Celebs On Show At US Open Final 2026

Every single year, without fail, the universe demands that we bear witness to the exact same cultural spectacle: a stadium full of ridiculously rich people pretending to be deeply invested in the precise trajectory of a felt-covered rubber ball.

It’s the US Open finals in Flushing Meadows. A place where the humidity is roughly 104 percent, a single Honey Deuce cocktail costs the equivalent of a small mortgage payment, and Hollywood’s elite assemble in VIP boxes to perform the act of “enjoying sports.”

Page Six has compiled their annual visual ledger of the chaos. Let’s break down the sheer, unhinged energy of who actually showed up to Arthur Ashe Stadium:

• Brad Pitt (and Ines de Ramon): Brad has officially reached the phase of his life where he dresses exclusively like an exceptionally handsome architect who just discovered linen. He’s wearing sunglasses inside a shaded box, staring at Ben Shelton’s serve with the intensity of a man trying to remember if he left the oven on back in Bel-Air.

• Martha Stewart: Unbothered. Moisturized. Probably judgmentally assessing the structural integrity of the baseline court towels. Martha attending a tennis match carries the exact same energy as an aristocratic monarch inspecting a harvest—she isn’t there for the sport; the sport is happening in her presence.

• Courteney Cox: Sitting rigidly in high-end resort wear, executing the precise head-tilt required when you need to look fascinated by a 125mph serve while low-key praying the camera doesn’t zoom in on you eating a pretzel.

• Pierce Brosnan: Looking like a retired international spy who was dragged out of a Mediterranean villa solely because someone promised him free champagne. Exceptional hair. Absolutely zero idea what a break point is.

• Chris Pine: Channeling a guy who got lost on his way to an indie film festival in 1974, ended up in Queens, and decided to just roll with it.

• Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez Bezos: Naturally, the world’s most aggressively jacked tech overlord and his wife were strutting through Arthur Ashe Stadium like they owned the place—or were quietly calculating how many prime-time delivery slots it would take to purchase Flushing Meadows outright. Jeff is rocking a skin-tight blue shirt that looks dangerously close to bursting at the seams, strutting past the luxury suites like an extra in an upcoming Fast & Furious reboot. Meanwhile, Lauren is gliding alongside him in a flowy white dress and dark glasses, radiating the effortless confidence of a woman who knows her husband could physically buy the court, replace the net with solid gold, and hire the ball boys to fan them with palm leaves. They’re holding hands, soaking in the high-society spectacle, and generally proving that no matter how much money you have, you still can’t escape the surreal, humid madness of a Queens late-summer final.

• Anna Wintour: The final boss of tennis spectating. She’s sitting in her designated suite wearing signature pitch-black Chanel sunglasses—indoors, in dynamic low light, while a dark cloud rolls over Queens. She’s wearing a floral Prada coat and a expression of profound, soul-crushing disappointment. Anna doesn’t actually watch the tennis; she stares blankly at the court to remind the ball boys that their posture is deeply sub-par. If a long rally threatens to push the match past 4:00 PM, she can end it simply by lowering her visor three millimetres.

• Chuck Bass (Ed Westwick): Showed up to Arthur Ashe Stadium looking like he just stepped off a yacht that was illegally docked in the East River. He’s wearing a double-breasted silk blazer in a shade of plum that doesn’t exist in nature, holding a $22 Honey Deuce like it’s a flask of poison, and whispering sinister financial threats into a vintage Blackberry. He doesn’t care about the match. He’s exclusively here to initiate a hostile takeover of a boutique tennis racquet company and remind everyone within a fifty-yard radius that he is, in fact, Chuck Bass.

• Jalen Brunson: Staring at the baseline with the same intensely stoic, completely emotionless deadpan that he uses while systematically dissecting an entire NBA defense. He’s dressed in crisp, effortlessly expensive casual wear, attempting to enjoy a quiet afternoon of professional tennis. Except he physically cannot, because he is the King of New York, sitting fifty feet from a camera that keeps zooming in on his face every four seconds to remind the stadium that he’s the guy who brought a trophy back to Madison Square Garden.

• Nepo: And then, sitting three rows behind a visibly confused hedge fund manager, there’s Nepo. The anonymous, fully masked viral rap phenomenon responsible for “WHOS YA DADDY”—a track currently terrorizing every TikTok feed and East London basement club simultaneously. He’s lurking in the Arthur Ashe stands wearing his signature unhinged face covering, looking like a low-budget villain who just took a wrong turn on his way to a warehouse rave and decided to watch some tennis instead. While everyone else is delicately sipping Honey Deuces and pretending to understand the mechanics of a serve-and-volley, Nepo is hunched over in full disguise, radiating the exact energy of a guy who is 100 percent live-streaming the entire match to 400,000 teenagers on Twitch.

• Josh Hart: Absolute, unadulterated menace energy. Josh is not there to quietly appreciate the delicate nuances of a backhand slice; he is there exclusively to cause chaos and relentlessly annoy his own teammates. He’s spotted yelling across the blue carpet at Brunson, begging for a picture, getting completely shut down, and grinning anyway like a man who just successfully executed a minor public prank. He’s sipping drinks, live-tweeting the match, and generally behaving like a guy who won a contest to sit in the VIP suite and intends to make it everyone else’s problem.

• Karl-Anthony Towns: Strolling through Flushing Meadows looking like a high-fashion runway model who accidentally wandered into a Grand Slam. He’s glued to his phone checking football scores while simultaneously taking in a high-stakes rally, trying to balance being a proper New York sports superstar with the existential panic of missing an NFL kickoff. He looks thoroughly delighted, mildly confused by the tennis etiquette, and entirely unbothered by Josh Hart publicly calling him out on the internet for being a fake football fan.

It’s an astounding ecosystem. You’ve got Oscar winners, pop stars, and Anna Wintour sitting mere feet away from thousands of sweaty fans, all united by the singular, existential dread of knowing they have to commute back to Manhattan on the 7 train after this. Bleak, glorious, and completely inescapable.