Today’s guest is Brian Park, a New York-based comedian, actor, and writer. Perhaps you’ve seen his videos on Instagram? Let’s call them mini mockumentaries of a certain kind of coastal elite guy; someone who could deliver sermons about Our Legacy’s custom-developed fabrics, or Diptyque’s olfactory nuances, but would struggle to change a lightbulb.

Elsewhere, Brian co-hosts a culture podcast called Middlebrow which he says is often described by women as “the only podcast hosted by men that l listen to.” Finally! A bro-cast for the ladies. Brian is also a very good tennis player, and he is charitable to occasionally share the court with me.

What’s your game like?

I recently played with a Romanian coach who described my game as “very American.” When I asked if that was a good thing, he shook his head no.

I grew up in the 90s playing on hard courts in the scorching heat of El Paso, Texas. I was taught to play first strike tennis, and to finish points at the net as quickly as possible. Although, as I write this, I realize that probably had less to do with strategy and more to do with the coaches not wanting to be held liable for a child’s heatstroke.

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Your best and worst qualities?

I think I have a strong all-round feel for the game. I have good anticipation and pick my spots well, but I need to stress that this is out of sheer necessity, since my conditioning is subpar. An apt car analogy would be like, I know when to shift gears really, really well because the low gas light has been on for thirty miles and I don’t know if we’re going to make it home.

Why do you keep coming back to tennis?

Because I have a propensity for negative self-talk and tennis is a socially acceptable arena for me to really LEAN INto that.

SERVE
Federer. An underrated element of Federer’s game was his ability to disguise his serve. From an identical ball toss, he could pull you out wide with a hard kick serve, jam you up the middle, or ace you with a slice up the T—and you’d have no idea which was coming.

FOREHAND
Fernando Gonzalez. The dude reached the top 5 without a backhand. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been trying to be more content with letting things go, and tennis is no exception. Sometimes the best thing for your game is to accept that you’re just a guy with a bad backhand, and you can still be pretty damn good anyway. Ed. note: I enjoyed this video, ‘10 Minutes of HUGE Fernando Gonzalez Forehands.’

BACKHAND
Justine Henin. One of the most elegant strokes across both the men’s and women’s game, and it’s remarkable how much power she generated with it at only 5’5”.

NET GAME
John McEnroe. Elite feel. Even better ‘Tsitsipas’ pronunciation.

MOVEMENT
Steffi Graf. She’s the blueprint for today’s baseline game. Watch old highlights and you’ll see why. She split-steps, stays light on her toes, and always gets back to the T.

(SARTORIAL) STYLE
Gustavo Kuerten. He’s the embodiment of effortless cool. The baggy, football-inspired Diadora tops, the short shorts, the matching bandana on the red clay of Roland Garros. It all works because he just has the sauce. You can find images of Yevgeny Kafelnikov in the exact same Diadora kit and he’ll look utterly swagless.

For something more recent, I want to give a shoutout to Jack Draper’s baggy 2024 US Open Nike kit. Unfortunately, he followed that up with a tragic Vuori partnership.

A SECRET SEVENTH THING
Unorthodoxy! With the advent of polyester strings and spin-oriented racquets, tennis has become increasingly homogenized. The game has converged toward baseline bashing, which is why I love watching players with funky games who consistently find a way to win. Give me Medvedev’s pretzel-like forehand and weird downward shovel backhand, Chwalińska’s off-speed looping moon balls, and Moutet’s mid-rally forehand slices any day.

And for us recreational players, there’s so much we can gain by incorporating some of those unusual choices into our own games. I’ve definitely won more points by throwing in a random off-speed lob than I ever did with my short-lived Nadal-style buggy-whip forehand finish.

• If you read my last dispatch, you’ll know my forehand has been janky. On the one hand, it’s overthinking. But also: sometimes I’ll be swinging freely with BBB— beautiful blank brain—and think I’ve hit a sick one, only to watch my tape back and wince. Tomorrow is my first lesson in about three years! May I be humbled, then quickly ascend 🙏

• I don’t think I realized Caty McNally was sponsorless. I’m quite into whatever her swishy Cinci dress is—if we ignore that it’s an anemic shade of salmon—because maybe skirts really should have this much free will?? Would be better in like, azure and brown.

• Fairly certain there’s nothing a person can do about her tennis sock tan but I would love to stand corrected. Also the volume of complimentary comments on this man’s dogs seems outsized.

  

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How I played

I hit three times last week; which is a sharp improvement on any single week in my past four months. Performance was of course mixed, because when you’ve been a 4.0 for this long you should consider hypnotism to rewire your entire mental and cannot be trusted to uphold any sense of consistency. Boo hoo; now, anyway, the first hit of the week was with my patient and placid husband. I wasn’t feeling it, and decided to behave badly about it. I let my (still! after all this time!) problematic ball toss derail not only my service games but all my strokes. He’s the only one I’ll let observe my fully unsheathed petulance and I deserve the way he bemoans it.

I played with Dan a few days later. He served well and ripped some forehands but ultimately we’re a pair of yoyos and decided to retire at 6-6, burying the possibility of a tiebreak and one of us having to lose. We met Milo (patient husband) afterwards for breakfast and he complained to Dan about my immature behavior (patient, yet mouthy). I told him we’d talk about this when we get home*.

In between those two hits I played four “first to 10s” with Joe. I wouldn’t be reporting that I won four of four had he not written mercilessly about me in his little diary.

What I saw on New York’s courts

On a Monday, I am waiting, like Ashlee Simpson, at East River Park at 8am with my racquet in the fence behind twelve others. It’s an unpredictable locale, this one—which makes me realize how overzealous my intentions from the last newsletter were. On Wednesday, I saw someone who could be 100-year-old Dorothy from Instagram’s younger sister hitting at Pier 42, and she was unbelievable. She took little twinkle-toe steps to get perfectly into position before connecting with the ball so sweetly. Over the other side of the net was her husband who wasn’t as lively nor as good, not that you came here for a competitive analysis of strangers well into their eighties.

What I consumed

As a freelancer, it is my duty to—when clients do not own me—be laid out on the couch with nary a care for the time, the whims of the weather, the rhymes, the reasons. And so there I was, watching a few inconsequential matches from the ATP 250 tournament in Estoril, Portugal, simply because I could, and because I have my friend Angie’s Tennis Channel login (🙏).

I also consumed this infuriating reel about “hidden” tennis walls in New York; a fraudulent pantomime about handball walls that exist in plain sight for those walking around with their eyes open :)

I ogled some stuff on eBay and Poshmark—this 90s Bebe Sport one-piece is fab—ultimately not buying anything because I want for nothing material so long as my forehand is looking the way it currently is (jerky and dare I say, slappy). Leading me to my next point…

What I talked about

With my hitting brethren and my Instagram reply guys, I talked about the waxing and waning of said forehand and how it can be fixed only with coaching intervention, probably. Welp. I then texted a coach named Allan and begged him to Fix Me. This was my forehand last year; we have some issues. Rest assured, it is even worse now! Allan is in for quite the challenge.

Like a celebrity bosom splashed upon a tabloid cover, the group chat was heaving with tales of getting high, accidentally, before a hit. This is the only one that feels safe enough to publish:

With another anon associate, I discussed how hot Ugo Humbert’s girlfriend, Tessah Andrianjafitrimo, is.

So there’s all that. Anything to report on your end?

*We don’t because this is a joke.

Today’s guest is Stuart Brumfitt, who has been professionally liable for something mouthy internet denizens are obsessed with but mightn’t ever master—having taste—practically his whole career. All’s to say, Stu has an impressive oeuvre as an Editor, having helmed all the good titles (Fantastic Man, The Face, i-D, Dazed) and now, his very own tennis dominion, BAGEL, of which I am a big fangirl. Over to Stu.

What’s your game like?

In the ’90s, we all wanted to be amazing baseliners, but also had old-school British coaches teaching us to chip and charge and serve and volley. So it’s a mixed-up game of baseline fantasy and lawn tennis relic shots.

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My game is probably closest to my old favorite Steffi Graf, going for big forehands and slicing every backhand. All the top coaches we’ve interviewed in BAGEL say said the most important thing is identifying your game. I really need to do that.

Why do you keep coming back to tennis?

I stopped playing tennis for 15-20 years, but when I started again in my mid-30s, I was hit by this gorgeous nostalgia for all the time I’d spent on court, the joy of hitting and the sport’s aesthetics. I still hate playing matches though—too much junior tournament PTSD. If I were on tour, I’d rather be the hitting partner than the player.

SERVE
Serena. I just saw both her comeback matches live at Queens and Wimbledon and it is the most perfectly-oiled machine. The crowd gasped every time she cracked one over 120mph. Or Federer for effortlessness and placement.

FOREHAND
Alcaraz. It follows this perfect arc where the tip of the racket hits the limit of the human swing. You can almost see a circle around it, like da Vinci’s Vitruvian man.

BACKHAND
Anisimova. Women have by far the best two-handed backhands. I love the stat where hers was bigger than all the men’s backhands at the last US Open. Absolute bullet. I have a long, boring story that I like to tell people about how my junior career crumbled when I changed to a one-hander (because I copied a guy a couple of years older who I fancied). Basically, I wish I still had a great double-hander in the mould of Amanda and the old greats like Moncia Seles and Jennifer Capriati.

MOVEMENT
Federer. So pantherine!

NET GAME
Federer. Because he’s not a classic serve and volleyer, but still better than all the S&V purists. Or one of the doubles pros, who few of us know enough about. Watching doubles live is so much fun. It’s weird it’s never translated onto TV. Justice for them.

(SARTORIAL) STYLE
Mattia Bellucci. His new C.P. Company kits are the best thing to have happened to tennis since the early noughties. They’ve got enough of a nod to nostalgia but are in contemporary materials. In the new issue, we asked him who the best dressed player is and he unflinchingly said himself. Fair enough. The yellow print boxy polo he wore earlier this year is my heaven.

A SECRET SEVENTH THING
When I was a closeted teenager on holiday in LA, I sat next to Pat Rafter on a tour of Universal Studios and had his big, hairy, tanned thighs rubbing up against mine. Let’s call it an awakening.

• I moved house, and I think I want to make the twelve resplendent East River Park hard courts my bitch (my home courts). If early mornings are convenient for you, let’s talk?!?!

• Thanks and praise to deadpan overlord MC Nanda for saying what I couldn’t about the state of Miu Miu. “Salesforce,” “West Village” and “influencer corporate merch” are key terms; but I’ll leave you with the TikTok link. Coco is just wearing extremely normal tennis clothes with a $1400 logo affixed, y’know???

• If I were to host an event in New York, what would be good? Some casual hitting? Cocktail hour and dating? Vintage tennis clothes curation? All that and more? Please weigh in. Ideas are percolating and ideally, I can merge them with yours.

Stan Wawrinka’s backhand is decidedly poetic, but his desirability is less cut and dry.

Stan is not topping too many ‘Heartthrob’ lists—though Interview recently declared Tommy Paul the biggest one in our sport, and I appreciate the campy term’s revival. There’s a pedestrian quality to Stan; like he might enjoy eating in a food court after cruising the mall. His haircut is achingly normal. My friend thinks he would mow a great lawn. For that reason, it feels oddly formal to call him ‘Wawrinka’.

Stan, short for Stanislas, has won three majors: the 2014 Australian Open, the 2015 French Open, and the 2016 US Open. On the heels of that sophomore slam, he was featured in ‘The Body Issue’ of ESPN’s then-magazine, dressed rather like a Shaggy in denial: butt-naked. Somehow, I had missed this nude moment eleven years ago. But it certainly doesn’t zap my thesis: that Stan is desirable.

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In the ESPN shoot’s accompanying interview those eleven years ago, Stan revealed, “When I was younger, I was a little bit fat. I wasn’t big-time fat, I was just overweight—maybe around when I was 13 or 14.” I read this and thought to myself, well, I had a sneaking suspicion. Few things are more character-building than being a chubby kid. Today, his body leans stocky; it’s the kind you can imagine will yield easily to his looming retirement. This is a guy whose god-given body didn’t usher him neatly into professional tennis—and yet. But this is about so much more than Stan’s beautiful body.

