U.S., Down 2-1, Is Left Wishing It Were April in Paris
He enters with a raised fist and departs blowing kisses, and as long as he is on the tennis court, the stadium is no longer an inanimate object: the bleachers roar, the glass doors steam over and a fever pitch prevails. Henri Leconte, the curse of Paris after his 1988 French Open surrender to Mats Wilander, is currently the lion of Lyons.
