Is the US Open the loudest — and smelliest — of the majors?

When planes roar overhead, the smell of burgers mingles with weed smoke, and the crowd screams as if they have never heard a voice, I realize I am exactly where world tennis is never quiet. I stood by the fence of Court 7, where Arthur Fery pulled earplugs out of his bag during a changeover. He did not look annoyed; it was simply a familiar motion, like a goalkeeper putting on gloves before the ball rolls. But to me, a journalist who has sat in press rows from Melbourne to Moscow, that moment spoke louder than any statistic about the tournament's harshness. The US Open has never been a tournament for those who prefer silence. Since 2026, when it moved from Forest Hills to Flushing Meadows, it has carried the DNA of New York City: loud, rushed, and never stopping. Pat Cash, who played there in the early 1980s, described the atmosphere as an endless street party. Angelique Kerber, the 2026 champion, admitted that the noise was the hardest thing to get used to in her career. Even Alex de Minaur, the Australian known for his calmness, had to change his accommodation to find a quiet corner in the heart of New York. But what most television viewers do not see is how this noise directly interferes with the players' technique. When planes fly over the court, the sound of the racket hitting the ball — the sound players use to feel power, spin, and trajectory — is completely swallowed. For a professional player, this is not a minor annoyance. It is losing a crucial feedback channel in real time. I have watched matches at Melbourne Victory where the crowd noise never reached this level. Here, players must rely more on muscle feel and mechanical memory, and that creates a subtle but real difference in the quality of their shots. Arthur Fery, the young British player who reached the Wimbledon semifinals as a qualifier, has found a solution: earplugs. He admitted to using them multiple times, not only to block noise but also to maintain focus when feeling frustrated or irritated. But earplugs are a double-edged sword. They block ambient noise, but they also reduce the ball-contact sound he needs to calibrate his shots. This means Fery is trading some technical precision for mental focus. It is a compromise no player wants to make, but at the US Open, it becomes a survival strategy. The truth is, not all players are affected the same way. Ben Shelton, the young American full of enthusiasm, declares that the US Open is the 'greatest tournament in the world.' He seems to draw energy from the chaos. Meanwhile, Kerber and de Minaur represent another school: those who must actively manage and filter sensory overload. This difference is not just personality; it reflects how each person handles psychology under high pressure. A player with a clear pre-serve routine, dependent on rhythm and stillness, will be more vulnerable to this noise than someone with high sensory tolerance. Beyond noise, there is smell. The smell of grilled burgers from food stalls, and especially the smell of weed wafting through the outdoor areas. New York legalized cannabis in 2026, and that creates a legal gray zone for the USTA. They cannot ban a legal activity in public space, but the smell affects players' experience. This is a governance issue no other Grand Slam faces. Wimbledon has light plane noise, Roland Garros has elegance, the Australian Open has a cheerful rhythm, but only the US Open has the smell of weed mixed with burgers as part of its 'city that never sleeps' identity. I remember my first time at Flushing Meadows in 2026, when I was a young journalist covering Melbourne Victory. I could not believe a major tournament could be so chaotic. But over the years, I realized this chaos is not an accident. It is a brand strategy. The US Open positions itself as the people's tournament, different from Wimbledon's tradition or Paris's chic. The noise and the smell are not weaknesses; they are a way to attract a younger, more dynamic audience willing to pay premium prices for night sessions. But there is a cost. For players, especially those sensitive to sound or reliant on rhythm, the US Open can be an unfair challenge. Kerber once said the noise was the hardest thing to adapt to in her career. Fery, with earplugs in his bag, is trying to adapt in his own way. De Minaur, by choosing a quieter place to stay, has subtly admitted that his previous campaigns might have been affected by the environment without saying it. Schedule fatigue is also a systemic issue. Fery played in Winston-Salem just a week before the US Open, and he admitted he had not fully recovered. This is pressure from the ATP calendar, where smaller tournaments compete for player participation in the weeks before a Grand Slam. As a result, many players arrive at the US Open exhausted, and this can lead to early-round surprises. So, the question is: does this noise and smell actually create an unfair competitive advantage for players with high sensory tolerance? I believe it does, though it is hard to quantify. In a match where everything is balanced, the ability to stay calm amid a sea of sound and smell can be the deciding factor. That is why I always respect players like de Minaur, who understand that victory comes not only from technique but also from smartly managing the environment. As I left Flushing Meadows on the final night, I saw a group of fans still cheering under the lights, and a young player sitting alone on a bench, earplugs still in his ears. I do not know if he will win or lose his next match, but I know he has learned a lesson no other tournament can teach: how to keep your own rhythm in a world that is running. And that, to me, is what truly makes a champion.