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.

I can’t quite pinpoint how I knew tennis was mine. Maybe it was the smell of freshly cracked cans of balls, or the sweet pop of a racquet hitting just right. Maybe it was the fact that it came naturally to me, or that I didn’t have to share turns like in team sports. Maybe it was the bond with my dad. Maybe it was all of it. All I know is that tennis was me, and I was tennis.

I was fortunate to grow up with an inner-city tennis league where most players were Black and brown. Soon I was on the intermediate-to-advanced competition team, playing on the furthest courts from the entrance—the “cool” courts. We bonded quickly: Black, Asian, Indian, Indigenous kids, all shades of brown, all eager to sharpen our strokes. It was the best kind of community.

But outside those courts? Tennis was invisible. At my predominantly white suburban schools, at my Black church in the city, even within Jack and Jill (a social organization for Black families), no one cared about tennis. Football and basketball were the sports that mattered. Loving tennis wasn’t just seen as nerdy—it was often framed as “less Black.” (I’ve since learned that wasn’t true everywhere, but in my immediate world, including my extended family, tennis was looked down on.)

The isolation was real. Sometimes it was the sting of being teased outright, other times it was the loneliness of being the only kid who lit up for this game. I clung to the camaraderie of my teammates and to the sight of the Williams sisters rewriting history, proof that I wasn’t wrong for believing tennis was the greatest sport of all time.

And, in case you’re wondering, it is.

I didn’t yet have the words to explain why tennis felt so magical, but I knew it was shaping me in ways I wouldn’t recognize until later. The toughness it demands—mental and physical—is unmatched.

Aside from doubles, tennis is almost entirely individual. You must learn to trust every part of your mind, body, and spirit. You must become your own best friend—overcoming self-doubt, self-esteem struggles, and self-worth battles. Every match asks you to fight inner wars you didn’t know you were carrying, sometimes point by point. No subs, no teammates to cover you. Just your mind, your body, your racquet, the court, and the ball—every time.

And for Black women in what has always been seen as a “white man’s sport,” the battle is layered, relentless, and unforgiving. To put it plainly: being a Black woman in tennis means playing three matches at once—the one across the net, the one in your mind, and the one against the world’s gaze. And every Black woman who has dared to fight all three with her racquet as her weapon is nothing short of revolutionary.

Before There Was Serena, There Was Althea

This year’s U.S. Open honored the 75th anniversary of Althea Gibson becoming the first Black tennis player allowed to compete at a major championship (what we now call the Grand Slams). In 1956, she became the first African American to win one, taking the French Championships (now Roland Garros). She followed with back-to-back titles at Wimbledon and the U.S. Nationals (now the U.S. Open) in 1957 and 1958. To mark this milestone, the U.S. Open unveiled a stunning 3D logo of Gibson’s silhouette—designed by a Black woman, another groundbreaking first for the tournament.

I don’t need to recount every racist obstacle Gibson faced to even step foot on those courts, let alone to become the first Black champion of three of the four majors. A quick Google search can give you that history.

What strikes me instead is the crushing pressure she bore—not just from the white establishment that fought to keep her out, but from the Black community itself. The moment she turned professional, Black media criticized her for not climbing the rankings fast enough and for avoiding public commentary on social issues. She preferred to let her racquet speak for her—a sentiment echoed decades later by Taylor Townsend when she faced racist bullying at this year’s U.S. Open.

Although Gibson rose to world No. 1 and collected more than 50 singles and doubles titles, she was never afforded the same sponsorships or financial opportunities as her white peers. That lack of support left her struggling financially during and after her career. In later years, she reflected that maybe she hadn’t broken the racial barriers she once believed she had. It would be another decade before Arthur Ashe became the next Black Grand Slam champion—and the first (and only) Black man to do so—and another 31 years before Serena Williams claimed her first major, beginning her ascent to the greatest of all time.