Not that his powerful quads don’t deserve credit. They carried the weight of his famously “ugly” shorts; the purple, picnicky pair he wore to steal the 2015 French Open from Djokovic.

‘Daggy’ is Australian slang for something or someone that is unfashionable, uncool, messy, or socially awkward, yet often in an endearing or amusing way. The fit of Stan’s shorts and the eye-straining print are unbelievably daggy, and tell the story of an imperfect, emotionally tender man. “Everybody is on about my shorts. I love them, but I seem to be the only one,” he admitted. “They are three-in-one: a bathing suit, tennis shorts, pyjamas.” Grand slam champions are not typically concerned with the cost-per-wear of their garments, but Stan is FTP (for the people) and, crucially, fine to zig when his peers zag. Two-thirds of the players du jour, Federer and Djokovic—muscularly lithe with 0% body fat and evermore the picture of tennis players than Stan—dressed unfussily. The other third, Rafa, was known for wearing “happy colors” on court. Plausibly, the public would’ve taken well to the shorts if it were Rafa wearing them. But real heads know the allure of Stan is his marginal wrong-ness.

Stan has been at the helm of some of my favorite on-court quarrels over the years. When Frenchman Jo-Wilfried Tsonga thought our guy stared at him a little too long at a changeover during the 2017 Australian Open, Stan took the bait. They had a very daft, circular conversation that I found fascinating:

Stan: It’s you staring at me, and who is talking.

Tsonga: I did not say anything. I was absolutely not staring at you.

Stan: Are you looking for trouble? I do not understand. Did I stare at you?

…

Stan: Did I stare at you once?

Tsonga: Of course.

Stan: What? Did I stare at you once? When?

Tsonga: Just now.

Stan: You are staring at me.

Pharrell’s ‘Happy’ plays over the loudspeakers. Neither man claps along.

Tsonga: [says something inaudible]

Stan: You are staring at me. This is a tennis match, calm down.

Tsonga: [says another inaudible thing]

Stan: This is just a tennis match. Relax.

I don’t necessarily applaud Stan for this toddler-level exchange. He deployed two of the most scalding imperatives: “calm down” and “relax”, while he himself was on the precipice of feral. But I like that he stayed on message. He didn’t detour places neither here nor there—as Kyrgios did, for instance, the time he crassly suggested that Thanasi Kokkinakis had “banged” Stan’s girlfriend (Donna Vekic) in the midst of a tight match at the 2015 National Bank Open. (A few weeks ago, Stan endorsed Kyrgios as an “amazing player,” deserving of an AO 2026 wild card—though Kyrgios had his sights set elsewhere: losing in round one of both the doubles and mixed.)

Stan will fight for the little things, like room-temperature drinking water. I, too, prefer unchilled water—but won’t object to it if it’s all that’s offered. Stan objects. For he is a professional athlete and his body need not WORK HARDER to turn “fricking freezing water” into a legitimate source of hydration. But at the 2022 French Open, the complaint landed as if Stan was asking someone to take an arduous trek, plunge a pail into a well, and return with a rarified resource. For what it’s worth, if you were Stan’s girl? He would go to the well for you if you needed water, and he would never tell you to calm down.

And even if you don’t desire him, I know we can agree Stan’s backhand is one of the most titillating this sport has ever seen. I hope you’ll join me in wolf-whistling at him during his final lap of honor later in the year.

The Play Boys is a newsletter chronicling local tennis in New York by longtime friends, Paul Tedesco and David Allee. They hit, eat somewhere after, and write about it. Put differently, they write about FRIENDSHIP.

As a follow-up to Hard Hitting’s Brooklyn tennis court guide, Mel felt a Manhattan parallel was in order—this is that, assembled by city denizens Paul and David.

Manhattan tennis is a collection of small fiefdoms—held together by permits, personalities and a few stretches of proper clay. It’s not built for spontaneity. You plan ahead, or you hustle. Ideally both. These are our most frequented courts and where to feed yourself after.

1. Riverside Park Clay

Location: Hudson River Greenway, New York, NY 10025
Getting a court: 🎾🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾🎾🎾
Cost: Free (with NYC Tennis Permit)

If you squint while playing on any of these ten majestic red clay courts, it feels exactly like hitting in Europe.

A Park’s pass will get you in, or you can go online at 12:01am one week in advance when reservations go live. This exercise—which we do often—is humbling, and can feel like a part-time job. But worth it if you love clay and red stains on your socks in the summer.

The courts play slow and soft, with variable bounces, as proper clay should be.

For your information: Sweeping the courts is not optional—and yes, you need to do the lines. Both sets.

Court DNA:

• European-ish clay fantasy

• High booking difficulty, high reward

• Mostly locals and elders with good strokes and bad knees

• Hitting pro Gary is a mythological constant who we’ve yet to see ever miss a shot

Post-play bites: Sullivan Street Bakery (236 9th Ave, New York, NY 10001)

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2. Lower East Side

Location: FDR Dr, New York, NY 10002
Getting a Court: 🎾🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾
Cost: Free (with NYC Tennis Permit)

The new LES/Brian Watkins Tennis Center courts in East River Park are just north of the Williamsburg Bridge. The Park was demolished a few years ago, including the courts, and rebuilt ten feet higher as a levee for the Lower East Side. Now stand twelve courts, broken into two separate twin six hard court plateaus.

With no surrounding trees, brace yourself for zero shade and the swirling winds coming off the East River. The noise from the bridge above and the adjacent FDR can be deafening which is maybe also perfect because it weeds out a good swath of (sensitive) people you’d be competing with for a court.

If you live downtown and don’t have time to travel or wait hours at Hudson River Park, this is your best (perhaps only?!) option.

For your information: The urban landscape is hard to beat and the courts still have that new car smell.

Court DNA:

• High heat index tennis, possible winds, probability of other elemental concerns

• Young buck dominance

• Probably the best of only a few options downtown

• A soothing bridge and highway soundscape

Post-play bites: Abraço (81 E 7th St, New York, NY 10003)

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3. Central Park

Location: 1 West 96th Street &, Central Park W, New York, NY 10025
Getting a court: 🎾🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾🎾🎾
Cost: Free (with NYC Tennis Permit)

This is the flagship of Manhattan tennis. Central Park Tennis Center is where tourists imagine New Yorkers play all the time, and where New Yorkers actually do—provided they have permits, time and resilience.

Gorgeous, yes. Relaxing? When playing, sure—though the queue can be quite the opposite. Some regulars start lining up as early as 5:30am and have for decades.

Clay shoes required, a max of six balls allowed on court, and Vicky (the heartbeat of the facility) polices it all. She will call you out and scold you over the PA if need be.

For your information: This is classic Manhattan tennis with deep generational regulars who have many tales to tell, many of them tall.

Court DNA:

• High-demand with early morning line culture. Controlled chaos across 30 courts

• Peak scenic tennis on the city’s oldest courts from the late 1800s

• Landmarked Tennis House with snack bar and locker rooms

Post-play bites: Daily Provisions (375 Amsterdam Ave, New York, NY 10024)

4. Vanderbilt Tennis Club

Location: 15 Vanderbilt Ave 4th Floor, New York, NY 10017
Getting a court: 🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾+ // Vibe: 🎾🎾🎾
Cost: $100+

It’s one of the city’s great flexes to say you play here.

To find Vanderbilt Tennis Club on the fourth floor inside of Grand Central Terminal is half the sport, requiring you to navigate elevators, ramps and chaotic commuters.

Inside: One show court with uneven light, weird acoustics, and overhangs that swat lobs like Olajuwon. Staff is supreme.

The tradeoff is you’re playing tennis where most people are rushing to find Track 107.

For your information: This is “stealth” tennis that is no longer fully stealth. It’s become something of a pilgrimage site for people who like telling other people they’ve been somewhere slightly impossible.

Court DNA:

• Hard court in solid shape

• Most expensive court in the city. The SPECTACLE, though!

• Oddly placed lighting and an arched window you could fly an Airbus through make for spotty vision.

• Playing in a fishbowl for tourist groups

Post-play bites: Pavé (20 W 46th St, New York, NY 10036)

5. Hudson River Park

Location: 92 Hudson River Greenway, New York, NY 10014
Getting a court: 🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾🎾🎾
Cost: Free

Bring a book to read performatively your fully charged phone, some snacks, and get ready to wait in a numbered bench queue from hell. Hudson River Park Tennis Courts, located on land that not long ago was apocalyptic, are now beautiful public courts.

Three courts, two regular sized and one single. First-come, first-get-to-serve. A one hour wait is considered short but the youth that frequent these blue devils are undeterred—the young have a higher threshold for waiting, as evidenced by the lines at local TikTok food spots.

For your information: This is one of the more democratic tennis setups in Manhattan—which is another way of saying it runs on shared frustration and a social contract. Be a good guy. Don’t lie about the time you got on and for the love of God, don’t play longer than an hour even if no one asks.

Court DNA:

• Younger crowd, slightly too cheerful for people who mostly can’t really play tennis and just waited two hours to do so

• Waterfront wind as a tactical and annoying variable

• One hour of play enforced by constant eye-rolling and a flimsy honor system

• No friendly or grumpy park employees because no NYC permit required (it’s technically a State park)

• Lighted courts, open and busy until 1am

Post-play bites: The Ear Inn (326 Spring St, New York, NY 10013)

6. The Jungle

Location: W. 151st St &, Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd, New York, NY 10039
Getting a court: 🎾🎾🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾🎾🎾
Cost: Free (with NYC Tennis Permit)

Frederick Johnson Tennis Courts, aka The Jungle, are among the city’s most storied courts. Althea Gibson learned to play here and it was Arthur Ashe’s training ground.

The Jungle nickname is inherited from nearby jazz-age blocks that once went all night with musicians improvising and competing to outplay each other. These tennis courts are in step with that: high energy, controlled chaos, oldheads.

For your information: This is one of the few NYC tennis sites where cultural history and memory are in the air, along with possibly a few ghosts.

Court DNA:

• Eight resurfaced hard courts, easily available in the morning

• Mediocre surface, plays slow and soft, with strange echo on the bounce

• Feels removed from Manhattan mainstream tennis scene, in a good way

• All ages and levels, local atmosphere

• Squeezed between buildings and river = gusty

Post-play bites: Cocina Consuelo (130 Hamilton Pl, New York, NY 10031)

7. Sutton East Tennis Club

Location: 488 E 60th St, New York, NY 10022
Getting a court: 🎾🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾
Cost: Free (with NYC Tennis Permit)

Sutton East is a collection of red clay courts shoved under a highway in Manhattan. Type A personalities will recoil at its clumsy geometry. But somehow it works, and somehow it’s even a little bit grand-feeling.

For your information: Consider this Manhattan tennis in a bubbled nutshell held together by duct tape and determination.

Court DNA:

• Eight indoor red clay courts in a bubble under the Queensboro Bridge

• Tight play with lobster trap netting sidelines

• Humid in heat—can play wet and slick

• Very mixed-skill crowd but heavy with neighborhood regulars

• Free to play with NYC tennis permit May-September; otherwise pricy

• Janky clubhouse and pro shop

Post-play bites: C&B (178 E 7th St, New York, NY 10009)

8. Fort Washington Park

Location: Hudson River Greenway, New York, NY 10032
Getting a court: 🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾🎾
Cost: Free (with NYC Tennis Permit)

This is expedition tennis through a real forest, with tunnels, dirt trails, underpasses, bridges and stairs; all the while hoping you won’t come across a body dumped in the brush.

Once at Fort Washington Park, the courts themselves are fine. And the setting a few feet from the river in the shadow of the G Dubs Bridge, with a view of the Palisades, is sorta spectacular.

For your information: This is the only Manhattan tennis experience that feels like your passion for the sport might not extend your life (this is “the healthiest sport in the world!”, remember?!) but instead, end it.

Court DNA:

• Ten hard courts; not pristine but playable

• Most isolated courts in NYC

• No foot traffic, no crowds, no tennis scene, no amenities

• Hills, shade, big trees and water breeze make it sneaky-playable in summer

• Pre-grid Manhattan and Revolutionary War-era terrain

Post-play bites: Lucille’s (26 Macombs Pl, New York, NY 10039)

9. Milstein Family Tennis Center (Columbia)

Location: 603 W 218th St, New York, NY 10034
Getting a court: 🎾 // Court quality: 🎾🎾🎾🎾 // Vibe: 🎾🎾
Cost: $100+

This is institutional tennis with a new-car smell and Ivy League CapEx.

