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I looked out at the courts, and what did I see but 30 kids, under the age of ten, dressed in tennis gear, sitting in a circle, legs crossed, eyes closed, meditating. 

a debate that’s lighting up both locker rooms and living rooms: is it the French Open or Roland Garros, and does anyone outside of France care?

Welcome to Racquet’s inaugural dispatch of See You In Court, a regular column in which I, Mel Kenny, a famously mediocre lifelong player, heed reader questions about tennis.

Photographer Nikolaj Møller was in two of the right places (the Italian Open and St. Peter's Square) at exactly the right time, and described the scenes for Racquet.

The hum of New York traffic is just a distant soundscape as Rennae Stubbs and Caitlin Thompson huddle over a screen, espresso cups in hand, watching a tense Paolini-Ostapenko showdown unfold.

We ask the eminent and the imminent for their takes on the greatest things they’ve ever seen on a court, and damned if they don’t deliver—each and every one. The first in what will likely become a very long, storied series is by broadcaster, former pro and absolute national treasure Mary Carillo. Hers might just be the greatest of the Greatest.

Tennis Changed One Photographer's Relationship with His Hometown

What do Iga Swiatek, Novak Djokovic and Coco Gauff have in common (besides some Grad Slam titles)? They're all officially on our Worry Index for players who need to turn things around to reset their season. We talk about the chaos agent that is Jelena Ostapenko, the rebound of Holger Rune and some scattered pot shots from deodorant to shower drug tests.

Despite frigid temps in New York, Rennae and Caitlin celebrate the full-throated return of Clay SZN, featuring some great early runs on the slidey stuff from Jess Pegula, Americans Tommy Paul, Frances Tiafoe and Jensen Brooksby as well as celebrate the newest Australian: Daria Kasatkina. Plus: Should tennis boyfriends star in brand deals? And Rennae's Coaches Corner dissects the Marat Safin / Andrey Rublev partnership.

Something to know about me in 2025 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.