Life, in Six Words From Queens

There is a time in New York when even before the first leaf falls, you can feel the seasons click. The air is crisp. The summer is almost gone. And for the first night in a long time you need a blanket on your bed (as Carrie Bradshaw once observed). Some might call it pre-fall, I call it: US Open Season!

The US Open is electric, unpredictable, iconic, gritty, glamorous, and legendary. I felt all of it this past week. First on Family Day with my daughter, then again on Tuesday during the first round of play. The tournament is bigger than tennis - it’s a mirror. Each of those words doesn’t just describe a match under the lights in Queens. They describe life right now: my life, in the middle of a career transition, a parenting season full of chaos, and a city that demands both grit and grace.

The first thing you notice at the US Open is the charge in the air. It's not just the night matches or the roar of fans in Arthur Ashe Stadium when a rally lasts longer than it should; it's the hum that runs through every corner of the grounds. Fans spilling into the plaza, bouncing between practice courts, the collective gasp when someone smashes an ace down the line.

But it was a specific moment that truly sparked me. I watched Coco Gauff battle through her first round opponent, wrestling with inconsistency, and digging deep to stay in the tournament after 3 grueling sets. That's when it hit me - is this what I've been missing? That willingness to fight, to risk everything in front of thousands of strangers, to put yourself on the line when everything matters?

It's a jolt. That kind of electricity is rare in daily life, but when it hits, it reminds you what's possible. For me, it was a reminder that I need more of that in my own life. More moments that make me sit up straighter, that get my pulse racing, that push me to dig deeper. The US Open didn't just entertain me - it sparked me.

Then there's the money, honey 💰. The prize money for players is staggering! This year, $65 million is on the line (between Men's and Women's singles), but it's not just the players cashing in. It's the fans too, or at least the ones who can afford to show up. Sitting in my seat on Tuesday, I looked around and thought: money isn't everything, but it sure opens doors to experiences like this.

Take the food alone. $100 chicken nuggets topped with caviar is the exact contradiction that perfectly sums up the US Open: familiar, a little (maybe a lot) ridiculous, and over the top in a way that makes you laugh even as you pull out your credit card.

The glamour is intoxicating, but it's also clarifying. Sitting there, watching this world of abundance, I realized I don't want to just observe anymore. I want to build something that gives me access - not to $100 caviar nuggets necessarily, but to the freedom to say yes to experiences that matter. This isn't about keeping up with anyone else's lifestyle; it's about creating my own.

The designer clothes in the stands, the Rolex logos around every corner, and yet, here's the tension. This kind of luxury creates scarcity. The tournament is nearly pricing out the average fan. It's a business model rooted in economics: fewer seats, higher demand, higher cost. And somehow, despite the unfairness of it, we still want to be part of it. New Yorkers especially! Scarcity sells.

Here's where it hit me: I don't need to chase wealth for its own sake. But I do want access to experiences like this, and that requires resources. That realization - watching the spectacle, eating opulent bites, knowing how close luxury and exclusion sit side by side - was the fuel I needed this week. Fuel to double down, to rev the engine, to push myself into writing the next chapter of my career from a place of worth, ambition, and possibility.

Tennis is beautiful to watch, but it’s brutal to play. Beneath the glamour within the stadium is grit: blisters, sweat-soaked shirts, legs that feel like lead in a fifth set (or so I assume). It’s a game that demands mechanics and technique, but also endurance of the mind.

If my life were a match, I’d be in the third set. Sweaty, exhausted, aching. But still swinging. Still searching for the inner reserve that keeps you standing when your body wants to fold. This season of transition feels exactly like that - a test of personal and professional grit. Watching these athletes push through physical exhaustion made me think about my own endurance test this year.

And maybe that’s the lesson. The glamorous moments get the attention, but it’s grit that makes the legendary ones possible. Every ace hit on the Ashe court is backed by hours of practice on cracked courts no one sees. And that was just the reminder I needed… every professional breakthrough is built on grind.

Family Day with my daughter was chaos in the best possible way. Watching the women practice, I kept glancing at her face - hoping she was taking it in, seeing the possibility in every serve and forehand.

But she's two, and her own unpredictable streak is stronger than any professional on court. One minute wide-eyed, the next mid-tantrum. Parenthood is its own tournament, with rallies that swing from control to chaos without warning.

And yet, unpredictability isn't a flaw of the game… it’s the point. Tennis thrives on it, life too. Plans undone, rallies reversed, the unexpected becoming the story. My hope is that my daughter grows up seeing unpredictability not as something to fear, but as something to ride. A sign that anything can happen, and sometimes the surprises are the best part. A quote I remind myself of often:

"We make plans and God laughs."