Shattering Ceilings After Gibson

Ms. Gibson broke the color barrier, and in true Black woman fashion, others took the torch and shattered every ceiling in sight. Still, it would be nearly 40 years after Gibson first stepped onto the U.S. Nationals court before another Black woman found similar success. In 1983, Leslie Allen became the first Black player ranked inside the Top 20. In 1988, Zina Garrison became the first Black woman to win Olympic gold in tennis, and in 1990, the first since Gibson to reach a Grand Slam final. In 1996, Chanda Rubin broke into the Top 10. Then, in 1999, Serena Williams won the U.S. Open, becoming the first Black woman since Gibson to win a Slam. The following year, Venus Williams became the first Black woman to win Wimbledon since Gibson. And just earlier this year, Coco Gauff became only the third Black woman to win the French Open, joining Gibson and Serena in history. Special nods also go to players such as Hailey Baptiste, Taylor Townsend, and Asia Muhammad, who are making their mark as role models, trailblazers, and proof of possibility for the next generation.

The resistance and resilience required to succeed in this sport is undeniable. Every Black woman who has followed Gibson’s path has had to summon grit and determination, no matter the outcome. There is a reason that, despite our dominance when we do break through, the number of Black professionals in the sport remains so small. Tennis is still a sport that feels nearly impossible to access—reserved for those with elite resources and thousands to spend on coaching and club memberships. Once again, it has been up to the Black community to carve our own lanes—through urban leagues, Black tennis clubs, and, of course, the Richard Williams way. (I currently coach my girls myself because professional training is simply beyond our reach.)

This is why the strides we’ve made and the accomplishments we’ve claimed are so remarkable. We were never supposed to be included in this sport—and in many ways, we still aren’t. To this day, the pressures on Black women players remain relentless. From the racist commentary the Williams sisters endured about their bodies, hair, and physical features, to the criticism Coco Gauff faces every time she shows vulnerability on court, to the body-shaming Taylor Townsend received from the USTA despite her #1 juniors ranking—Black women continue to be scrutinized, underestimated, and held to impossible standards. As I mentioned earlier, tennis forces you to overcome your toughest battles—and for Black women, those battles are compounded by racism, sexism, and systemic barriers, making every accomplishment that much more extraordinary.

The Game That Never Let Me Go

When I was 12, I began imagining myself as a professional tennis player. By then, I had been competing for a few years and was determined to make my dreams a reality. I had no real sense of how kids with their sights set on going pro were training eight hours a day and finishing their schooling online, but I was practicing constantly, playing at a high level, and hopeful that I could either go pro or at least play Division I college tennis.

By the time I was a freshman in high school, I had made the varsity team and ranked among the top ten players in my age bracket in my USTA region. Unfortunately, a devastating decision was made for me to quit tennis after my junior year. (I won’t get into details—I’ll save that for my next book.) I was heartbroken, but my love for the game never wavered, and I kept hope that the courts and I would soon reunite. I continued training with my dad, and when I got to Howard University, I found the tennis team, walked up to the coach, and begged him to give me a shot. He obliged, I tried out, I made the team—and for a brief moment, it looked like my collegiate dream was alive.

But the year I had taken off from tennis, coupled with a back injury I never had proper medical support for, caught up to me. My body simply broke down under the training load, and I couldn’t keep up. Just like that, my tennis career was over.

Still, I clung to the game wherever I could. I’d sneak in practice sessions with the Howard team or head out to a campus court alone, hitting serve after serve, just to feel whole. Anytime I came home from school, I played with my dad. But when I lost him just two years after graduation, grief swallowed me whole. I hung up my racquets for good.

Well—for almost ten years.

During that decade, my body failed me again and again. A weak spine from that lingering injury, compounded by endometriosis and autoimmune issues, made even short stints on the court unbearable. Each attempt ended the same: pain, frustration, and defeat. It was as if my body was whispering, “This was never yours to keep.” I grieved what I thought was the permanent closing of my tennis chapter. I refused to watch the pros, losing track of the very players I once obsessed over. Tennis and I had broken up for good—and I wanted every trace of her gone.

I threw myself into marriage and motherhood. I tried to convince myself that my identity was in raising my children and supporting my husband’s dreams. I took on a career I didn’t love, convinced that was all I was capable of. I tried to forget.

