Game, Set, Match.

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We are in a recession. I know this because last year I only needed to flash an American Express card to receive a free (or to use industry parlance, complimentary) pedicab ride across the footbridge between the Shea Stadium 7 stop and the entrance to the US Open grounds. But American Express, long considered sheltered from the economic crises that aren’t supposed to make their way up to its affluent clientele, has nevertheless seen its stock drop by 30% since last September. And so this year, no pedicabs.

So Ashley and I walked, our Rainbows and Jack Rogerses thwapping along the wooden planks. We were surrounded by an army of tennis shoes and Crocs that made far less noise, although their wearers were not so discreet: “She’s using a surrogate for her baby!” announced a lady behind me to her pals, one of whom cracked a joke: “I shoulda done that too! I coulda kept my old figure!”

If you like tennis and love the back of your thighs sticking to bleachers, you should go to the Open for an early round day session. You’ll see seeded players on small side courts where you can sit close enough to watch them fiddle with their racquet strings and hear them mutter obscenities under their breath in foreign languages. You’ll be surrounded by contingents of proud Korean nationals waving flags at their beloved countrymen and clusters of know-it-all Connecticut grandfathers trying to one-up each other with their knowledge of obscure but promising young pups.

You’ll sweat, a lot.

I paid $4 for the daily draw sheet and promptly lost it. So Ashley and I stuck to the tried-and-true method of following crowd noise to find the best matches and then, finding them too crowded, resorted to the tried-and-truer trick of getting some fried stuff for lunch and washing it down with $13 alcoholic beverages. We wandered some more. Unable to snag a seat in the Grandstand, where Andy Murray was embroiled in an intense matchup with Michael Llodra, we retreated to our nosebleed seats in Arthur Ashe Stadium to see Venus take on a hopeful. In the grand tradition of Featured Early Round Matches Between A Williams Sister And A Nobody, it was kind of a dud.

We people-watched. The median US Open attendee happened to be sitting right in front of us: 40-something woman, curlyish brown hair gathered into a low ponytail above which perched a white hat (autographed by someone) above which perched a pair of sunglasses. The back of her neck (rising from her sleeveless polo, natch) was festooned by a medley of lanyards given out at the Open like so many lollipops at the bank teller. One (American Express!) was attached to an earpiece through which you could listen to the match on the radio while watching it in the stadium. Another held a clear plastic sleeve that in turn held her ticket. (Ash and I saw this product later at the concession stand: horrifyingly, it was priced at $17.) The third, Evian, featured pink lettering and was clipped to a small bottle of complimentary Evian spray water which you could mist over your face to cool down and then mist over your face a few minutes later to cool down again once the first mist had settled and begun to boil in the sun.

I couldn’t see whether she was sporting a fanny pack, but one can assume.

Behind us, a cell phone began blasting the theme to The Office. Glares all around, some obscured by visors. The owner of the phone, oblivious, sighed in exasperation. “God, it’s Yuri again. He won’t stop calling!” Venus won another point and the speakers, strangely, began blasting Avril Lavigne. I pointed across the court. “There’s Venus’ mom!” Ashley squinted, searching. “See that mop of orange hair?”

Venus demolished her opponent, smiled sweetly and waved to the crowd. We exited the stadium (Ashley wanted to see if we could snag some more swag.) A booth called Juvederm (a new gel-based product offering by Botox, which clearly knows its audience) advertised complimentary massages with a catch: a 30 minute wait. We inquired about some padded seat cover things that we had seen people dorkily toting around and were told apologetically that there were no more left but that we could enter to win a free Juvederm consultation if we so desired!! We did not so desire, but between you and me: later that night I took a longer look in the mirror than usual, running my finger across my smile lines and wondering.

We sat down at an outdoor bar and each ordered a Honey Deuce, the “signature drink” which was allegedly created by Grey Goose “to embody the spirit of the US Open”. What it was: vodka, lemonade, Chambord, and melon balls, served in a commemorative cup. What I got: everything but the melon balls. No matter: I amassed four commemorative cups in short order.

A group of people walked by and I noticed their t-shirts: Tennis Lovers for Obama.

Two gals (the proper nomenclature for this type of person - they are not women, or ladies, or even broads - they are gals.) sidled up behind us and wondered loudly what to get. I held up my drink. “This is really good!” I confided. “It’s the signature drink.” The women peered at it. “Oh, that’s the drink that Debbie had 8 of last year!” one exclaimed. I could just picture Debbie, sunburned and frizzy-haired, double fisting Honey Deuces and braying “The diet starts tomorrow!” at no one in particular. I couldn’t help but be charmed. “Where’s Debbie this year?” Ashley asked, deadpan. The gals giggled, then guffawed. We offered them our seats and headed toward the courts.

Now, a brief history lesson: the provenance of the much-maligned popped collar is surprisingly utilitarian, intended to shield tender necks from raging UV rays while on the golf course or the sailboat. Or at the US Open, where this sartorial snafu can serve an extra purpose. An older couple in front of us Evian-misted their faces every few minutes; the lukewarm water dribbled down their necks and was absorbed by their stiff collars. They didn’t seem to notice: we were all glued to the court in Armstrong Stadium, where unseeded American Mardy Fish was winning a thrilling match. (He’s since beaten James Blake and some French dude, and if you’re a tennis novice you could do worse than to hitch to Fish. I should write political slogans.)

And now the match was over and we were Debbie-drunk. (At least I was – it’s hard to tell with Ash.) So we trudged back over the pedicabless bridge, a little more slowly this time, and took our seats on the 7 train across from three brash and obnoxious girls with untraceable accents. I did my best to shoot them dirty looks and roll my eyes conspicuously, but it was no use. I distracted myself with US Weekly. (Fave celeb child: Kingston.)

Twenty minutes later, the girls were gone. I think they got off at the wrong stop.