Twelve Total Courts. Six Indoor (Rebound Ace fancy soft-feel hard court—Google it), and Six Outdoor on the roof (Decoturf). Everything well lit and well maintained.

This place is eerily polite for how competitive it actually is. Good chance you’ll play next to a 9-year-old who hits like baby Agassi and is already better than you.

For your information: It’s one of the only NYC tennis complexes that feels like it has operations. Maybe even a Head of Operations? There’s lighting, schedules, locker rooms, a coffee station… and fees to match.

Court DNA:

• Indoor Manhattan tennis with pedigree undertones

• No one is here accidentally

• Surfaces in mint condition but slightly slow

Post-play bites: G’s Coffee Shop (634 W 207th St, New York, NY 10034)

“Hi, my name is Conor Casey. When I’m not showing my 3-year-old daughter, Ella, old animated movies, or picking up mid-century modern furniture finds from Facebook marketplace with my pregnant partner, Katie, I’m a comedy writer, actor, director and tennis coach. I recently merged all my identities together into tennis content creator voltron @tenniscoachconorcasey on Instagram and Substack. I make comedic coaching content to help tennis players feel seen.”

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What kind of game do you play?

Theses days, if I play—which is rare—I hit a few forehand crossies, play the odd game to eleven, and maybe a set of dubs. When I did play (I had one ATP point) I was a serve-and volley-chip and charger coming in on everything—second serve, return of serve, the coin toss, you name it—I’m getting in tight.

Best and worst qualities of your game?

My best quality is my buttery soft hands. And humility. Also, when I was playing for The Ohio State Buckeyes, my coach, Ty Tucker, said I had, quote “the best second serve in the Big Ten.” That creates a strange “my best quality is surviving my worst quality” loop that I live in both on and off the tennis court. I excel at getting out of difficulty, and I carry a talent for getting myself into it in the first place.

Why do you keep coming back to tennis?

The rally. It blends my two favorite past times: micromanagement (every ball is another chance to tweak something ever so slightly) and working out. I really think the rally is the most underrated part of our game. I do my best writing there.

SERVE
Pete Sampras. His ability to paint the lines with second-serve aces break point down.

FOREHAND
Roger Federer. Will we ever see a more beautiful groundstroke?

BACKHAND
Stanimal Wawrinka. The one-handed backhand’s most majestic beast.

NET GAME: Stefan Edberg’s backhand volley, Pat Rafter’s forehand volley. Sampras’ overhead.

MOVEMENT
Serena Williams; love the splits

(SARTORIAL) STYLE
Pirate Agassi and Martina Navratilova’s glasses.

A SECRET SEVENTH THING
Marat Safin’s aura. (Also Steffi Graf’s legs, and John Newcombe’s mustache.)

Subscribe to Coach Casey here or follow him on Instagram here.

• Fritz fell in the first round of RG yesterday, ejected by 21-year-old countryman Nishesh Basavareddy. A tough go of it for Fritz—though he gave one of his signature clear-eyed press conferences—with his vulnerable knee and new relationship status, not that that’s any of my business. Something else that is beside the point: Nishesh looks great in eyewear, no?

• Does anyone have a bold prediction for the men’s draw they’d like to share with the class? Bold = someone, anyone, taking Sinner out. Spray it in the comments if you dare.

• Summer is coming, and summer is fun, despite the New York rain that’s put a dampener (haha) on our long weekend. Summer also means flings, dalliances, and/or meeting your future spouse. Close readers will know where this is going: I need names for upcoming dating dispatches. Singles can be from New York or LA. Submit yourself or a friend here.

  Thank you for your two eyes! We can make a habit of this if you like

The best context to meet anyone in is, for me, while playing tennis. Whether that means chatting up someone on a neighboring court or being united by mutual friends, there’s a different kind of looseness and ease than the kind that comes with meeting someone, say, at a bar. There’s also the implied sense that this new person before me ALSO enjoys self-torture by way of tennis’ mindfuckery. After reading through Niko’s answers for this very dispatch, it’s possible he feels similarly. Appropriately, I met him on a tennis court.

Niko (government name Nikolaj Hansson) runs Palmes, a thoughtful streetwear-ish brand with roots in tennis culture. The brand sees double-breasted blazers and pleated trousers cut from breezy Spanish cotton rub shoulders with the perfect pair of tennis shorts. Or, more accurately, “shorts”—because this is stuff made for life inside of and away from tennis.

Keep reading for Niko’s take on ripping cigs after hitting, the unparalleled feeling of a great down-the-line backhand, and how skateboarding compares to tennis.

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Where do you hit?

I like to hit at my local club in Copenhagen. It’s in Fælledparken, which is the biggest park in the city. Nine clay courts nestled between a brutalist athletics stadium, an old church, yellow brick row houses and our national soccer stadium. Trees line the fences and it’s impossible to see the courts from the outside. A little sanctuary for getting all my frustrations out on court.

Favorite way to win a point?

I’ve been practicing down the line forehands and backhands. The forehand is getting more and more consistent but once in a blue moon, I hit a subjectively beautiful one- handed backhand down the line and feel like I’m standing by the gates of heaven, about to say hej to God, who in this case would be Roger Federer. [Ed’s note: but long may he live!]

Why do you keep coming back to tennis?

Because just like running my own brand, tennis is the best worst thing I have ever done. I love how much I hate it and hate how much I love it. I once said on national Danish TV that tennis is an act of self-sadomasochism, only to receive a call by my employee right after, asking me if I’d really just said ‘sadomasochism’ on the Eurosport channel, but I mean, it is! It reminds me of skateboarding, which I spent most of my youth doing. All the torment, pain and frustration you have to go through to become better shrinks to nothing when you receive the dopamine hit of landing a kickflip or hitting a perfect cross-court backhand.

What’s in your bag?

Outdoor season begins soon Denmark so I’ll be able to play five or so times a week. This means that I’ll hit after work, before work, after nights out with a raging hangover, before going out for dinner and any other time of day. My bag, which, duh, is a Palmes duffel bag, holds a Wilson Blade and I now realize that I forgot to put a new Palmes overgrips on it, considering that we have about 300 of em in stock, is a slight embarrassment. There are four pairs of Palmes tennis socks because I always dread forgetting them and therefore carry far too many. There’s an empty pack of painkillers because those are a given when playing Saturday morning at 7am after Negronis the night prior and, shit, this reminds me that I need to buy more painkillers.

There’s also a silver cigarette case with a tennis player on it because for some reason, it is at the moment where I feel the most healthy and refreshed, i.e. after tennis, that I feel the most like killing myself via the smoking of a cigarette. My lungs won’t be happy but my heart, at least metaphorically speaking, will. Speaking of stimuli, during peak summers, I often find an empty can of Starbucks double shot espresso and smoothie bottles because those combined with the painkiller makes for a great round of hangxiety-infused tennis. Oh, and three empty tubes of Palmes balls and three more tubes with actual tennis balls in them.

Weirdest thing you’ve ever brought to court?

Not sure if it’s weird but three bottles of champagne and two packs of cigarettes?

Further reading:

Like I was saying here, I rarely buy new. I traded some jeans with a friend for this pink cashmere tank (there’s one on Grailed here, and a charcoal dopplegänger here). The white halter is maybe five years old; the first and only time I’ve spared a thought for the brand 1017 ALYX 9SM. The long-sleeve was bought second-hand in Japan (this Base Range one comes close).

I am, of course, just one person. So in the interest of like, nonpartisan data collection, I gathered up some friends and friends-of-friends, and approached some perfect strangers to bring you this scientific report on what New Yorkers have been wearing to play tennis at the turn of spring.

Coeli Janiak

Home Court: LTP (Lincoln Terrace Park)
I’m wearing: all vintage eBay finds and Nike GP Challenge Pro shoes. It’s all worn and loved material and styles; easy and light to throw on. 90% of the time I’ll be in a vintage t-shirt.
Which pro has the best style? Serena Willams. I always think about her denim fit. SO HOT!!
How did you play today? Awful. First warm day of the year, hands might as well’ve been in the swamp. Serve was consistent; forehand was all over the place.

Victoria & Philip

Home court: Town tennis club in Midtown Manhattan
What are you wearing?
Vic: I only wear whites. My shoes are men’s Nike that I got on sale at Paragon in a pinch a few years ago. And a Yonex sweatshirt because it was chilly out.
Phil: Various all-white club merch pilfered from friends’ institutions. Sometimes boast Japanese maple shorts. I’m looking for the all cotton club wear of a bygone era. Too much synthetic lately.
Which pro has the best style?
Vic: Johnny Mac and Bjorn Borg for past. Iced-out Sabalenka for now
Phil: Roger in RF era cream and gold
How did you play today? Pretty well despite the adverse conditions. Our court was basically on a construction site (right next to Arthur Ashe) and the loud drilling didn’t exactly help our game.

Daniel-Yaw Miller

Home court: Jackie Robinson
I’m wearing: longer, baggy clothing recently. It feels so much better hitting a winner and playing well in stuff that isn’t made for tennis, I can’t really explain it. I’ve always kind of preferred baggy silhouettes for my usual clothing, and it feels good not to have to constrict yourself on court.
Which pro has the best style? Dustin Brown. The locs, the shorts, the sleeveless tops. Effortless steeze.
How did you play today? Pretty well. I was still feeling my way into things and remembering how to hit after a couple weeks of not playing. But the sun was out and the vibes were good and I remember hitting some nice forehand returns of serve.

Sid Srinivas

Home Court: Jackie Robinson
I’m wearing: what I wore to bed, because comfort
Which pro has the best style? Yannick Noah
How did you play today? I just couldn’t find the ball today. I didn’t hit poorly, but I hit worse than I wanted. I guess it’s expected as a tennis player. Also, I smoked weed.

Kylee

Home Court: Jackie Robinson
I’m wearing: a baby tee and sunglasses from Amazon, Adidas sweatpants, a navy bandana from the local beauty supply store. I like to keep it simple but really cute and coordinated! When I feel good I play good 😂
Which pro has the best style? I meannn, the easy answer is Naomi Osaka. I also used to love Federer’s on court style—sleek, preppy, and sophisticated; I feel like it matched his energy perfectly
How did you play today? Pretty well, as in I got most of the balls over the net. Me and my friends were going for a casual morning today, so there were definitely some double bounces here and there.

Langston W

Home Court: South Oxford Park
I’m wearing: a Yonex hat and a shirt from this Hawaiian tennis club that my buddy Matt got me for me a while back. It’s breathable, a conversation starter and most importantly complements the shoes.
Which pro has the best style? Yannick Noah for sure, that guy had so much drip.
How did you play today? I’m in Arizona currently so was moving and hitting A LOT better in this desert heat.

Joe Henry Baker

Home Court: Fort Greene, East River, BJK
I’m wearing: Nike Vapors; great ankle support. Bombas socks; sock fit almost seems more important than shoes, and these are very comfy. Nike lined shorts so you can lunge safely. Any old tee, preferably nothing too heavy. Cap when the hair is short, bandana when it’s flowing.
Which pro has the best style? I grew up watching Federer and Nadal battle it out— their styles were so personal and reflective of their playing style. Federer the polished gold; Nadal big, bold and bright.
How did you play today? I played well. Things to work on with the team, looking forward to the next round, would like to thank my sponsors.

Milo Newman

Home Court: Jackie Robinson
I’m wearing: a friend’s shirt (F.E.L.T x Unico), Champion shorts, Lacoste shoes.
Which pro has the best style? Medvedev coz he always looks like he’s about to 360 no-scope you online as well as on court.
How did you play today? You can tell Mel ran me around by how tired and sweaty I look. Still made a couple backhands down the line though*.

*Close readers will know this is my husband. Closer readers will know he copied my favorite shot.

This portion of the newsletter is sponsored by USTA Eastern.