But tennis wouldn’t let me forget. She kept calling my name—every court I drove past, every tournament headline I caught in passing, every memory of my dad feeding me balls—each one left pangs in my chest that felt too sharp to carry. I longed for my sport. I longed for that sweet sound of a cleanly struck ball, the smell of a freshly opened can of balls, and the feeling of belonging that only a tennis court ever gave me.

So, after ten years, I stopped running. I picked up a battered racquet from Goodwill, found a court with a decent hitting wall, and started over. Slowly, carefully, stubbornly. A friend connected me with a coach, and I began retraining my game. I rebuilt my strength, re-learned my mechanics, and added the modern techniques I had missed. Two years later, I was back—stronger, faster, more confident than I’d ever been.

Now, I play at a high level again. My body is thriving instead of failing me. And I’m coaching my beautiful daughters, passing along this love to the next generation of Black girls who will carry the torch further than I ever could.

The beauty of my return is that I play on my own terms. As much as I’ve always loved this sport, the mental battles it demands crushed me when I was younger. My self-doubt was high, my self-worth was low, and my nerves often betrayed me. Seamless, powerful practice sessions collapsed into shaky matches. My coaches began to lose faith, and eventually, I did too. My confidence crumbled, and it felt like the game I adored had betrayed me.

Now, it’s different. Now, I’m reclaiming my power with tennis. My return isn’t about rekindling a childhood dream of the U.S. Open. It’s about proving to myself that I can conquer the battles I once ran from. That I was always worth it. That I was always good enough. That I always belonged on these courts.

It’s about fighting the same battles Althea Gibson, Zina Garrison, Chanda Rubin, Venus and Serena Williams, and Coco Gauff have had to fight—not just on the court, but within themselves and against a world that never expected them to win.

Every Swing is History

Tennis is a game that demands you take up space to be successful, no matter what level you are playing at. There are no teammates to hide behind, no excuses. You must physically cover the entire court, you must mentally roar yourself to victory (even if that victory isn’t on the scoreboard), and you must push yourself past every limit. You cannot shrink yourself in this sport. You must claim your power unapologetically. This is exactly why this is the one of the best sports for Black women and girls to play—and why we’ve dominated in such revolutionary ways since we first dared to step onto this white man’s court.

Our society was built on the premise of Black people, especially Black women, being shrunken into corners, and falling for the rhetoric that we don’t deserve to be there, thus doing white supremacy’s work for it. We have been conditioned to believe that we must be small, diminished versions of ourselves to survive this oppressive world. Every Black woman who has refused to fall for that propaganda and shattered doors and ceilings everywhere is nothing short of magical. What I love about tennis is that this will be the result every Black girl experiences the moment a racquet is in her hand. She will break down doors, she will shatter ceilings. Because tennis requires no less from you in every swing, every serve, every step. And tennis will do nothing but bring out every ounce of magic you were burying, forcing you to see yourself for who you really are, and the space you deserve to take up in this world.

When Black girls play tennis, it is both an act of defiance and of self-love. It is revolutionary and transformative. And it is a way of carrying the legacy of those who came before us into the future—Althea Gibson, Zina Garrison, the Williams sisters, and all the Black women who paved the courts we walk on today.

For every Black girl who picks up a racquet, do not put it down. You don’t have to go pro. You don’t have to be a champion. Simply choosing to play a sport that built its structures around keeping the doors shut to you is one of the most revolutionary things you can do. Now, don’t get me wrong—if you want to go pro and be a champion, do it! But you don’t have to do that to claim your power. You are already a champion just by refusing to give up on a sport that requires so much from you while teaching you how to trust yourself. Let this force you to face yourself. Let this sport force you to become at one with yourself. Let this sport teach you how to unapologetically take up space both on and off the court. Let this sport transform you, and keep passing the torch—er, racquet—to the next generation of Black girls who will run through every barrier those who came before us, and those who are battling now, have broken.

Every time a Black girl steps onto a court, she is not just playing—she is rewriting history.

Sources:
https://www.biography.com/athletes/a64970005/althea-gibson-tennis-legacy

https://www.history.com/articles/althea-gibson-tennis-racial-barrier