Last week, the New York Times ran a headline that asked “Why Does Playing Tennis Make So Many Pros Miserable?” The occasion was Naomi Osaka’s announcement, on the heels after her early elimination at the US Open, that she was taking a break from tennis. This, of course, was just a few months after the to-do with her at the French Open. But the Times story was good in that it contextualized Osaka’s struggles within the long history of tennis stars who either struggled with addiction and mental health issues, or simply walked away from the game in their primes: People like Steffi Graff, Bjorn Borg, Jennifer Capriati, and Andre Agassi.
Looking for some explanation, the article keeps coming back to one theme: Tennis is an intensely individualized sport. Even compared to other individual competitions, it is isolating. Olympians have teammates. Recall how Simone Biles, even as she had to withdraw from competition on the biggest stage in the world, could still pull for her teammates on the sidelines. But tennis players do not have that. They don’t even have a coach or a caddy they can talk to while during matches. It’s just them out there.
In some way, this should make tennis the most rewarding sport to succeed in. You are solely responsible for your success—the great ones are never dogged by criticisms that they wouldn’t have won without this teammate or that coach. There is something regal about the sport’s stars, its Federers and Samprases and Serenas, in part because they stand alone.
But just as often, this isolation oppresses people. And lest we fall prey to thinking that this is just how tennis weeds out the weak players, it is often precisely these regal champions who smash rackets, scream at line judges, or simply quit in frustration. It all suggests that the kind of individualized success fostered by tennis is not actually that fulfilling.
I don’t want to overstate the case. Obviously winning the US Open is fulfilling, and mental health issues are not unique to tennis players. Just as important: We should not romanticize the concept of a team, lest we start to sound like an HR rep. It can be nice to have people to celebrate accomplishments with, but we’d do well to remember how often working on a team annoys the hell out of people—and not just athletes. Ask someone what they don’t like about their job, and odds are they will start bitching about their coworkers.
This is where the concept of “solidarity” is important. Solidarity reminds you that you will not always LIKE the people on your team. In fact, you may find your coworkers, or the other members of the working class, pretty detestable. They might suck at their job, or tell racist jokes, or refuse to take the Covid vaccine. But you still need them, because they are on your team, and if you are going to accomplish anything, you need to work together.
There is certainly a temptation for leftists—myself included—to get sentimental when talking about “solidarity.” But the point is that it’s HARD. It’s not really the romantic image of workers marching arm in arm. It’s refusing to snitch on a coworker who dropped the ball, even if it means you have to do extra work. Bernie asked, “Are you willing to fight for someone you don’t know?” but perhaps a more honest rendering would have been, “Are you willing to fight for someone you can’t fucking stand?”
It’s difficult, but it is necessary. Solidarity really is good for your mental health. The alternative is the lonely individualism you find on tennis courts.