Maybe it’s cruel to judge myself since we’re still defrosting from the most ghastly New York winter in recent history. By all accounts, my game is still crawling back to me. But let’s just say, if tomorrow, I found myself receiving; down two set points at 40-15—I might only have approximately 40% confidence in my return game. If I was serving to stay in a set tomorrow? Worse.

It’s devastating stuff, but the truth is, it’s easily fixed—I just need to be playing more sets. Hitting mindlessly is fun; heck, it’s even meditative. But a casual hit won’t be how I perfect overheads or drop volleys under pressure, now will it?!?!?

If your confidence, too, needs a lift post-winter, or your hitting partner is allergic to match play, the USTA Flex app is a good thing to know about. Join a New York flex league to be matched with local players at your level. The next flight starts April 13, but the matches are held whenever and wherever you please.

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I got this set circa 2016 from Yahoo Auctions—Japanese eBay—for (I’m not trying to upset you; it’s just that things were different back then) around $250. I’ve worn it to a wedding, to work, to fly, and to play tennis; among other contexts. Similar Pleats Please sets: here, here, and here. Many will understand how dumb-comfortable this stuff is.

I hopped in an Uber with what I thought was plenty of time, but a recent blizzard meant titty-height snow bulwarks were slowing both traffic and anyone gallant enough to be taking a walk of any length. All’s to say, some detours were made and I arrived pretty late.

But I was there, and I was suitably flustered from rushing, which probably informed the next part. Their team handed me a Wilson backpack and showed me the locker room to change before hitting. Besides the new racquet, I saw only socks and shoes in the bag. I was befuddled, but given my lack of experience with getting free stuff, I surmised that maybe only a select few were gifted clothes after all. I put on the shoes and socks, and headed back out wearing what I arrived in, eager to start hitting at any cost.

When I saw the other ten or so guests dressed in Wilson, I realized I had bungled things.

“Wait… what?” I asked my friend Dan. “Are there clothes in my bag I didn’t see?”

He laughed at me and explained—with all due mockery—that typically, bags have several compartments.

“Did you check all of them?” he asked.

No, I had not.

90s Girbaud jersey I inherited from my husband, who inherited it from a friend; hard to locate anything super similar but Martine Rose jerseys are good; one here and one here. Vintage Nike shorts. Tifosi Alpe 2.0 prescription glasses (gifted)—transitional because I am a woman of a certain age—that sincerely haven’t left my head since getting them last September.

But the other bag-literate guests had been hitting for awhile, and I mightn’t get to if I went back to change. So I played in the Issey Miyake, all the while feeling like quite the asshole. Not because it wasn’t exceedingly comfortable—I’ve played in it before!—but because of the optics. Did my peers think I was too precious; too self-serious for the free shit? Probably! Worse still if they recognized the brand and thought I was doing an elitist snowflake thing.

I’ll possibly never know what they thought. Luckily, I was later able to explain my toomfoolery to the Wilson homies, who laughed it off and were very sweet.

Wearing regular clothes to play tennis is just the inverse of what certain athletic brands are doing more and more.

Left: Julie Delpy in ‘Before Sunrise,’ wearing layered tops to chase Ethan Hawke around Vienna. Right: my take on her look for tennis, wearing a Uniqlo tee, Par Femme one-shoulder top, and Jacquemus skirt circa 2016 (similar Miu Miu skirt here). Both of our activities are considered exercise.

Running(ish) brand, Literary Sport, deserves a mention at this juncture. Their stuff is softly tailored to the noncommittal runner. There is cashmere and merino which—when you know that both are very breathable and merino is supremely moisture-wicking—is not performative but performance-conducive. It’s gear you can technically run in, should that interest you. Should it not? Wear it literally anywhere else, and appear cultivated in a mysterious way. I won’t call Literary Sport “slow” fashion, but I’ll say their stuff is decently in step with our mounting collective allergy to quick hits of dopamine and shortcut culture.

With Literary Sport price tags inching toward $400, people are pissed. But for their customer—not an insignificant number of people—their rationale absorbs a lot of that shock: these are clothes that see you through from workout to the next thing and the thing after that. This genre is also a generous public service: it’s a counterpoint to 24-7 leggings culture, and for that we should feel gratitude.

Like I was saying, the opposite is also true: stuff you already own that’s not sportswear *is* in fact sportswear. Repeat after me: I do not need tennis clothes to play tennis—what I need is to know what a good outfit is and INTERROGATE if it works on court or not.

Stussy Warm Up Pullover (gifted, unisex), Jacquemus skirt circa 2016 (parallel universe Tory Sport skirt here), Head Radical Team 2025 racquet.

As with running gear, tennis clothes do profit from certain features—absolutely, somewhere to store balls, and, to quote myself, “bottoms that won’t trespass into the butt when movement occurs.” (The first problem can always be solved with this clip-on ball holder, if you must know. It’s terrifyingly ugly which makes it good.)

I have some purpose-built tennis clothes that I like, sure, but mostly I’m wearing stuff I wear off-court, too. White, pleated skirts, to me, serve the repellant purpose of virtue signaling. While they have respectable roots, the Instagram girliepops really ruined them for me in the pandemic. This once-noble garment has fallen victim to so many cheap iterations—such as this one from Shein, for the pitiful price of $5.58—slipping into one is a grave (as in see yourself to yours) risk.

It should also be noted that in the seven years I’ve been in New York, I haven’t really played on indoor courts with any consistency. Booking one regularly seems to demand some combination of grifting and financial levity that I don’t currently have. And so, I’ll play outdoors in 6 degrees Celsius or above, year-round, bundled up in whatever it takes. There are layers, and one is usually cashmere. A peak winter outfit is usually merino leggings under sweat pants, and 3 or 4 top layers. I’m not so mobile, but I’m hitting and I’m sweating. Fine by me. Infinitely better than the gym. In summer, when I’m sweating catastrophically, I’m still biased toward natural fibers—mostly cotton; perhaps some cool summer wool. (Case in point: the Jacquemus dress I talked about in this article.)

Vintage cashmere sweater ($30ish from eBay), Auralee long-sleeve raglan, vintage Nike shorts; similar here and here.

Nine months of the year, I’m hitting four or five times per week. Tennis is almost my whole personality, but I see no reason to dress like it. “My style” (self-conscious quotations because I recoil at this overcooked phrase) hasn’t changed too much over the years and naturally leans sporty. There’s something to that, because while I cycle stuff out of my wardrobe often (here’s my Depop should that interest you!!), some older stuff can be moved into the “tennis” bucket.

Lately, I’ve been lugging my stuff around in a tote from Kartik Research, and so too does (shout-out) local Bed-Stuy hitter, Anthony; a fact we bonded over as strangers late last year. K-Swiss Court Tiebreak II shoes (gifted) to walk home in. Wilson balls always.

Some, not all, of the above links are affiliate links. I may earn a commission if you make a purchase through one of them. Photos by elusive wood doyen, Milo Newman.

Or, other times, watching is the only option when you’re sidelined against your will—maybe by virtue of injury, or New York’s persistently snow-sheathed courts and its monopolized bubbles.

The words that follow originally appeared in Racquet, written at a time when injury exempted me from hitting.

Something to know about me is that I’ve become the neighborhood voyeur. Four freshly renovated tennis courts opposite my apartment beckon me daily; a hooked index finger tempting me with good, honest time. An hour’s all I need to thrash about, try and prove something inconsequential to myself, defog the mirrors of my mind and leave a better woman. Only instead of playing, I watch.

Not by choice. I’m injured, and sheepishly so. Back stiffness I ignored became a herniated disc I couldn’t. Where tennis could once insulate me from the humdrum of gyms, I’d no choice but to join one to strength-train to build a butt to hold up a degenerate back.

Gyms and suffering notwithstanding, I can’t step outside without hearing the pleasant thwack of racquet meeting ball, or seeing a beet-faced disciple—one of us—at war with their mind-body connection. Sometimes, I set my burgeoning ass down on a bench and watch awhile.

These public courts—as with most in New York—draw players that are united in spirit, but divided on ability. Like yodeling at a funeral, pedigreed players finesse their backhand overheads next to hatchlings hitting forehands with elbows bent like boomerangs. Players old and new seem happy to the untrained eye, which is to say their happiness is routinely threatened by self-doubt and frustration, core tenets of the recreational mindset.

What follows is a scene report from one morning in late March.

A guy and a girl; both 30-something. Their footwork and easy tempers imply two childhood players. His forehand is rhythmic and precise, though his one-handed backhand is so disorderly I suspect its provenance is Freudian, not unlike my forehand’s. With each error, he smacks the base of his shoes with his racquet (Yonex) as if they’re clogged with clay (it’s a hardcourt). He’s partial to the fake curse word “shoot”—something I don’t have the discipline for despite the neighboring playground.

Her backhand is better, and it happens to look like mine: two-handed with a compact take-back, and timely, thank you very much. She’s sending some bangers crosscourt into his backhand, which can be credited for much of his chagrin. Were I him, I’d be laughing off my blunders through gritted teeth; thinly veiled heartbreak on full display, contemplating my devolution to pickleball. If I were her, I’d be chuffed to have an audience, no matter how small.

Two guys with backwards caps and a fondness for sweat-wicking technology. One tethers his phone to a selfie stick and slips it into the fence behind him, eager to ascend to new heights of self-awareness. The teasing stops here because both are pretty good—the tripodless guy deceptively so, landing forehands late and later, balls whipped up at the last minute in the manner of Nadal. I remove an AirPod to eavesdrop as the other says, “Nice shot, bro.” Everything is as it should be.

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“Drop the racquet head,” calls a mother to her tweenage daughter after another ball kisses the net tape. “And body weight moving forward,” she adds. Mom is cheery, basket-feeding unfluctuating balls as if she might have non-family clientele. The daughter nods. I see her mind bending with all the disparate cues that must somehow converge in a single shot. A shot they can both be proud of.

She prepares comically early for her next forehand; a moon-mouthed toddler awaiting the aeroplane spoon. Spooning, as it were, best describes her racquet making a right angle with the court to scoop the next ball, before her extended arm garnishes it with a little topspin. Her slight frame very nearly gets some air, and her shot skims the baseline. Mom heartily approves and daughter grins. This is an example of a healthy relationship, I think to myself.

A group of relative beginners playing doubles. They plod about, lobbing without purpose or concern for what it means to follow through. But they laugh; oh how they laugh. A mid-twenties guy in board shorts and a hoodie frames his serve, the sedate ball plopping scarcely over the net: the gentlest of aces. All four hoot uncontrollably and I control my urge to join in—with love—lest my illusory panopticon (a fence with holes in it) crumbles around me.

I leave bereft, but also with the thought that people should play doubles more. In New York, playing doubles affords you double the public court time; two hours instead of one. It also means you can get your socializing out of the way in the morning to make way for whatever deranged private activities you’re beholden to at night. Doubles can also, famously, rebrand our gaffes from a self-loathing shame spiral to no big deal, mate. Triumphs won’t overinflate your ego because the glory must be shared. More doubles might even help us shake the bratty, elitist reputation that has been foisted upon us, but probably not.

For now, I must keep picking things up and putting them down, thinking swole thoughts, inching my way back to the game that cracks me open and reassembles me—all before Wall Street opens. And if my adrenals take a hit on my homecoming? I’ll play doubles with anyone who’ll have me

• King Kyrgios shaved his head. Praise/criticisms are welcome in the comments.

• I spoke of a Valentine’s Day dating dispatch, which was overzealous with a 24-hour flight to Sydney in the same week. Apologies! I’m working on it (*release the tapes*). I run a really tight ship over here as you can see.

• Speaking of Sydney, I found a recently renovated single court that’s often empty and costs $0 to play on. It’s tucked away in a leafy spot near our hotel. I’ve had two sweaty summer hits there so far, which is a far cry from what you read above. Hoping to fit a few more in before we return to frigid New York.

If your dopamine receptors aren’t dulled from overscrolling to the point of unwitting celibacy, but you have dating app fatigue, there is hope for you as a disciple of tennis. Tennis has never been sexless; not on its surface, and not at its core.

