A special vision of 9/11

It was one of those classic East Coast thunderstorms, full of sound, fury and buckets of rain.

Even before the pilot announced the delay, it was obvious we would be stuck for a long while on the tarmac at JFK airport in New York.

My plans would have to change. Who could guess within hours the world was about to change? 

It was Monday evening, Sept. 10, 2001. A day earlier, I had covered the men’s final of the U.S. Open tennis championships at Flushing Meadows, only a few miles from where our jet sat while the downpour continued.

Lleyton Hewitt, an Australian barely out of his teens, had crushed Pete Sampras. In the women’s final Saturday, then-dominant Venus Williams, 21, defeated younger sister Serena, still a few days from her 20th birthday.

A great Open, but now I was headed to another continent, Europe, for a few days of vacation in Italy followed by another sport, golf, the Ryder Cup at the Belfry in England. It all seemed so neat, so organized.

But the flight, to London’s Heathrow, was late. The flight to Florence, Italy, departed from another airport, Gatwick, to which I had to bus some 45 miles. It now was around noon in Britain. The next flight to Italy wouldn’t leave for hours.

The crowd in the waiting lounge moved toward one of the TV sets at the bar.

Jet-lagged and clueless, I asked someone what was happening. ”Oh,” he said unemotionally, “a plane hit a building in New York.”

What? I pushed through everyone to get a better look at a TV screen, a bit rude by British standards, dropping an occasional “Sorry,” just to show Americans had some manners.

The enormity of the disaster was becoming a reality. Flights throughout the U.S. had been halted. In Europe, some still were operating, My wife, a travel agent, had been in Rome and was aboard a train to Florence, unaware of the attacks.

This was 20 years ago, a lifetime technologically, before everyone from Katmandu to Kentucky had an iPhone. But there were cell phones, or as the Brits call them, mobile phones.

I had rented one for my wife in case of an emergency, never imagining the emergency would be an attack on the United States. I went to a pay phone in the terminal and connected to my wife as the train rolled.

The Ryder Cup, which used to be played in odd years, was postponed. Last autumn it was postponed again because of the Covid-19 outbreak, returning to the odd-year schedule, it will be held again in a couple weeks at Whistling Straits, north of Milwaukee.

A few times when I’ve been in New York for the Open, I’ve made a sobering visit to ground zero. There is a memorial fountain and the tattered, scorched remnant of an American flag pulled from the flames.

I made it to Italy the night of the attack on one of the last planes still permitted to fly, then on CNN watched as did millions of others all the news reports, depressed and frightened.

The next morning my wife and I shared a breakfast table in a plaza with an English couple, who expressed their condolences and asked whether America would respond.

Two decades later, there only are partial answers. I’m just grateful that on the afternoon of Sept. 10, 2001, I had the opportunity for one last look at the twin towers. The vision will stay forever.