In this postcard from Morocco, local player and commentator Mamoune Hazmoune explains the meaning of high-level tennis up close and personal.

Peter Malachi's grandfather took tennis from his swashbuckling days dodging torpedoes in the second world war to a tiny, bucolic island.

Hawkeye might be forever stacked against her, but dammit, Ostapenko is going to wrest back the favor of the gods one waistless eponymous tennis dress at a time, for offers in good faith from Believers in her DMs.

In the spirit of transgressions, trolls, tirades, and another godforsaken years-end list, our resident advice columnist brings you the top five rage bait moments of 2025.

It was the fall of 2005. I had not yet begun to lose things, and people, and parts of myself. I still believed in the one true way, as Federer did. Agassi knew better but I hadn’t lived enough to understand what I was watching. I was 29 years and two days old.  

A postcard from our favorite indie zine Portland Tennis Courterly's Wet Issue release party, where each microclimate seemed completely and utterly devoted to tennis, from the bagels toasting in the kitchen to a 1997 Riesling with notes of... tennis balls.

Inside the USTA’s quietly radical plan to rethink coaching