Hard fans will know that last month, I launched a dating series replete with profiles of scintillating, spouseless, tennis-playing New Yorkers. So far, twenty-two have made themselves known; half in the first dispatch and half in the second. (Brickheads will want to read right from their inboxes to avoid the illicit temptations of the newsfeed.) Any or all of them may be messaged romantically for a date or platonically for a hit. Technically, you need not know which end you’re pursuing. Though after an hour of banging balls back and forth—soul-aligned inner work, as you know—intentions should become clearer.

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Here is an Instagram reel in which a young man wears a puffer (by The North Face) and a shiesty (non-fugitively). He holds a cue card. “Facts: it’s mad brick outside,” he recites slowly, uncertainly from inside his apartment with hands trembling. “We out to the bodega on Houston street?,” he annunciates slowly in the same clumsy lilt. The on-screen titles read, ‘Practicing making friends in NY.’

In our earnest gentrifier we see the magnitude of patois. Of swordplay with the homies. Tennis has that same locals-only insularity. Chipping and charging only to get stuck in no-man’s-land as a groundie zooms past you for a winner is a deeply weird sentence—and concept—if you’re on the outside.

Tennis attracts perfectionists, introverts, and tinkerers. It seems rare to discover it and settle comfortably at a level of mild interest. Most of us pass the time in less pleasurable ways; all the while itching for the next hit. And so, as a tennis person, the freak in you might be commensurate with the freak in someone else.

And your local tennis court would be the perfect precinct for finding a date—if you weren’t so utterly preoccupied.

If ever I saw a hot man playing on a neighboring court when I was single, his presence was only felt for a fleeting moment. My neck would quickly snap back to the task at hand: playing the best tennis of my life, or at least connecting with the sweet spot a few times before it was time to make square eyes at my laptop once more. The handsome stranger might invade a thought later that day. But his image would be slippery because the moment never had a chance.

“Is Tsitsipas banging the chick with the arms?” my husband asked me absent-mindedly the other night, nodding toward the TV. “Why do they keep cutting to him?”

“No, that’s just his teammate Maria Sakkari. They’re playing for Greece,” I tell him. Have some respect, I was too slow to add.

The following night, Tsitsipas beat Taylor Fritz in straight sets at the United Cup in Perth. A significant win to mark the start of his 2026 season. Injury marred his 2025, but Tsitsipas was pain-free, and also—maybe critically—girlfriend-free. Tsitsipas’ mom apparently considered Badosa a distraction. (Sakkari fell decisively to Andreeva in straights last night at the Australian Open; Fritz and Tsitsipas have both progressed to the second round on the bottom half of the draw.)

A simple Google search—frankly, the passé way to procure information in 2026—tells me that Paula Badosa and Stefano Tsitsipas were an on-again-off-again couple for two-ish years. They split more conclusively midway through 2025, and if you were at Racquet’s US Open party at the Seaport in July, you shared a convivial, open-air convivial with the newly unattached Greek (“taller than I thought!” mused my friend.)

“Their relationship was complicated from beginning to end,” Tsitsipas’ mother Julia told Serbian outlet Telegraf. “[It was] not ordinary, everyday,” her Sade-coded assessment continued. That tracks. Pro players date other pro players partly so they have an inbuilt travel partner to trudge through the overstuffed schedule with. Someone to nurse their inevitable injuries; someone they’ll never need to explain the profundity of a serve-plus-one to. It didn’t work out for Tsitsidosa, but I’m sure you’ve heard of a little twenty-five marriage Steffi Graf and Andre Agassi architected after he dated Brooke Shields and Barbara Streisand, 18 years his senior. Let’s call the first two dalliances his away games, and his current status his homecoming.

If you’re really serious about insularity, consider dating another tennis player who looks like they could be your sibling. This is what BEB (blue-eyed blond) Lleyton Hewitt did with Kim Clijsters between 2000 and 2004, before eventually marrying fellow Australian, Bec Cartwright—albeit an actress—of similar physical persuasions. Gael Monfils and Elina Svitolina are dumb cute together. Same again, Katie Boulter and Alex De Minaur. I think it’s cool that Anna Kalinskaya’s taste runs the full gamut from pariah Nick Kyrgios to genteel Jannik Sinner. Emma Radacanu obviously never dated Carlos Alcaraz, lol.

Who knows if dating where you sweat will work out for you either. But at least you’ll have someone to hit with while the going’s good? Counterpoint: the going stays good, your offspring goes pro, and you both retire on the early side.

Message me here if you’re a single hitter who wants to be featured. You can be from any city. If there’s an appetite, perhaps we’ll graduate to in-person events. Real-life courting. Touch grass court. Anything except a love pun. If I built it, would you come?

• This past weekend I had the pleasure of attending the inaugural ‘Strokers Invitational’, a serialized round robin tournament organized by James Harris. In his words, these events are “equal parts hanging out and hitting time for good people.” He hopes it’ll “keep growing to include more strokers without becoming a big brand influencer-fest of poseurs who are worried about the wrong shots.” See the full recap soon on @strokersnyc.

• ESPN’s shady institution of a $30 plan for full access to Australian Open matches has enraged us all. The good news is, if you didn’t bite, you can still see this incredible press conference with Oleksandra Oliynykova following her tumultuous R1 match with Madison Keys. The Ukrainian—who trains in Kyiv—reflects on her loss in her first-ever main draw major, and on living in a war zone. So impressed I am by her, I’m willing to overlook the moon-balling.

• What did we think of Naomi’s mosquito net-adjacent theatrics? As ever, I’m happy to house your thoughts below.

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And with that, I give you eleven more single hitters. It’s a new year for a new love! Do whatever it takes.

Danny

​Submitted by: Self

Home court: Fort Greene, or Highland Park nights

Favorite way to win a point: My lefty backhand slice down the line 😮‍💨

I’m looking to meet: a woman who is funny, likes to laugh, is enthusiastic, talks shit, has creative interests and good taste, and is like, cute.

Ideal first date: Good chat over a martini or two (or three?!) that ends with a big ol’ smooch

The last webpage I bookmarked or image I favorited: I bookmark a lot of recipes and tennis things on Instagram and TikTok, but for some reason the last thing was just a video of a dog rolling around in the mud?

​Hit on or with me by messaging: @daniellouissgrizzi on Instagram.

Steph

Submitted by: Self

Home court: On the grass at West Side Tennis Club, or Racquet’s new clubhouse at CityView Racquet Club

Favorite way to win a point: Forehand down the line

I’m looking to meet: An athletic man/ outdoor adventurist. Full send or no send!

Ideal first date: A thirty minute power interview at my local LES coffee shop, Mandarin, so we can move onto the fun stuff efficiently!

The last webpage you bookmarked or image you favorited: The AO Live Opening Week lineup, Peggy Gou, Hot Chop, Sofi Tukker, let’s goooo

​Hit on or with me by messaging: @stephchungs on Instagram.

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Many of you will be acquainted with Jessica Schiffer who writes Hard Court—in her words, “a newsletter exploring the business, culture, and style of tennis (also known as, whatever I want).”

Jess is a journalist who’s covered fashion, culture, and wellness for almost 15 years for places like The New York Times, Vogue Business, and BoF. On the topic of Hard Court, she continues, “the term passion project is extremely cringe but I finally understand what people mean by it, because I haven’t had this much fun doing anything, and for such little money, in a long time. I’d still like to be rich, though.”

Here, read about why Jess thinks we don’t need anymore David Foster-Wallaces, how she used to clown her mom for watching too much tennis (before, naturally, realizing mom was the blueprint), and, as advertised, her fantasy player.

What is your relationship to playing tennis?

My dirty secret is that I’ve never been a serious tennis player. I played a bit in middle and high school but back then I didn’t have an athletic bone in my body (and once I developed one, all I cared about was running). Tennis was very much in my orbit though, as I’ve written about before here. My mom was obsessed with it, so I knew the ins and outs of the ‘90s and early ‘00s era more than most. I remember judging her for watching it so much back then and I guess my karma is having my ass glued to the TV 24/7 now, too. My addiction has worsened hers in the process (sorry, mom).

My best friend in high school was also one of the top tennis players in our state, so I went to her matches a bit. I have this vivid memory of her coming home from winning some big tournament, putting the trophy in her driveway, and driving over it to piss off her parents and send a signal that she was over it. Maybe that’s a sign I took the right path?

I’d love to pick it up again but chronic pain from head to toe precludes me from any form of exercise right now. One day, I hope. In the meantime, I think being a bit of an outsider is helpful—there are enough people in this space whose writing moonlights as a big dick contest about how good at tennis they are. We don’t need any more would-be David Foster Wallaces.

Why do you think tennis has captured the world’s attention, here and now?

I think like a lot of trends it started with the pandemic—tennis gave people something to do outside with their friends at a safe distance. That uptick in casual play then translated into more people watching pro tennis, and once COVID rules lifted, people were so hungry for live events they practically stampeded the tournaments. That paired with the rise of influential WAGs introducing their followers to the sport has turned Grand Slams into Coachella (a reality which offends my uptight personality but also makes for good material, because I love to complain).

SERVE
I’ll take the deceptive Fritz pancake any day (don’t try it at home).

FOREHAND
Rafa could knock me unconscious with his forehand and I’d die happy.

BACKHAND
Andre Agassi, one of the best ball strikers to ever do it. I love the internet because there’s still an old blog post written by the Nick Bollettieri about it. Penny for your thoughts, Andre?

NET GAME
It should be illegal to say anyone other than Martina Navratilova.

MOVEMENT
Please don’t make me choose between my children, Demon and Coco—they both run themselves out of a lot of holes.

(SARTORIAL) STYLE
There’s a bottomless void of swag on today’s tour so I’m going to have to merge the styles of prime Serena, Venus, and Maria.

A SECRET SEVENTH THING
Bad attitude that’s actually good. I just can’t quit Medvedev, no matter what kind of fuckery ensues. I wish someone would study the fine line between loveable assholery and insufferable assholery because it’s real and very confusing.

Subscribe to Hard Court here or follow on Instagram here.

• If you missed it, here’s my latest for Racquet; a kind of winding disquisition about how women’s tennis in 2025 thrilled me far more than men’s.

• Adjacently! Jannik Sinner wishes you a new year by way of this yawn-some video. I’m not a monster—I don’t think professional athletes need to be cOnTeNt machines. But if they must upload at all, perhaps one of the seasoned WAGs (like Paige Lorenze) should start charging for strategic consultancy.

• Some GOSSIP! In the inaugural installment of ‘Hot singles (players!) in your area,’ one magnetic participant reported being messaged by six interested hitters; while another participant went on a successful first date, with a plan to play tennis for their second. But that’s only the stuff I know about!

2025 was another year of interminable programming spurring injuries real and injuries invented for self-preservation. Of a deepening rivalry between two saintly young men that’s as bewitching as it is tedious. Of breakout stars like Victoria Mboko and Alex Eala, and unlikely champions like Valentin Vacherot, who turned pro in 2019 and won a title while ranked #104 in the world. Of the most decorated unc to ever do it, clinging to the towel we thought he’d have thrown in by now.

But in the spirit of transgressions, trolls, tirades, and another godforsaken years-end list, I bring you my 5 favorite rage bait moments of 2025.

5. Harriet Dart thinks Lou Boisson smells

I think we can all agree that when you’ve lost an opening set 6-0, the best thing to do ahead of the second is make a disparaging hygiene remark about your competitor. “Can you tell her to wear deodorant? She smells really bad,” Harriet Dart told the umpire. She is Lou Boisson of France, and you guys know France has produced stinky people since the slur was perpetuated by American soldiers during World War II.

A courtside microphone captured the dunk. Boisson retaliated with an Instagram pic of herself “holding” a stick of Dove deodorant with the caption, “Apparently need a collab 😂😂.” Quite a chic clapback when we consider the tit-for-tat alternative: suggesting that Dart needs braces for her British teeth.

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4. The Sincaraz rivalry visual discourse

When one player finds their form during a match, tennis commentators LOVE to talk about “asking the [metaphorical] question.” To mark a sort of changing of the tide. Oh he’s really starting to ASK THE QUESTION now! However, the real question in tennis is: who will put a stop to these corny-ass Sincaraz rivalry marketing assets? It seems I myself have slipped into character because the portmanteau does nothing to help my case. But WWE-inspired movie posters? Making them do a trophy tug-of-war to promote the ATP finals? Whatever the fuck this is?

