The US Open is like Wimbledon’s rowdy little cousin. There aren’t perfectly chalked white lines or delicately mowed lawns or robotized ball boys. No, Queens has some hard court bounce and bravado. The pop music echoes between games, the fans scream when they feel it necessary. Even the players get creative and colorfully coordinated, freed from their white-clothed shackles, matching neon oranges from headband to shoelace. Across the East River, in Manhattan’s shadow where there’s room to breathe, the grunts grow louder and the cheers build to roars. If Quentin Tarantino were directing this major tournament, he’d call it Tennis Unchained.