In the bizarro world of league tennis, there is nothing that makes your blood boil quite like maintaining the "monastic silence" of a US Open final while the opposing team’s cheering section acts like they’re front row at a Coachella set. You bite your tongue when your partner hits a line-painting winner, yet the moment your ball catches the tiniest bit of wind, the opponents’ bench erupts into a choreographed "LETS GOOO!" that can be heard three zip codes away. It’s a specialized kind of psychological warfare where you’re forced to play the role of the "bigger person," which mostly involves hitting your next serve slightly harder than humanly possible while wearing a frozen, polite smile that says, "I am a sportsman," but eyes that say, "I will be googling the exact bylaws of the USTA the moment I get to my car."