After Sinner won the ATP Finals, his speech serenaded Alcaraz with, “If it’s another player than me I always choose you.” I always choose you is fodder for Valentine’s Day cards the Australian Open could sell in late January—they can have this idea for free. Now tell me where this chest-beating nonsense fits in:

Sport is inherently emotional—but these dorks are trying to make it emotional in all the wrong ways. Can we just let these two gentle, well-mothered boys trade triumphs and sweet nothings while we weep on our couches?

3. The Gauff and Sabalenka olive branch dance

The best Miley Cyrus song, if you must know, is the one in which her best friend Leslie concedes, “Oh, she’s just being Miley.” Quite like the way Sabalenka is just being Sabalenka when she loses with petulance and without grace. I’m equally thrilled and bothered by how bad a loser she is, but never surprised—and this year brought Sabalenka’s standout performance in the category: diluting Coco’s French open win with fixations on her own bad performance. Losers with open wounds should probably not be dragged onto stages to give speeches, to be fair, but her narcissism only reached new, embarrassing heights in the press conference that followed.

Coco, a better woman than most of us, sprung into action. She had a reputation to help rebuild! The frenemies took to a verdant Wimbledon court with a clumsy dance—something close to hopscotch with flashes of arms akimbo—wearing what the naked eye might construe as the color of the tournament, but was in fact a symbol of Sabalenka’s new purity. “That works,” laughed Coco, sashaying off-screen after they botched the ending. We, the people, talked mad shit about their rush to engineer better optics—but it does seem that no love was lost.

2. Zverev helpfully reminds us he’s still the world #3

This year, Alexander Zverev had a lot of thoughts that could’ve easily remained thoughts. Instead? He spoke them!

“I think people forget that I’m still the world number 3,” he explained before losing to world #54 Arthur Rinderknech in Wimbledon’s first round. Darkness was revealed in the press conference that followed. He expressed feeling “empty” and that finding “joy outside the tennis court” had been hard. A rare vulnerable moment for the German—or it would’ve been, had he not gone on to say, “I[Arthur] played a fantastic match… I’m not sure he’s ever played a match like that in his life.”

It’s cute that Zverev thinks we won’t see his oblique petulance; his bitchy little hint that Rinderknech won only because of some astonishingly rare serendipity—when in fact, we see everything, including opportunities to be petty right back:

2.2 An Honourable Zverev mention: He KNOWS you’re rigging the court speed, guys!

Not all conspiracy theorists hold bongs and Reddit top 1% status. Some hold tennis racquets. And you guys at the ATP oughta be ashamed! Zverev deserves a fair shot.

I am of course kidding. It just felt right to fight nonsense with more nonsense. Perhaps Zverev’s very many excuses are perceived as generosity in some cultures.

1. Medvedev’s 6-minute tantrum

A 6-minute egg is soft-boiled with a fully set white and a warm, runny yolk. A 6-minute tantrum is the record for the longest scuffle-induced delay during a grand slam, set by everyone’s favorite villain, Daniil Medvedev, in the first round of the US Open on August 24, 2025.

It was Greg Allensworth who irked him. Some would say Allensworth’s recent work in the chair is reminiscent of someone’s grandmother shouting bingo too late. Others say, well, much worse. Gun to my head, I’ll say the ump’s ruling felt more cut and dry than some of his previous, more convoluted ones—ones that Meddy was using to color the call at hand.

Quick recap, because most will remember it: A photographer ran on the court, mistakenly thinking the match was over after Meddy’s opponent, Benjamin Bonzi faulted his first serve. Allensworth caught the distraction quickly and called for a first serve. Given how quickly the photog left the court, that Bonzi was already en route to his second serve, and that Medvedev was facing match point, he was absolutely not on board with the call. Okay I’ll bite, he said—and the taunts started to spray. At first, they were garden-variety argumentative, and then, vintage Medvedevian: ugly like his strokes, and personal.

“The guy wants to leave. He gets paid by the match, not by the hour!”

“Reilly Opelka was right! What did Reilly Opelka say?” he exclaimed, referencing an incident in which Allensworth was more wrong than right.

Palms to the sky, Medvedev was whipping the crowd up. They were decidedly his allies, booing Allensworth, chanting “SE-COND SERVE,” matching his venom. But Medevedev’s tantrums have range, god damn it—so when he got bored, he switched to blowing smarmy kisses to Allensworth.

Bonzi was, naturally, not a beneficiary of this pile-on. He went on to lose his serve, that set, and the set that followed. Thankfully, he won the deciding fifth—a fact that Meddy later agreed was for the best.

Medvedev played an objectively bad year of tennis, but on the bright side, he has the 6-minute tantrum.

So let me settle for a truthful catchall: I know a lot of people who play tennis, some of them single who’d rather not be, ranging in ability and presumably, all of them fantastic lovers. Naturally! So I gathered them up, these people I know, along with some crowdsourced honeys, and the results MAY charm you. (If you’re single—in any city!—you can submit yourself for a future roundup here.)

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Erik

Submitted by: Self

Home courts: Does a hitting wall count as a court? If not, Jackie Robinson. [Ed’s note: Erik is really, really good. It is a privilege to play opposite him!]

Favorite way to win a point: A down-the-line backhand or inside out forehand winner. I do like a double fault in my favor.

I want to meet: A man who gets my humor and can match my chaos. And someone with taste; not just in music and food, but in how they treat others.

Ideal first date: Afternoon coffee that turns into a bike ride, that turns into a beer and a pizza, that turns into “how is it dark out already?”

The last time someone annoyed me it was because: A person close to me requested $4.25 for a coffee.

Hit on or with me by messaging: @erikbang on Instagram.

Angie

Submitted by: Self, with much persistence from Mel [Ed’s note: sorry for wanting to share a beautiful woman with the world!]

Home court: Jackie Robinson, loosely

Favorite way to win a point: Running crosscourt forehand winner

I want to meet: Someone who will take care of finding a court.

Ideal first date: Early drinks on a school night turned endless hangout over multiple locations, charged-yet-restrained goodbye, giddy walk home

The last time someone annoyed me it was because: They were explaining something to me that I already knew

Hit on or with me by messaging: @angiekim on Instagram

Daisy

Submitted by: Self

Home courts: Jackie Robinson/ Lincoln Terrace

Favorite way to win a point: Intense volley!

I want to meet: Stylish guys with a sense of humor who can hold a good conversation, and who like afrobeats 😅

Ideal first date: Something fun and funny! Let’s not be too serious.

The last time someone annoyed me it was because: They were rude

Hit on or with me by messaging: @daze0nfilm on Instagram.

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Few things in recent history have pedestaled adult hobbies quite like the global pandemic. The people baked and the people podcasted. Funneled their cash into buoying local restaurants and, perhaps relatedly, did YouTube workouts to keep the bod tidy. But when the sourdough starter dried up, “the world’s healthiest” (and as it were, socially distanced) sport continued seducing the masses, rather than being relegated to the narrow niches of yore.

HECK I myself returned to tennis—after a 13-year hiatus during which time my hobbies were boys and partying—during those unprecedented times when we were all in this together.

Whether the pandemic deserves credit or not, I gathered up some Hard Hitting readers for insights on learning a new hobby as an adult, how tennis connects you to yourself, and whether the expectations of playing laddered up with reality. If you’re a fence-sitter on picking up tennis, this one’s for you.

HH: Please introduce yourself

Nicole: I’m an LA-based adult-onset tennis player with a shockingly good approach shot.

Giulia: I hit on courts in Milan; not a pro yet, but working on my game.

Moss: I play to stay connected with my Dad—though I regret not starting sooner.

Aleksandra: I’m proof that the sports-skeptic dog can teach itself tennis tricks.

Angelina: I’m a born-and-raised New Yorker who’s down to try new things.

Alison: I’m an eager latecomer to tennis living in Canada.

I’m interested in the why and how of you picking up tennis. Did anything get in the way of you starting sooner?

Aleksandra: Since birth, I scoffed at sports. My PE educators will confirm I broke records for the number of [menstrual] periods per month. At 9 or 10, mother pitched tennis. I had other ideas—but it was here that tennis started its osmosis into my life. Going into adulthood, I heard of friends enjoying tennis. I showed no interest. Life took great turns (breakups, hookups, births, deaths, work good, work bad) which flipped my interest on its head. I finally gave in and started taking group lessons. Today, I’m deranged-ly in love with tennis and accepting of the biting irony.

Alison: I always thought tennis would be fun to learn, but I never did anything about it. I met my partner, who is fanatical about both watching and playing tennis, and it seemed like as good a time as any to start. It has also allowed me to connect with other friends who play/watch better.

“I started playing during the pandemic because my husband wanted a hitting partner. I probably would’ve started sooner if he wasn’t so good.”
-Nicole

Giulia: About two and a half years ago, I wasn’t doing great emotionally, so I started thinking about ways to keep myself busy, just to stop overthinking. I was already over yoga, the gym and running; none of that was hitting anymore. Then I got this flash—like why not tennis? So I started taking one-on-one lessons weekly.

“It’s like I couldn’t even wait til summer was over, I just knew I had to start.”
-Giulia

Angelina: I found myself in a happily complacent point in life (job, money, apartment, relationship were all good) and was craving something new. I wanted a hobby that was less solitary and ideally physical. So I made a list of different things I might be interested in exploring—including tennis. My ego [got in the way of me starting sooner] haha, I hate being bad at things! It was really quite daunting to even begin, to actively push myself to go to the lessons, even when I’d already paid for them.

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Moss: My dad was into tennis when I was young (he won a staff doubles tournament and claimed to have the best second serve in his league). I remember playing around with his racquets in our garage, but I was never as interested in tennis as other sports. Over the past few years, I’ve started to watch more tennis. My dad’s health took a turn, and when I went to spend time with him, we watched Wimbledon—he hadn’t been following the game—and I got to introduce him to Alcaraz. Dad passed away in August, and as a way to stay connected with him, I decided to start learning the game in October. I love it more than I thought I could, and I regret not starting sooner.

How did you feel once you were playing regularly? Was there a delta between expectation and reality?

Alison: I am generally athletic and comfortable trying new things, but tennis choreography was a new dance for me. Weaving together footwork, positioning, planning, and actually swinging through is a humbling experience. Skills you might have from other racquet sports (which can be largely wrist-focused) don’t translate neatly into tennis. When I didn’t have any lessons under my belt, I was impressed or intimidated [by others]. I now realize a lot of people on court are either working on something or don’t know what they are doing. This has definitely taken some pressure off.

“There is no better feeling than hitting a backhand down the line, whether on purpose or not.”
-Alison

Moss: Fun. And difficult. I picked up the basics relatively well and so felt motivated to keep going. I thought it wouldn’t be long before I developed a wicked forehand and a rocket serve, but I soon learned that tennis doesn’t work that way.

“A decent forehand one day would feel terrible the next day, and every step of improvement seemed to come at the expense of something else. Progress looks like jagged edges up and down, rather than a smooth curve.”
-Moss

After a few months of lessons, I joined a flex league. It’s one thing to hit with friends, but playing an actual match is something else entirely. It taught me that tennis isn’t about perfection and that the mental approach is more often more important that the physical—reading The Inner Game of Tennis reinforced this fact. Progress takes time and patience, especially as my body ages and new aches pop up. I’m getting better with consistent play, and there’s nothing like nailing that heavy inside-out forehand winner—but I feel like luck is just as much of a factor as skill.

Nicole: I was surprised at how much fun I was having while I was slowly descending into madness. It was too frustrating—I knew what I needed to do in my head, but my body wouldn’t follow. I was furious I hadn’t played as a kid and that it all felt so hard.

“But then it happens—that perfect sound on the racquet strings, an exciting rally, my first ace—and it’s a thrill. It’s fun and sweaty and challenging. I never thought I’d feel like an athlete.”
-Nicole

Aleksandra: Disproportionately more thrills than struggles. The struggles mostly procreate on the mental side of the game. Definitely not what I expected, but also definitely the best and biggest thing I get out of tennis. I used to want know how long it would take before I can rightfully say that I can play. It’s become kind of devotional and unconditional, and my game has never been better.