And lately, I'm learning to laugh along. My career pivot wasn't in any five-year plan. Neither was having a toddler who transforms every outing into an adventure I never saw coming. But watching my daughter's unpredictable joy, seeing players adapt mid-match when their strategy falls apart, I'm starting to see the beauty in life's improvisation. Maybe the best stories aren't the ones we plan, but the ones that surprise us.

Confession: I became invested in the US Open only after moving to New York City in 2019. But since that time, there've been iconic moments that I won’t soon forget. Watching Serena’s farewell, being in-person to watch Coco win her first Grand Slam, and no shortage of meltdowns and upsets. And this year is no exception: the first Filipino player to advance past the first round, Medvedev’s meltdown. But what strikes me is how ordinary most of those moments must have felt at the time. Just another rally, just another day - until suddenly they weren’t.

That thought stayed with me as I walked hand in hand with my daughter. This might be one of those ordinary days that, in hindsight, becomes iconic. The moments that feel forgettable now might just be the ones that define everything later.

Maybe that’s the real gift of the US Open: it trains you to look at ordinary life and wonder which parts are quietly becoming unforgettable.

The truth is, matches don’t become legendary on their own. They become legendary because we choose to tell the story that way. We decide which points mattered, which struggles shaped the outcome, which wins live forever.

I want to do the same with my own life right now. This isn’t just a messy in-between, a career reset, a season of questions. It’s the first act of a legendary comeback.

The word legendary isn’t reserved for champions under the lights. It belongs to anyone willing to show up, match after match, and keep writing the story.

The US Open is all of it: electric and glamorous, gritty and unpredictable, iconic and legendary. For me, the tournament isn't just about who hoists the trophy in two weeks; more than anything, it's a reminder that the game is still being played.

But here's what I realized watching those players walk onto the court, alone: tennis is the ultimate individual sport. No teammates to rely on, no bench to rest on, no one to tag in when you're struggling. It's just you, your racket, and the mental strength to keep swinging when everything in your body wants to fold.

And maybe that's the most honest mirror the US Open holds up to life right now.

Yes, I have support systems. Family cheering me on, friends offering advice, mentors sharing wisdom. But when it comes to the actual work - the career pivot, the daily choices as a parent, the decision to stop playing it safe and start playing to win - that's my match. No one else can hit those shots for me.

Standing in Queens, watching my daughter explore this world of possibility, I have to be my own biggest fan when self-doubt creeps in during the third set of this transition. My own best coach, spotting the patterns that aren't working and adjusting my strategy mid-game. My own trainer, pushing myself to show up physically and mentally, point after point, even when I'm exhausted.

Is this it? Is this the moment when I stop being a spectator in my own ambition and start playing to win? Standing there, holding my daughter's hand, feeling the weight of possibility in my chest - I think it might be. Not the tournament, but the realization that legendary isn't something that happens to you, and it's not something someone else can hand you either.

It's something you choose, one match at a time. And it's your choice alone to make.

My own story is still unfolding, and I get to decide how legendary it becomes. The game is still being played, and it's time to stop looking to the sidelines for permission to win my own match.

The weekly section where I will call out a fraction: something that felt like progress this week (like a fraction forward) and a fiction: something that turned out to be a distraction or illusion.

Fraction: Last week I gave Taylor Swift's easter eggs the Fiction, but fairness demands she and Travis get my Fraction this week! Yes, we're all excited about the engagement, but I'm selfishly excited for the next musical era. Marriage Taylor and potentially mom Taylor?! The lyrical genius that's about to unfold... we're not ready.

Fiction: The promise of action after tragedy. This week brought another national tragedy, another round of "thoughts and prayers," and another cycle of elected officials expressing outrage while doing absolutely nothing. The fiction isn't whether Americans want change because… we do! The fiction is believing our representatives when they promise it. We've watched this script play out for years: tragedy strikes, leaders vow action, media cycles shift, nothing happens. When will we stop treating their empty promises as good faith and start treating inaction as the choice it actually is?

If this resonates, don't just sit there in the stands - forward it to your friends, family, that one person who always sends you interesting articles. Sometimes the best plays happen when you stop being a spectator.

Drop a comment with your own "electric" moments - the times life sparked you awake, or the unpredictable plot twists that turned out to be exactly what you needed, even when they weren't in your game plan.

Let's make Is This It? your Friday check-in before you head into whatever weekend match awaits. Remember: legendary isn't something that happens to you - it's something you choose, one point at a time.

Until Next Friday 👋🏼 ! Chris

Next Week: Back to school isn’t just for kids! It’s a season we all feel, that strange mix of endings and beginnings stitched into September. Maybe the real lesson is that we’re always students of what comes next.

Just like the Open, where every point counts, the way we spend our attention matters. That’s why I’ve partnered with 1440 - a daily rundown of news that cuts through the noise and serves the essentials. Start your mornings smarter. Check it out here 👇🏼

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