Alex Eala's Wimbledon breakthrough sparks tennis boom in basketball-obsessed Philippines

Maristella Torrecampo and her father stepped off a bus in Manila after thirteen hours of travel from their hillside hometown, exhausted and hungry. The fourteen-year-old had come to play tennis, but her crowdfunded budget allowed only for two round-trip tickets and a few days of meals. Her mother and four siblings had stayed behind. On a sweltering Tuesday afternoon at Rizal Stadium, barely rested, Torrecampo faced an opponent from Oman and dismantled her 6-1, 6-1, with only her father in the stands to witness it. She was chasing a dream that, until recently, would have seemed impossible in a country where tennis belonged almost entirely to the wealthy.

Torrecampo's ambition was not invented in isolation. She was following the trajectory of Alexandra Eala, a twenty-one-year-old who had just returned from London after reaching the fourth round of Wimbledon—the farthest any Filipino woman had ever advanced in a Grand Slam tournament. Along the way, Eala had eliminated Iga Swiatek, the defending champion from Poland. The entire nation had watched on streaming and social media. President Ferdinand Marcos hosted Eala at Malacanang Palace for a reception in her honor. When Eala spoke to the crowd, she called it "our victory," and said she felt "very seen" by her countrymen. For Torrecampo and thousands of other young Filipinos, Eala's run was a permission slip. "Like Ate Alex, I want to win at Wimbledon, WTA, and various tournaments around the world," Torrecampo said, using the Filipino word for elder sister. "She inspired me so much."

But Eala's breakthrough exposed a brutal truth about tennis in the Philippines. The sport has always been the preserve of the rich in a nation of 112 million people where basketball courts sit in every village and boxing gyms run by prizefighters dot the major cities. American colonial rule left the country obsessed with basketball. Manny Pacquiao, the boxing legend, remains the nation's most recognizable athlete. Tennis, by contrast, has been marginal—until now. Court rentals in Manila cost around two thousand pesos, roughly thirty-two dollars, per hour. Half a day of play costs half the minimum wage. For most Filipinos, it is equivalent to a month's worth of groceries. Equipment is expensive. Courts exist mainly in wealthy enclaves. The infrastructure simply does not exist for ordinary people to learn the game.

Jovy Barce, a tennis coach, knows this intimately. At six years old, he worked as a ball boy in Caloocan City, on the capital's outskirts, earning one hundred pesos—about two dollars—per day, which he split with his mother for household groceries. At eight, he found a tennis racket in a bin and began teaching himself. A player eventually gave him an old racket, and Barce practiced obsessively with no formal instruction. He put himself through college on a sports scholarship, working at a hotel and as a motorcycle delivery driver. He became a coach starting with just forty tennis balls. "No one taught me," he said. "I never had a professional coach. It was all self-study."

Eala, by contrast, studied at the Rafael Nadal Academy in Spain. Her mother is a former telecommunications executive; her father is a businessman from a prominent family. She has been criticized for her elite background, and was even photographed dancing onstage with Bad Bunny at a concert in Sweden. But Eala has dismissed such criticism, insisting that observers do not see the hard work behind the scenes. Her Wimbledon run has nonetheless triggered a surge in demand that the country is struggling to meet. When Eala returned home, sponsors organized fan events, including a meet-and-greet at a shopping mall in Makati. Families drove hours from nearby provinces. Federico and Gilia Perez booked a hotel to arrive early, even without tickets, hoping to see Eala in person. Their commitment was absolute: Gilia had purchased a magazine with Eala on the cover a year earlier and brought it to be signed.

Young players are flooding tennis courts. Celso Mugot, a thirty-three-year-old accountant, intensified his training after watching Eala's rise from low ranking to prominence. Rafael Santos, a twenty-nine-year-old IT professional, recently took up tennis but found court bookings nearly impossible since Eala's breakthrough at the Miami Open last year. Tennis shoes and apparel are sold out or in short supply. Racket prices have been inflated. Eleven-year-old Luca Ong told visitors at a fan event that his goal was to become the next Alex Eala or Rafael Nadal and represent the Philippines. The demand is real and urgent, but the supply is not there to meet it.

Felino Palafox, a renowned Filipino architect and urban planner, identified the core problem: space. Metro Manila is home to nearly sixteen million people and ranks among the world's most densely populated urban centers. Every village has a basketball court that can be converted into a beauty pageant runway. Boxing gyms run by prizefighters are scattered across major cities. But tennis courts require dedicated space that the city simply does not have. "Ideally, every barangay should have a tennis court, not just basketball courts," Palafox said. "We are fighting for activities."

Meanwhile, Eala is preparing for the US Open in August, seeking to push the Philippines' status in tennis even higher. Torrecampo continues her own journey, working on her pre-match nerves and her swing, traveling on crowdfunded bus tickets to tournaments in Manila and beyond. Her father, Delfin Torrecampo, told her to focus on the game without pressure, and offered a message to families in similar circumstances: "Poverty is not a hindrance for you and your family's dreams. The people who keep on fighting and persevering are the same people who have the chance to win. You may not win today or tomorrow, but your win will come one day as long as you keep on fighting."