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By Giri Nathan
[vc_empty_space height="15px"]High drama is best consumed half-asleep. These are the truths I annually try to internalize during that first week of watching the Australian Open from the opposite side of the Earth. I’m still easing my way toward a full nocturnal lifestyle, so I’ve had my struggles. I was fortunate to be alert to see Fabio Fognini and Salvatore Caruso explode into volcanic hand gestures after their five-setter. I caught bits and pieces of Elina Svitolina dispatching Coco Gauff. I dearly wish I’d been up to see the drunk lady in the crowd call Rafa an “OCD fuck,” flip the bird, and get escorted out, but I was stone cold by then. I was already deep in the ZZZs the next night when Novak Djokovic mustered his five-set comeback with something torn in his torso. Can’t say the ESPN broadcast has made my plight any easier with its habit of kaleidoscoping three or seven different feeds on the screen. God forbid an American player play a single point that is unseen by all the die-hard American fans sitting bolt upright at 3 a.m. to watch solely corn-fed American players.