Katrina Adams: The Importance of Making a Difference

You know, it’s funny; I never really thought of tennis as a “white” sport until I was a couple of years into it. I started at a local program a couple of blocks away from where we lived in Chicago, which was a predominantly Black community. Everyone there was Black—kids and coaches alike. The coach who took me under his wing when he saw I showed some promise was Black, and he then took me to another all-Black program.  The local tournaments I played in my community were all Black. And the first national tournament I played in was the ATA nationals; again, all-Black.

It wasn’t until I started to play in Chicago District Tennis Association programs that my surroundings changed drastically, and I found myself as the only Black player. All of a sudden, it was like, ‘Wow; where is everybody?”

That was something of a stark realization, but I must say that I was fortunate as a junior player in that I never really had to deal with blatant racism. My peers and my opponents were my friends; they respected me just as I respected them. If there was ever any negativity toward me, my dad shielded me from it. The only time I ever felt even slightly uncomfortable in juniors was when I played a National in Birmingham, Ala., at a country club where there were no Black members. The only Black faces there were of those who worked at the club.

At first, my parents weren’t going to let me play there, but they eventually relented. I can still recall walking in the front gate of that club, oblivious to everything, just bopping in with my racquets and my dad walking tall and looking straight ahead. I didn’t win that tournament, but I think I made an impression anyway. I remember all of the Black people who worked there literally stopped what they were doing to watch this young Black girl walking into that club like she belonged. I like to think that they remember that too.

When I first came onto the WTA Tour in 1988, there were just a handful of black women pros, including Zina Garrison, Lori McNeil, and Camille Benjamin. I was most fortunate to have both Zina and the great Billie Jean King as mentors—two women who truly helped to light my path toward success. If you want to talk about women of achievement, about a champion of a sport and of myriad causes, you can’t do much better that Billie Jean King.  

Billie was my sage in sneakers, a caring voice and a guiding hand who never once told me what to do, but who always encouraged me to think for myself. I looked up to her, and just as important, she never looked down on me. Right from the start, she made me feel like I belonged. She encouraged my progress—as a player and as a person.  She was unobtrusive but always available; a guiding light that you just knew would never run out of fuel….

And Zina, well…. Zina was special. She took me under her wing and really taught me what it meant to be a professional, how to carry myself and deal with the countless scenarios that play out when you’re chasing a yellow ball around the globe. We played doubles together, roomed together, and shared a coach—the great Willis Thomas. She provided a cultural familiarity for me. It wasn’t that I was homesick or anything, but as you get older, you start to realize what’s missing or what’s different. Zina helped to keep things real.

So when I was walking off the court toward the locker room, dripping in sweat, with my ID in my racquet bag, and I got stopped by the guard at the door while my white opponent just walked in ahead of me without getting checked, I never created a scene.  But I always made a mental note of it. I knew it was, at the very least, disrespectful, but I would tuck it away, catalog it, and try to learn from it. Every one of those experiences made me smarter, made me tougher, and made me more determined to change the way things were.

Billie always said pressure is a privilege, and she always said that we as players needed to give back to the game. Especially as a Black player, I always took that to heart. I always participated in sponsor events and things of that nature. Whether I was playing the first match the next day or not, I always showed up, trying to look my best. I’m not sure I understood at the time how important or impactful that was. But especially if I was the only Black player in the draw that week, I wasn’t going to be the Black player who didn’t show up. I knew I had a responsibility to the tournament and to the tour, but more, I knew I had a responsibility to myself and to others like me. I’ve always wanted to stand out with my presence; I didn’t want to stand out with by absence.

I got involved in WTA Player’s Association early on in my career, and joined the Board in my second year because I really wanted to understand the inner workings of the game and help it evolve. I always wanted to make sure that the image of the Black athlete was prevalent, and that we were responsible and knowledgeable and had impact—not just on the court but off the court as well.

When I left the tour, I was asked to be a USTA National Coach, and I have to say that was one of the most rewarding times of my life, as I got the chance to work not only with several of our top pros but also with an amazing group of young Black players. For me, that was like coming full circle. I thought of the coaches who helped to bring me along as a player, and I really reveled in the opportunity to help these young budding professionals to realize their potential as well. 

That’s the same ideal that has driven me in my role as Executive Director of the Harlem Junior Tennis and Education Program; a position I’ve held now for 15 years. When I was on the tour, I was aware of the program, because during the US Open, I’d given clinics there. I knew about the facility, and I knew that Arthur Ashe and Althea Gibson and every Black player of note between them and after them had hit on those courts.

So when they asked me to take over as Executive Director, I couldn’t refuse. For me, it reminded me of the program that I’d grown up in in Chicago. In these young faces, I saw a reflection of myself, and I saw this as an opportunity to give back, just as so many had given back to me. Through my years there, I have seen hundreds of kids turn their sad stories into success stories. Being part of that has really touched my soul, because that’s who I was—and to some extent, who I still am. I’m proud that I’ve played a part in changing their trajectory, because I feel like I’m paying it forward for those who helped to change mine. I’ve always seen that as both a privilege and a responsibility.

And those are exactly the words that I would use to describe my time as USTA President and Chair. I was honored to be the first African-American, the first former professional athlete and the youngest person ever to preside over the association. That was indeed a privilege and a milestone moment for both myself and for the association. But more, I felt an immense sense of responsibility, to utilize what is one of the highest-visibility platforms in tennis to do all that I could to try to level the playing field for everyone, and give more people an opportunity to realize their dreams and goals through our great sport. My coaches, my parents, Billie, Zina, Willis—they all would expect that of me. I know I always expected it of myself.

No one ever experiences true success alone. Through every phase of my life, in all of my various careers—as a player, coach, commentator, executive, and now author, I have wanted to use my platform to be a voice for others; to help pass the baton of success. That’s always been important to me because if it hadn’t been for other people reaching back and bringing me forward, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Through every step of my journey, someone helped me; someone gave me their shoulders to stand on.

Especially in those moments where I know that I’m the only one, I get strength from the realization that others like me helped to get me here. I know that they still count on me to make them proud, and I know that there are others behind me who count on me to get them here. They still count on me to help make a difference.

I long ago promised myself never to let any of them down.