“Highfalutin or even corny, but if you let it, tennis can become a medium, a meditation and/or a metaphor for life. You can learn so so so much about yourself. I sure af did when I had my first—and, so far, the only—menty b during a match.”
-Aleksandra

Giulia: When I first started playing, I loved the idea of being active and learning something new. But then it turned into this crazy mix of frustration and excitement. I never imagined it’d be such a complicated sport; my expectations and reality were on completely different trains. I thought I’d improve way faster.

“Still, that’s exactly what I love about tennis. Every time I step on the court, it feels different. No other sport ever gave me that before. You never really know what to expect, and you never know how you’re gonna walk off the court.”
-Giulia

Angelina: Tbh I wouldn’t say I’m on the court regularly just yet. But I will say: every time I had a lesson, at first I was absolutely dreading going, but then after it I was so happy that I went. It was always more fun and less intimidating than I had made it seem in my head. Granted, I was also always in beginners’ lessons with others that were on my same level.

What are your thoughts on learning a new hobby or skill as an adult?

Alison: I sincerely believe it’s good to be bad at something every once in a while—it’s a challenge to push past ego and learn new skills. I don’t have to be good at things, as long as I’m having fun. My primary sport is running which, like tennis, is mental. Even if I have a rough lesson or session, it still gives me the opportunity to notice my feelings and be outside.

“Everyone should at least TRY whatever they’re interested in. Do stuff you’re curious about, even if you might suck at it. It’s rewarding and builds trust with ourselves when we not only say “I want to try that” but when we actually give it a shot. Even if we never master it. There’s merit in trying.”
-Angelina

Aleksandra: It’s essential! Keeps the mind open and fresh, and plays to the inner child (one should always be playing to the inner child).

Moss: If tennis were easy, I don’t think I’d love it as much, since I enjoy getting out on the court to work on my fledgling backhand (one day it’ll be great!). When I don’t have partners (which is often), I’ll go to the hitting wall at a local park and practice serves.

“Learning keeps you alive. It lights up your brain, forces humility, builds new muscle. You can’t think your way to mastery. You have to miss, adjust, repeat. Practice is the only way.”
-Nicole

Giulia: Honestly, starting a sport like tennis as an adult is kinda awesome. You feel like a kid again; hyped to learn new stuff, but you must also face the fact that progress is way slower. So in the end, the only thing you can really do is just have fun with it.

Why do you keep playing? Any words for someone who’s on the fence about learning to play?

Alison: I keep playing because incremental progress is satisfying. Every time I play, I get mildly better (I think).

Angelina: I keep playing taking lessons because I want to be able to play well enough, even badly, someday soon. I like that tennis is something I can realistically keep doing as I get older, and as I travel. If you’re on the fence, DM me and we can go to a lesson together!

Aleksandra: Pure joy and happiness washes over me the second I can so much as smell the court. Still unsure why exactly—my money’s on the rotten-but-holy balance of grounding and rewarding; of wanting a skill so much that you have to let go, of it feeling like both like a disease and nirvana.

“To the people on the fence, especially those who’ve never done sports: tennis can and will strip you mentally, physically and financially. You’ll love it, AND ask for seconds. Wait that sounds toxic lol; I promise it’s the opposite.”
-Aleksandra

Moss: I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the social component. It’s inspiring to see the same people showing up each week to play simply because they love it. The 4.5s who’ve been out there for years beside the 2.5s who are just starting. People barely out of high school and people in their 70s. So, tennis is the sort of game that will always offer me something for as long as I’m able to play it.

Giulia: I keep playing because it’s fun and super rewarding. It unlocks parts of me I didn’t know existed, and that helps me a lot outside the court too. I think a lot of people are scared to start tennis as adults because they see it as this super complicated sport. And sure, it’s not easy, but it’s such a great way to connect with yourself, have fun, and meet new people.

Nicole: I play because it’s the most fucking fun. I keep playing because one day you have no idea what I’m doing, and the next, it all comes together. All the pieces fit perfectly—and for that one second on the court, it’s the best.

“And honestly, I keep playing to beat my husband.”
-Nicole

Moss: Tennis has given me a number of connections that are as valuable as any others in my life, including connection to my own body and mind, connection to my dad and my youth, and connection to a new community of tennis fans.

Answers have been edited for clarity and length ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა I’d love to hear from other adult adopters in the comments!

Adjacently:

Q: I regularly hit with a very tedious person who always has an excuse for how they play. (They play fine, for the record, and I enjoy hitting with them.) Naturally, their stream of excuses is irritating. Sometimes it’s their grip. Other times they’re not feeling well. Once it was because they ATE A BANANA when they usually don’t eat a banana before playing!

How do I encourage this person to just… hit without annotating their performance all the time?

Dear Sound Bored,

This shall be your name, for life as your hitting partner’s sound board certainly does sound boring. I wonder for how long you have resisted a catty retort? You must be a better wo(man) than I.

When my now-husband and I were getting to know each other, he insisted I teach him to play tennis. That first day, as I led my fledgling to the nearest NYC Parks wall, I had concerns. Tennis, as you know, looks majestic from the outside but once inside, it can quickly fracture your ego. He was not going to immediately *get it*. Would he be petulant? Arrogant? Was I ready to diffuse the emotions of a crestfallen tenderfoot?

As it happens, I was concerned about all the wrong things. This man, a carpenter as Jesus was, couldn’t grip the racquet from my childhood—though it is featherlight and the color of cartoonish bananas. Four fingers on his dominant hand became unceremoniously entangled in a table saw years earlier, if you must know. I am told each of them dangled limply for a time before being sewn back on. Naturally, the fingers don’t bend as they should. This is going to be a problem, I thought. But a problem it wasn’t: This unbothered sonofabitch just started hitting balls with his left hand. Not only was he not astonishingly bad—owed to a history of soccer excellence, probably—he was receptive to my feedback. He did not exhibit arrogance. Today, he beats me from time to time, even though I started playing in the 90s. I say this not to moan like your doleful hitting partner, or to gloat about how I picked a deft and resourceful person to marry (I did), but to provide an example of what a real tennis impediment looks like.

Because, hear me out. WHAT ABOUT if every time your hitting partner made a dum-dum excuse, you—instead of engaging—deployed some trivia about tennis players overcoming mountainous obstacles? Relatively speaking, they might be moved to take a long, hard look in the mirror. You will be effusive and enlightening and never cruel. You will be a fountain of factoids. There will be a twinkle in your eye. Let’s practice:

Hitting partner (HP): My word I am terrible today! Guessing it’s this new hair tie / Gatorade flavor I’m trying.

Sound Bored (SB): Say, do you remember that time Simona Halep got a breast reduction?

At this point they may look at you as if your very head is a breast. As if to say, how is this relevant? But stay the course. Paint with all the colors of the wind.

“Yes,” you will say, “She was a 34DD which is quite the pair for a slim woman of 5 ‘6! She said they really weighed her down. But then, after her reduction, she started winning more matches. One person’s treasure is another’s trash, I guess!” At this point you are gesticulating or at least moving your eyebrows in new and exciting ways.

The Halep folklore will backfire only if your friend happens to be a large-breasted woman, in which case you’ve fattened up her folder of excuses. Let’s keep practicing our lines.

HP: Have you ever seen me play so bad? I think melatonin is making me groggy.

SB: Speaking of adversity! Karolina Muchova somehow won her second-round match at the 2025 US Open despite her feral ex-boyfriend—a seasoned troll with a history of “showing up at places where he shouldn’t be”—buying a seat directly opposite her bench! Can you IMAGINE? She was seen crying on court before asking the ump for a brief hiatus, then returned to court to win the match. Anyway I wonder if she takes melatonin. (Jk, don’t say the last bit—that would be snide.)

Congratulations are in order—you have just derailed another solipsistic tirade from HP. What’s more, you’ve opened double doors to an irresistible, indulgent tête-à-tête about your despicable former lovers. May you talk so much shit about these losers that the warm, meditative feelings overwrite the annoyed ones. However! You should promptly sever ties with HP if they reveal themselves as one of those people who make it a point of pride to be friends with their exes. This is performative, incorrect behavior.

Now that we have the execution dialed, here are some other topics to drive your tangential comeuppance: Carlos Alcaraz was bamboozled by bees in Indian Wells in 2024, but went on to beat (excuse-maker) Alexander Zverev. Michael Llodra accidentally hit and killed a bird with his racquet at the 2002 Australian Open, and after a short ‘wake,’ of sorts, he and his doubles partner, Fabrice Santoro, won the match. At the 1949 US Open, Pancho Gonzales beat the top seed, Frank Schroeder—who won eight of nine of their last encounters—in five sets. All the while, Gonzales had a broken nose.

Remember to always emphasize the winning. It was hard, but they succeeded. They floundered, but they overcame. One day, not so long after implementing my methods, HP will realize God gives his most minor inconveniences to his weakest soldiers. The complaints will stop. HP will find strength in silence.

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And relatedly:

I sometimes joke to my girlfriends that I’m a jock. It’s not a very funny joke, but it’s a label that makes relative sense, since none of them are even vaguely into sports. Widen the scope and you’ll see that I only care about one sport; the sport of tennis, and would sooner reorganize my kitchen cabinets than watch a field full of adults squabbling over a ball.

Conversely, Daniel-Yaw Miller is properly into sports. He writes about all sorts of them in his very good newsletter, SportsVerse, a study of the ways in which sports fraternize with fashion. We met via this very app, and he’s quickly become one of my favorite people to hit with. He’s made me realize that I like my hitting partners ruthless yet unserious, and ideally, British. (Those last two traits are, of course, very much linked.) Dan has reminded me to laugh at the dumb shit I do rather than sinking into good-for-nothing shame spirals and throwing my racquet into the neighboring playground. Will somebody think of the children?

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In this installment of Inside my tennis bag, Dan laments the (unrequited) hitting partners who keep bailing on him, shares the kind of bag he’d never carry, and shows you how to hit four gorgeous forehands in a row.

How did you get into tennis?

I’ve played tennis almost as long as I’ve been able to walk. My mum is a really good player and she used to take me and my younger brother to our local park to train us as kids. She always wanted to keep us active and engaged whenever we weren’t in school and tennis was her way of doing that. I played in patches throughout high school and university but a lack of formal coaching has meant I’ve maintained a level of inconsistency in certain areas that has kept me placed firmly in the bang average to semi-decent tier of player. I love so many sports (mainly: soccer, basketball, track and field), but tennis is my favorite to play.

Where do you like to hit and with whom?

I love to hit at the Jackie Robinson courts in Bed-Stuy. My guy Erick, a lovely man and the founder of tennis brand FURI, first introduced me to the spot shortly after I moved to this country earlier this year. These days I hit there multiple times a week with Mel, the very author of this newsletter.

Four forehands, a masterclass:

Elsewhere in NYC, I’ve played a bunch at Prospect Park, the East River Park courts, and I once got a chance to hit at the very fancy Hudson River Tennis Club. My next mission is to play at Central Park but people on the Facebook group who promise to secure courts there love to bail on me the night before, so it hasn’t happened yet. I also get down to Miami whenever I can, to hit with my guys Ransley, John and Cristina at Miami Racket Club.

What’s your favorite way to win a point?

I love hitting a deep forehand winner down the line to end a rally that has gone on far too long. I have also lately developed a taste for hitting a drop shot winner [Ed’s note: I have been humiliated by these more times than I care to admit] which we can thank Carlos Alcaraz for.

Why do you keep coming back to tennis?

It has so many positive associations for me. It’s the sport I have played the longest in my life and the sport I always used to play with my Mum and brother when I was a kid in our local park or even against a wall. It’s also such a good sport for my mental health because of how much you have to work on your psychology and calm your mind to play at a half-decent level or hit certain shots consistently. I have also met so many great people through tennis, and now it’s pretty much the only organized sport I still play, since my soccer days are over and running just hurts. Also, there’s no better feeling than hitting an ace or a winner right out the sweet spot.

What’s in your bag?

