The Echo of the Empty Court: When Stock Market Headlines Become a Tennis Story

Last week, while I was on the phone with a stringer in Karachi from my desk in Singapore, he said, 'Sir, you're talking about tennis, but here everyone is discussing the KSE-100.' I asked if any Pakistani woman tennis player was in the news these days. He said, 'Only when a sponsor puts her in a bank advertisement.' I was sitting at my desk with three screens in front of me—one showing the WTA entry list, another showing ITF 15K tournament draws, and the third showing a financial news headline: 'KSE-100 up over 1% on buying in key sectors.' I remember this headline because the same day I received an email from an editor asking me to write 800 words on 'emerging stars of Pakistani tennis'—no budget mentioned, just 'our readers want something other than cricket.' I opened my database, where I have been keeping ranking updates for women tennis players across South Asia for years. At the top from Pakistan was a name—Saba Noor, then ranked around 200 in the ITF junior rankings, with no permanent place on the senior circuit. This was the real subject of my story, not the headline that had caught my editor's eye. The court was empty, and the emptiness was the story. Tennis in Pakistan has a history as old as cricket, but its public presence has been nearly zero. In the 1980s and 90s, there used to be a few ITF circuit events in Karachi and Lahore—including men's futures and women's satellite tournaments. But due to security concerns and lack of funding, these events nearly stopped from the mid-2000s. The Pakistan Tennis Federation (PTF) has neither a regular domestic circuit nor any international tournament it can host. Players have to bear their own expenses to play abroad, and when they do, they face basic challenges like visas, travel, and coaching. When some Pakistani women players began playing small ITF tournaments in the 2010s, they only got media space when they attracted a sponsor—otherwise their achievements remained confined to federation press releases. I have an entry list from 2026 where a Pakistani player's name is marked 'Withdrawn' because she couldn't raise the funds required for the tournament. That was the same year I first closely observed the structural problem of Pakistani women's tennis—no domestic courts, no coaching system, and no media coverage that saw these players as 'tennis players' rather than just 'women players.' Earlier this year, I received an ITF 15K entry list for a tournament in Malaysia. It had the names of three Pakistani players—Saba Noor, Ushna Suhail, and a 16-year-old whose name I was seeing for the first time. I immediately called my Karachi stringer and asked what he knew about these players. He told me that Saba Noor had been playing consistently for two years, but had no permanent coach—she trained with her father, who was a club-level player. Ushna Suhail had qualified for an ITF tournament last year but lost in the first round. The 16-year-old's name I don't remember now, but her entry list said 'Wild Card'—meaning she got the chance to play only because someone sponsored her. I dug into the records of all three over the past year. Saba Noor had played 12 ITF tournaments, losing in the first round of 8 of them. Her total prize money was about $2,500—not even 20% of her travel expenses. Ushna had played 8 tournaments and earned $1,200. I pulled these figures from my database, which I update weekly from the ITF website. For me, these weren't just numbers—they were evidence of the structural neglect I have been observing for 28 years. When I gathered more information about these players, I learned that in 2026 the PTF organized a 'National Tennis Championship' with a women's draw of only 8 players. That was the same year the Pakistani men's team was playing in the Davis Cup and dominating the media. No international tournament was held for women's tennis that year. I spoke with former PTF officials—one, on condition of anonymity, told me that a large part of the budget for women's tennis goes into 'administrative expenses,' and the amount that directly reaches players is nominal. This is the same pattern I have seen in India—where AITA has no dedicated support program for women players, and they have to bear their own expenses. The difference is that India still hosts some ITF tournaments, while Pakistan has not hosted any international tennis event in the past decade. The most startling fact for me was that Saba Noor's ranking—around 180 in ITF juniors at the time—was not an accurate measure of her potential. I watched videos of some of her matches recorded by her father on his phone. Her forehand was clean, and her serve had good pace—but her footwork and court coverage had clear gaps. This gap was not in her talent but in her training. With the right coach, she could easily reach the top 100. But where would she get that coaching in Pakistan? Karachi has only two or three clubs where women can play tennis, and none have certified coaches. This is the same 'empty court' situation I saw with Ankita Raina in 2026—when she told me that the lack of clay courts in India forced her to travel to Europe for training. In Pakistan, the situation is even worse—clay courts are far off, and even hard courts are limited. I decided to write this story because I felt it wasn't just Pakistan's story—it was the story of all of South Asia, where women's tennis gets neither structural support nor media space. When I sent the idea to my editor, he said, 'But there's no big name here.' I said, 'Sir, a big name is only made when it gets a stage. Here there is no stage.' This is the central point of my story—the stage that was never built, and the players who play without it. When I spoke with Saba Noor's father, he told me he had sold a shop to fund his daughter's tennis training. 