-tru court right beyond the stadium. While I had a seat in the stands, numerous fans opted for general admission tickets on the floor. The floor was the court. The hard court, blue/green color scheme, was taking a beating. I felt like I could see the court succumbing to the marking soles and high heels pummeling the surface in real time.

I don't know if it was the total disregard and unawareness of the crowd for this stadium's history or the devastating image of a tennis court trampled by Brandy Melville wearing teenagers trying to push to the front of the stage--but, there's no other way to put it, my soul cringed. Is nothing sacred?

I suppose, in my mind, I had imagined that before the opening act came on, someone from the ATP, WTA, or ITF would show up to give a short lecture on the history of the stadium. Maybe he or she would reel off the dates the Open was played here and pay homage to some of the star athletes who made names for themselves on this very court! But it was not the case.

I have to admit, the concert was incredible and the venue was perfect. It was small enough to be intimate, but large enough to feel that strange sense of oneness live music creates with the rest of the audience. The stadium is, of course, open air and absolutely suited for a last weekend of May, evening show. All but for my indignation at the failure to properly historicize the stadium--the evening was a clean winner.

In its heyday, the Forest Hills Stadium played host to many musical acts. Sinatra, The Beatles, Hendrix, and The Who are among some of the acts that took the stage at Forest Hills. So the sheer act of a musical group performing at a tennis stadium is not what irks me. Rather, the repurposing of a tennis court as mere flooring is what I find hard to swallow. It was an honor to perform at Forest Hills just as it is an honor to sing the anthem at Yankee Stadium--because it's hallowed ground. The stadium at Forest Hills has been reduced to a stage no better than one of the hundreds of bank-sponsored stadiums. It's bad enough when a venue has no history, but it's even worse when it's overflowing with an unacknowledged story.