Why I hate the fetishization of tennis skirts
and why I love Jill’s brand of tennis on RHONY.
A reader asked me how I feel about cultural moments in which tennis has surfaced from its self-contained hidey hole and seeped into the collective consciousness. I said, oo, let me think on that, and here we are.
I need not unpack a certain 2024 movie that weaves the toils of the game with a thorny love triangle—least not four months too late—though I do think ‘Challengers’ has something to do with the 74,641 fans that attended the first day of 2024’s US Open, the biggest crowd for a single day in history. Math and I are like Zheng and Navarro—there’s friction—but my guess is that the median age for attendees was younger this year.
If the question-asker was fishing for a snarky reply from me—par for the court where tennis people are concerned—I won’t disappoint, but I’m not without nuance. I’ll first show you how deep my pettiness runs, before pursuing a redemption arc replete with earnest enthusiasm.
Petty: I hate the fetishization of tennis skirts
To the surprise of probably no-one, I sincerely hate the fetishization of the tennis skirt. Penny-pinching stuff like this and this, and certainly also bogus country club assholery like this.
I hate the feminine urge to wear a tennis skirt (so cute) to take fun ‘n’ flirty fit pics at the net, and courts away from people trying to hit balls. Say it with me now: my culture is not your costume! Call it the girl version of something a lot of dudes are guilty of:
all gear, no idea
/ôl ɡir nō īˈdēə/Novices who splash out on expensive equipment but who lack the aptitude to use it properly or even to perform satisfactorily in the subject endeavor.
I have endured soliloquies about the ideal racquet and string pattern combo for maximum control. Sermons about racquet head size and how one square inch makes *all* the difference. It’s always Wilson Blade this, Head Radical that. Boys and their toys! He who flexes the loudest typically has the most technical issues and footwork deficiencies to conceal. Women novices tend to not do this, but they instead do this:
Someone reading this is probably thinking that mean girls ~like me~ are diminishing the confidence gear guys and skirt girls need to play better, or at all. The truth is, any ability level is fine with me—I’d be a mess if I had to learn tennis as an adult—just know that lessons are a great investment and props are just props 💅
Enthusiastic: I love Jill’s brand of tennis in RHONY
Between 2008 and 2010—when Instagram was about latte art and not our collective loss of integrity— ‘Real Housewives Of New York’ gave us some spirited, satisfying representations of tennis. RHONY did not skirt around actually playing. Skirts were worn and tennis was played in them—usually doubles, a famously social game—though the social graces of tennis have never moved me. Instead, these doubles matches draw more parallels with a sample sale squabble than the stuffy etiquette tennis is known for.
A key stakeholder in these matches was Jill Zarin, a gregarious mother of one with a Lawn Guyland accent; oft hysterical; more trolling than cruel. Jill’s tennis skills are not especially breathtaking. But sandwiched between her assorted accolades—nightgown designer, co-author of Secrets of a Jewish Mother, philanthropist—is Jill’s pièce de résistance: her competitive thirst.
People who opine about tennis for a living will tell you that being a champion is more than playing well—it’s figuring out how to win when you’re not playing well. They are describing Jill. Resourceful, determined, fastidious Jill.
Let’s call into account S2, E4: ‘Game, Set, Feud’. Jill somehow procures a doubles partner who was once ranked #63 in the world—only he can’t come because he hurt his back hitting with 14-time grand slam champion Pete Sampras, if you must know. This leaves Jill lonesome in her match-up against husband-wife team Ramona and Mario—she of bulging eyes and ceaseless complaining; he of former-pro tennis status, like the other guy. It’s all very messy and confusing, just how it ought to be.
Jill knows she has nary a chance of beating Mario without her partner. Rather than summoning another from the preeminent Sampras brethren, Jill's tactic is to disarm her opponents with a mismatch in personality, not skillset. She has the audacity to pair up with someone Ramona finds odious: Simon, a spooky hologram husband. Simon’s hobbies include getting dressed for events and helping his wife get dressed for events, so they can go to events and ascend swiftly to the top of the social ladder. This last part has never happened.
And boy, there are QUARRELS. Wanna know my favorite?? Wherein Ramona calls Simon a “shell of a person” with “no depth” as he stands over her at a fashion show. It is jaw-dropping; it is outrageous. Simon’s witless retorts do not bear repeating, though I will say his way of talking conjures a Sydney private school pedigree—puzzling since he was born in Brisbane, the Vegas of Australia. He and his non-French wife, Alex (above), named his son Francois which is deranged because, again, Brisbane.
Let me bring you back. On court, fraudulence hangs heavy in the air. Ramona pretends she isn’t ruffled by Simon’s presence but is. M’lord Simon pretends he can play tennis but can’t. Mario feigns a casual disposition but bro is pressed. Score-wise, Simon and Jill are down bad. Jill is scolding him in a confluence of hisses and high-pitched wails.
Stay with me, reader. This is when a very obvious genius strategy occurs to Jill: hit everything to novice, Ramona. As if born again, our steely protagonist directs some blistering forehands at Ramona and her misses pay dividends. Mario is pissed, which is embarrassing for him; an ex-pro competing against bumbling beginners. But to be fair, Jill is playing “really good tennis”, y’all!
Ultimately, though, Simon’s errors and Mario’s finesse endure, and he and Ramona win the match. But Jill won at making things interesting.
I had no idea I’d be getting into bed with Jill Zarin when I started thinking on this prompt. But as it turns out, RHONY aptly paints the niggling frustrations of recreational tennis. Casual players aren’t consistent or talented enough to fully control every match, and our self-aimed exasperation extracts creativity at best; petulance at worst. It might be a little uncivilized, but it’s more human than mannequinning at the net.
Thank you for consuming my content! If you find Hard Hitting funny, interesting or otherwise enjoyable, I’d be chuffed if you shared it with your tennis ppl <3