My warm take is that unless you’re a pro or wannabe D1 athlete, carrying around those massive tennis bags is kinda lame. I use this sturdy Wilson tote bag that fits my FURI racquet, has a cute clip to hold my hand sanitizer, Cadence electrolyte powder I got for free at a Miami Racket Club event, Nike sunglasses, and my spare Yonex strings and Wilson overgrips (both of which I helped myself abundantly to from [redacted brand event] during the US Open). Also my On sweat towel, plus dried mango and trail mix from the local bodega. Essentials. Oh, and my tennis bag will soon welcome a new racquet: a Yonex Ezone 98, which I’m very excited about.

The weirdest thing you’ve ever brought to court?

One time back in London, a friend and I were babysitting another friend’s crazy, giant, misbehaved dog, but we desperately wanted to get a game in—so we brought the dog and he became our umpire. He was surprisingly chill and sat down and watched the whole game without any fuss.

• Morgan Riddle, main chick to Taylor Fritz, used her IG for good last week, sharing a video with the strapping Tim Walz, governor of Minnesota where Moorgs is from. The unlikely besties react to the federal government shutdown that further extinguishes the special education services children with autism, ADHD, and other disabilities rely on.

• This is a Snoopy tennis stand for a Nintendo console of the same name. It is engraved and spectacularly cute and you could surely use it for something else??

• Do you, as a New Yorker, have a reliable tennis plan for winter?! Supposing you don’t, AD-IN will be hosting weekly indoor round robin sessions at McCarren Tennis Center and Stadium Tennis Center so you can avoid joining Equinox or whatever people do.

Further reading:

One late August morning, as summer’s sticky grip was at last loosening, I was hitting with a friend. In keeping with my own customs, I started off relaxed and light-footed with a rhythm I didn’t have to fight for. I found the sweet spot easily. My body and mind shared the same politics.

After around twenty minutes, the texture of my shots grew increasingly ragged. Smooth and—humor me in letting me say—honeyed groundstrokes turned untidy. I could feel a familiar arc taking shape. I was thinking too much.

I was well-rested that morning—a quality that would bode well for the business end of my day: toiling on a gargantuan to-do list, furiously, to make other people money. But before that; here and now on the court? Feeling fresh was feeling like self-sabotage.

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The next time my hitting partner ran up to the net for a stray ball, I ran up too. “Do you ever play better when you’re dumb tired or hungover?,” was my breathless question. Given my game’s pronounced decline in quality, I was both bemoaning and flexing something I’ve found to be true about myself in the past: I can rewrite the fate my body has laid out for me. I can rise above. The things I thought mattered don’t, and in fact, might lead me astray. They looked quizzical for a short moment before grinning and asking, “How hungover?”.

An excellent question. Because two martinis is probably the uppermost limit for me. Any more and I’m unlikely to turn up to the court at all, because I’m also suffering from circadian terrorism. A solid but shorter sleep can be fine. But a very broken one with multiple wakings; the kind I’ve been having more often than I’d care to admit because a 5G believer moved into my neighborhood and has erected long metal sheets to his roof that FLAP INCESSANTLY like an ENORMOUS WIND CHIME in order to *block the signal*—is sometimes enough for me to bail on tennis. (Other neighbors and I have of course asked him to put a stop to this bonkers hullabaloo. Tenderly, this gnome-like white man upending peace in a black neighborhood sneered and asked if I had considered melatonin.)

Neighborhood trolls aside: If the bell curve is the most typical way to illustrate an hour on court—which I think it is, at least anecdotally?—then this day in August for me was an inverse bell curve: peaking out the gates with a big dip in the mid-section, swinging back up to a high finish. But given the right hangover or the right gear of tired? Performance can actually be more like this:

And isn’t that good?????? And what we all want????

The last time I had two drinks and a lousy-but-not-totally-wretched night’s sleep before playing tennis, I wrote poetry with my racquet. The ball went where I asked it to. I didn’t try to rail winners without the requisite lube—and yet, many of the ego-driven shots I attempted materialized as… actual winners. I assembled points using the brain inside my head, which was somehow sharp and clear despite being soaked in gin. I suddenly believed DROP SHOTS were in my wheelhouse! I hit a handful that scarcely made it over; cunning little assholes that spun toward the net and away from my wanting opponent. The following time I played against this person, I lost. Had I slept too deeply and for too long?

I had to know if anyone else shares this very specific affliction/ blessing so I went where all truth-seekers go: into my DMs. It turns out, as with most things, the answer is both yes and no—but mostly yes (!). This is not a piece of investigative journalism with a statistically significant sample size; it’s just a collection of people who like tennis enough to play it in spite of what happened the night before.

“It’s perfect to be slightly hungover”

Omg yes. Actually, it’s perfect to be slightly hungover. I have also been still drunk, which I definitely do not recommend because the hand-eye doesn’t match the relaxation. But a slight hangover is great because it occupies the part of your mind where usually the anxiety or overthinking would live.
— Caitlin Thompson, Racquet

“Lizard brain, survive at all costs”

I for sure don’t play better when I’m hungover, but I definitely tap into some lizard brain, survive-at-all-costs part of a lobe or cortex that makes me play different. The same way you don’t daintily sip a $7 DoorDash’d 32oz Gatorlyte after a big one, I’m going guzzle mode and trying to push my opponent off the baseline before I puke on the service line. Court positioning is a non-entity, the concept of constructing points hasn’t been invented yet, and any semblance of form is beyond fucked. Getting stick on ball and ending points early is really the only thought. So I guess being hungover diminishes overthinking every shot, but whatever I gain from that artificial flow-state isn’t going to outperform the on-court idiocy everyone is about to see, hear, and probably smell.
— James Harris, Throwing Fits

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“The least amount of thought”

I’d gone out in Miami and accidentally drank 3 martinis, and for someone who doesn’t drink much they really sent me. The next day on court at 8am I was feeling worse for wear, but I definitely put the least amount of thought into my game that I ever have, and my first serve percentage was the highest it’s ever been. The most aces I’ve ever hit. Some crazy forehand winners. I still lost in a tie-break after a 2.5 hour battle in 3000% humidity but that’s not the point. :)
— Daniel-Yaw Miller, Sportsverse

“I played on fumes, eyes gritty from lack of sleep”

I used to live and breathe tennis. Every free minute, every extra euro, every scrap of focus went into it. I chased drills until my lungs burned, chased the dream of making it semi-pro until I could almost taste it. My strokes were neat, my discipline obsessive. Then life off-court started clawing at me—bills, responsibilities, building something more permanent than a ranking—and my edge dulled. The game slipped from my fingers.

Then Ottó arrived. Six months of broken nights. Feeding, rocking, working, rushing from crèche to matches without time to stretch, much less warm up. I played on fumes, eyes gritty from lack of sleep, hands shaking from too much coffee and too little rest. And then something strange crept in: I stopped trying to play “right.” In the exhaustion, my strokes went feral. My game turned into a chaos spliced with a flicker of accidental elegance. All the pent-up frustration of a new dad hardened into Nadal-level stubbornness.

One night I was so spent I could barely hold my racquet. My grip loosened and the ball just died on my strings, a perfect accidental drop shot. My opponent sprinted for it, and I just turned away, already facing the benches, like some unhinged Kyrgios channeling through me. I wasn’t thinking about tactics anymore. I was too tired to care. But the ball landed. The point was mine.

I’m not the player I used to be. I’m something else now — sleep-starved, chaotic, stubborn — but somehow sharper. My game is raw and unpredictable, built on exhaustion and instinct. And it’s mine.

Or at least I saw it like that, maybe from the off court I was just miserable.
— An anonymous, very tired dad.

“Like tunnel vision & time dilation”

I played the best tennis of my life last summer with the most vicious hangover ever. It was like tunnel vision and time dilation, my brain was so impaired that it kind of forced me to focus on just watching the ball lmao. It took 110% of my concentration and no stray thoughts entered my head throughout.
— Rory O’Connor, musician in Tycho

• I’m still hungover… with delight from then-#204-in-the-world Valentin Vacherot overcoming his cousin, Arthur Rinderknech, to become to lowest ranked player to ever win a Masters. Few things move me more than watching grown men cry and hug and love each other.

• In the words of BallBoy’s Jack Riewe, “The Six Kings Slam [is now on] Netflix. Five top players and Stefanos Tsitsipas [Ed’s note: 💅] compete for a total prize of $6m (each guaranteed $1.5m) in Saudi Arabia with AI slop marketing included. The UFC-ification of tennis is here.”

• Jack also platformed me here where I discuss unbelievable topics such as Andre Agassi dating Barbara Streisand, a defense of Nick Kyrgios, and my own irrepressible petulance when I hit with my husband.

• As a part II / follow-up, let me know if I should write a round-up titled, 10 NY parties to get hungover at before tennis tomorrow.

Welcome to another installment of Inside my tennis bag; this time with Los Angeles native, Molly Grant. I’ve never met Molly out in the world, but have more than once clocked her zeal for tennis and her bark-dry observations on Substack’s demonic arch-nemesis app. (On the contrary, below she shares very sincere, very apt parallels between tennis and meditation. We thank her for her complex personality.)

Molly started playing tennis as a kid, took a few breaks, then found her way back to it as an adult—a familiar trajectory for a lot of us kid players. Now, tennis is a pretty consistent part of her life. Read on for her illuminations on where to play in LA (places that feel like Erewhon and places that don’t), gas station beef jerky, and the stuff about meditation I mentioned.

Where do you like to hit and with whom?

I live within walking distance of the Vermont courts in Griffith Park. They are public but have a private feel in the hills. Everyone knows about those courts now, so they’re hard to reserve—but when you can, they’re my favorite. They’ve definitely gotten a little scene-y, which can be fun if I’m in the mood, but sometimes I want something less... Erewhon. That said, they’re gorgeous, especially at sunset, and basically in my backyard. Lately, I’ve been playing at the Burbank Tennis Center. It’s very affordable for a semi-private club. They also have a clay court there which is unheard of on the West Coast.

I have a few regular people I play with who are all sort of around my level and a few others where it’s more of a casual hang.

What’s your favorite way to win a point?

My favorite way to win a point is with a deep backhand shot down the line [Ed’s note: this is a perfect answer because it is also mine]. I’m a lefty and maybe it’s just anecdotal, but I think lefties tend to favor their backhand. There’s something especially gratifying about winning a point from the baseline with a clean, deep backhand. I’m a baseline girl.

Why do you keep coming back to tennis?

I keep coming back to tennis mostly for my mental health and the bonus of it being a great workout. It’s the only sport that feels made for introverts like me. Tennis can be incredibly frustrating, but in a way that pushes me to do better. On bad days, it amplifies whatever I’m feeling; on good ones, it pulls me out of my head, which is where I usually live.

I’ve never liked meditating. I fidget too much. But tennis gives me the same kind of clarity without having to sit still. And, the outfits help—they’re a big part of it. I love the idea of a uniform, and this is the closest I’ll ever get to one.

What’s in your bag?

I’ve been raw-dogging it without a proper bag but I am in the market for one. For now, the trunk of my car is basically my tennis bag. I keep my Nike tennis shoes in there, a change of clothes, Penn balls, an extra racquet just in case, hydroflask, either a Diet Coke or Celsius, and that’s about it.

I’m no frills when it comes to gear. I recently upgraded to a Babolat Pure Strike racquet and I love hitting with it. I’d been loyal to Head for years, playing with an early aughts model that used to be my dad’s. I loved it for a while, but it was ultimately too heavy for me. Switching to the Babolat racquet opened up a whole new world. It’s lighter, has a nice balance of power and control, and comes in a bright white that, dare I say, feels feminine.

The weirdest thing you’ve ever brought to court?

This isn’t that weird depending on who you’re talking to but I like to bring gas station jerky. I’m also never without a Celsius. Good to have easy protein and caffeine sources on hand.

• Here’s the latest for ‘See You In Court,’ my Racquet Mag column wherein I out myself as an apologist for transition lenses.

• Today at 7am, the ideal time to hang out with people you barely know, I hit with Daniel Yaw-Miller who writes the excellent SportsVerse. I was chuffed to learn (like some of my favorite people) he’s British, a great hitter, and that (not to dox him) we’re neighbors. This is the third person I’ve hit with from Substack—pls make yourself known if you’d like to be #4.

• Two compelling vintage items for your consideration: a flouncy, bouncy red and purple Marc Jacobs skirt, and a grey cartoonish Nike duffle.

Further reading: