Cancún · Kenrick Tjandra

Tennis in Cancún is a sentence that shouldn’t quite work. Mexico isn’t a tennis country. The WTA had announced Cancún as the host of the 2023 Finals at the last possible minute, and you could feel it everywhere. The whole thing was set up to fall apart from the start. And in some ways, it did. But it also gave me something I’d never had: the top eight women on tour, up close. Practice serves a few feet away. Selfies with JPeg and Aryna. The whole thing.

I rolled into town after the first match had already started and went straight to the venue to see what we were working with. Reader, it was bleak. The stadium was a temporary build slapped together outside a hotel in the zona hotelera, with metal rods poking out at the seams and banners thinner than a beach towel — the kind of structure that makes you double-check your row number and then your insurance. The weather was no help. Wind whipped the courts. Rain delays kept stacking. The grounds turned into mud, and the players walked through it like everyone else.

A player in a light cap and gray tee on a purple practice court, Cancun branding in the background — Practice court. The whole venue was outside, in the wind.

The setup was a disservice. These are the eight best women in the sport. They worked all year for this. They deserved a real venue.

The tennis itself

But here’s the thing: the tennis itself was unreal. Even the round-robin matches felt like Slam semifinals. Every point mattered. Nobody was coasting.

A player serving, sponsor walls behind, crowd visible at the top of frame — Round-robin match. Played like a Slam semi.

I sat near Rybakina’s team and ended up chatting with her sister, Ann, who is a delight. I also caught Vukov mid-tirade about, well, everything. He has opinions.

Player in a coral patterned dress and white visor against a dark sponsor wall — Between points.

I got into morning practice early enough to watch Vondrousova drill her serve from a few feet away, which is an absurd thing to be allowed to do. Of the six matches I watched, Pegula taking down Sabalenka was the one. Sakkari’s meltdown was harder to sit through.

A player mid-serve on an outdoor practice court in bright sunlight — Serve drills, morning practice.

Outside the bubble

Cancún itself, outside the tennis bubble, is its own thing. The resort zone is safe, easy, and so American it might as well take dollars at every register. If that’s all you see, you haven’t really been to Cancún. My budget by this point was in shambles. I rode the non-AC bus to and from the venue every day. I ate more McDonald’s than I want to admit. But staying outside the resort zone got me one of the best things I ate all year: a tiny breakfast taco spot a local pointed me to, where the carnitas were stupidly good, and you helped yourself to chicharrones and pork liver from a side counter. Self-serve organ meat at 8 a.m., and it worked.

Cancun beach with thatched palapas, swimmers, turquoise water, and pale sand — The Cancún everyone else came for.

This was my first time watching tour-level tennis in person, and I get it now. The athletes, the teams trailing them around the world, the whole machine that holds them up. I have a different respect for all of it. Especially the part where they keep going when the stands aren’t full.