Abstract
Louis Armstrong Stadium erupts as thousands of fans cheer the entrance of Tommy Haas and Richard Gasquet. As these tremendous athletes stride past me, I stiffen in my navy blue garb while standing alongside the white lines of the tennis court. Upon hearing the two thuds of the racquet bags dropped on the rubberized asphalt, I dash into the humid air, my target locked: the open strip of wall between the Olympus sign and the IBM radar gun. I stop on a dime, standing mere inches from the warm tarpaulin. Straightening my back and folding my hands behind me, I stand tall, ready to chase a ball or retrieve a towel: I am a ballboy at the U.S. Open.