How tennis got boring

In the 1990s, I was an avid tennis watcher. Matches were full of variety: players scampered across every inch of the court, sent lobs sky‑high, and unleashed magnificent passing shots. Even routine rallies could turn into thrilling exchanges.

Late in that decade, a new player lit up the women’s competition — a 15‑year‑old from Switzerland who seemed to glide into the game without the gruelling gym routines or hardened persona of her rivals. Martina Hingis, who preferred roller skating to training, was relaxed, self‑assured, articulate, and blessed with a style that used every shot known to tennis.

In one match, she lobbed the ball so high that commentators wondered if it might touch the ceiling. No two shots were the same. Watching Hingis was like watching a new adventure each time. Off court, she was humble, pleasant, and seemingly untouched by tennis politics. In March 1997, at just 16, she became the youngest-ever world No. 1 in singles, holding the spot for 209 weeks — the fifth‑most all‑time. That year alone she won the Australian Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open, adding two more Australian Open titles in 1998 and 1999 for a total of five Grand Slam singles titles before turning 20.

Hingis was just as formidable in doubles, winning all four majors in 1998 with different partners — a calendar‑year Grand Slam — and becoming the youngest-ever Grand Slam champion when she took the Wimbledon doubles title in 1996 at 15 years and 9 months. I recorded many of her matches and discussed her progress with my sister‑in‑law.

But something changed — and, in my view, for the worse. Organisers began altering court surfaces to prolong rallies, claiming that spectators were frustrated by short points. In reality, this meant slowing the ball by various means, gradually erasing the diversity of playing styles that made tennis so engaging.

By 2013, the serve‑and‑volley game had all but vanished. Power players such as the Williams sisters, Lindsay Davenport, and Kim Clijsters dominated with long, grinding baseline rallies. The variety and unpredictability of the Hingis era were gone. By the mid‑2010s, I was bored, and I rarely watched.

Tennis was once synonymous with grass courts. Grass produced a low, fast bounce, rewarding agility and quick reactions. Clay, introduced in the 1880s when the Renshaw brothers crushed clay pots into coarse powder, created a higher bounce and slowed the ball, favouring heavy baseline hitters. Hingis excelled on grass, where her mobility and knack for returning seemingly unreturnable balls could frustrate even the strongest hitters. Yet she mastered all surfaces.

Organisers, however, standardised play by slowing all courts — even Wimbledon adopted new grass designed to behave more like clay. The distinctive styles that once flourished on different surfaces faded, and baseline specialists won almost everything.

US Open Tournament Director Jim Curley admitted these changes were made largely without spectators realising: “We’re trying to come up with a fair field of play for the integrity of the competition.” Pardon my cynicism but longer matches also mean more ticket revenue and more refreshment sales. Between 2012 and 2018, the Australian Open’s ground pass price jumped from $29 to $59 — a 103% increase in just six years.

I no longer watch tennis. A dog will happily chase the same ball over and over, but I refuse to sit through hours of endless to‑and‑fro without variation.