McEnroe, a native of Queens, exploded onto the scene by making it to the semis at Wimbledon two years ago. At 20, he has not bothered to assume the icy demeanor of a Borg of the gentlemanly habits of Smith or Ashe. He plays like he's still on the junior circuit, where there are usually no linesmen to handle disputes, no crowd to jump on his every comment, no reporters to write columns like this.

He attracts fans like Richie. As he had the previous ten days, Richie took the subway up from Woodside to watch McEnroe dissect Connors in the semis. He sat in a courtside box that was clearly not his own, and burrows of ripped flesh criss-crossed his palm like tic-tac-toe patterns locked in mortal combat. There was blood on his hands, but the kid from Queens didn't feel guilty, not a bit.

"Oh, the hands? I was climbing over the fence, you know, with the wire on top, and got cut. I haven't paid to get in yet."

He was for..."McEnroe. 'Knew him in school, sort of. He was a jerk, actually, but he's from my school and I'm for him. And besides, Connors grunts too loud."

McEnroe, rope-a-doping his opponent like Ali in his prime, wore Connors down and took the match in straight sets. "All right!" Richie shouted before scurrying off. "All right!" For Richie and John McEnroe, this year's U. S. Open was not the pits.

SPORTS NOTE

The men's varsity soccer team is looking for a manager. Those interested should contact John Sanacore, the varsity captain, at 489-5813.