"Quiet, the Bor-meister is Serving"

Shhhhh. It's 15-all, and the 15-year-old girl--who has served 15 zillion balls since she was 15 months old and began her 15 million dollars worth of tennis lessons--wants to serve. So we'd appreciate it if those 15 thousand ladies and gentlemen watching this Stadium match would please be silent. As for the 15 hundred boors who would like to get up from their seats or return to the seats they so rudely vacated earlier, please stay put for the next 15 minutes until the next changeover or enjoy the company of 15 burly ushers who will escort you from the premises.

Don't get me wrong--I loved going to the U.S Open. I saw spectacular shotmaking. I saw inspirational intensity. I saw Ivana Trump tell her bodyguard to get her a Tab.

I mean no disrespect to Mr. Marvin B. Tepper, a corporate lawyer whose generosity and previous commitments allowed three friends and me to make use of his reserved box.

But sports fans should never have to behave like they are attending a funeral or visiting a library, especially when the 15-year-old they are watching is grunting and moaning like a Banshee every time she hits the ball.

What athlete works in silence? Not baseball players. (Ask Kirk Gibson about his World Series home run.) Not basketball players. (Nobody shut up for Rumeal Robinson's Final Four-winning foul shots.) Not football players (Although the NFL now penalizes crowds that reach three-digit decibel levels, as well as quarterbacks who pretend they can't call signals when the decibel level is only 99.) What's that? No, golfers aren't really athletes. Just look at Craig "The Walrus" Stadler.

In between points. patrons are permitted to clap politely, and 15-year-old girls that aren't grunting and throwing tantrums and beating Martina Navatrilova on Court Nine are allowed to squeal "Yay, Andre!" Criticism is out of the question. Booing is blasphemous. Whistling is acceptable for protesting particularly egregious line calls, but only the players can yell and scream. And they do, in direct proportion to the amount of complaining they do about crowd noise.

If 15,000 people were paying exorbitant ticket prices to watch me write this column in pursuit of a cool half-million-dollar first prize, I would have expected some lusty booing when I overused parentheses two paragraphs ago. I wouldn't have complained, and I really don't think their booing's effect on my concentration could have made the paragraph any worse.

But even if the spectators were ungagged, little would change. They would finally be allowed to go to the bathroom or get a five-dollar hot dog when they want to--and not just after odd-numbered games that never end when you really gotta go. But they still wouldn't make much noise. Look who they are. The U.S. Open isn't white-washed Wimbledon, but even without royalty, it's still a cocktail party for the rich and suntanned. (And white--my friend Ron, Wilt Chamberlain and Zina Garrison's family were the only Black people I saw in the stands.) Ticket prices are out of control. Most tickets aren't even for sale. Unless you know Mr. Tepper (like my friend's dad did) or Mr. Trump or Revlon or Nissan or Unisys, you can stay home and listen to Mary Carillo yammer on TV.

U.S. Open-goers are a strange breed. Look at the expensive tennis outfits they wear to convince everyone what true fans of the game they are. Some even bring bags with four or five rackets. (You never know when Chrissie or Andre or Mac is going to need a partner, I suppose.) Listen to their hushed analysis of Becker's last double fault--"The Bor-meister is going to have to get that serve in if he wants to win this game." Watch them willingly pay 35 bucks for a white T-shirt with a little "Fila" logo. They all deserve to be locked in a room with Bud Collins and Ilie Nastase.

But nothing will change, not with all the moola being thrown around. Next year, players will still whine about clicking, cameras. Sappy fans will still refer to the players by their first names. Waitresses will still sell me iced tea for two dollars, telling me that it's "splendid," but not that it's mostly ice. Agassi will still throw his sweaty shirt into the stands when he wins. The airplanes will still roar overhead. The best tennis in the United States will still be played. And once again, only the well-connected will get tickets.

Thank you, Mr. Tepper. You're a great guy, Mr. Tepper. Keep up the good work, Mr. Tepper.

See you next year, Mr. Tepper.