Love All: An Ode to Black Women in Tennis

I can’t remember the first time I stepped onto a tennis court. I just remember always being there. A racquet has been in my hands for as long as I can recall. My father, an avid player himself, put one in my grip as soon as he could get away with it. My earliest memory is being pulled from a beginner group lesson and moved up to an advanced court because I could already hit a forehand. I must have been five, maybe six. What I do remember—more than my age—was the squeak of tennis shoes from the older kids, the rhythmic thwack of balls being hit, and the elation that bubbled up every time I set foot on the court. Tennis felt like home from the beginning.