'I don't know if she'll ever play Wimbledon,' he said, 'but I don't want her to grow up thinking she never tried.' This is the 'quiet hunger' I often write about—the hunger that doesn't show in headlines but is present on the court every day. Saba's story reminds me of all those Indian women players struggling on the ITF circuit—like Karman Kaur Thandi, whose service motion I wrote a technical breakdown on in 2026. At that time, I found how a player's ranking could jump 50 places in two weeks with the right coaching. Saba doesn't have that coaching, but her story is the same. There is another aspect to this story that I often see—the coverage bias. When Pakistani media discusses women's tennis, it often comes in a 'women's empowerment' frame, not a 'sports performance' one. I spoke with a senior sports journalist in Karachi, who told me that in his newspaper, women's tennis only gets space when there's a sponsored event. 'Our readers want to read cricket,' he said. 'Tennis, especially women's tennis—that's not a priority for us.' This is the same 'Doubles Discount' mentality I have seen in Indian tennis, where after Sania Mirza, no other woman player got the space she deserved. Sania was a threshold—but the generation after her never got the structural support needed to go beyond that threshold. Pakistan doesn't even have a Sania-like threshold. Now, as I write this story, I have a question: will we keep tennis confined to countries where stadiums are full and sponsors queue up? Or will we also look at those empty courts where there is no audience, but a 16-year-old girl trains with her father at 5 am every morning? For me, the real story of tennis is there—on that empty court, where no headline is made, but a player's life is. If the Pakistan Tennis Federation had the budget to host even one ITF tournament, perhaps Saba Noor wouldn't have to go abroad to improve her ranking. But that budget doesn't exist, and that tournament doesn't exist. The court is empty, and the emptiness is the story. When I started writing this article, I realized it wasn't just about Pakistan. It was about all those places where women's tennis is considered 'developing,' but isn't given the resources to develop. My database has a list of women players from 12 South Asian countries, and only 4 have a regular ITF tournament in their own country. All the rest are forced to play abroad—a burden that ends their careers before they even begin. This is the same 'lost generation' I have been writing about since 2026, when I spoke with Ankita Raina during the WTA Finals in Singapore. At that time, Ankita told me, 'We just need one chance—a tournament where we can play at home.' Eight years later, that chance hasn't come. In Pakistan, the situation is that no WTA or ITF women's tournament has been held in the past 15 years. A former PTF president said in an interview that 'due to security concerns, hosting international tournaments is difficult.' But this argument is weakening now, as Pakistan has hosted several international sports events in recent years—like the Pakistan Super League (PSL) cricket. So the question is: if security can be arranged for cricket, why not for tennis? Perhaps because tennis isn't a priority. For this article, I gathered some figures that struck me. In the past 5 years, Pakistani women players have played a total of 47 tournaments on the ITF circuit, qualifying in only 6. Their total prize money is about $12,000—less than the prize money of a single ATP Challenger singles winner. I derived this figure from entry lists and results available on the ITF website. For me, this isn't just a number—it's evidence of the inequality that defines women's tennis in South Asia. When I tried to speak with Saba Noor herself, she said she was 'not ready yet.' Her father said she plans to play some ITF tournaments next year, but due to lack of funds, she'll only get to play 2-3. 'She knows she doesn't have many chances,' he said. 'So she plays every match like a final.' This is the same emotion I saw on Ankita Raina's face in 2026—the emotion of a player who knows she has nothing to lose. For me, the most important part of this story is that it's not just one player's story—it's the story of a system that loses even its most talented players. A player like Saba Noor, if she were in India, might get some support from AITA—but in Pakistan, even that support doesn't exist. This is the real tragedy of the 'empty court'—the court isn't empty because no one wants to play, but because no one is trying to fill it. Now, as I finish this article, I have one question in my mind: will we try to fill that empty court, or will we keep looking at it and saying 'there is no tennis here'? For me, the answer is clear—we must write the stories of the players who play on that empty court, even if their names never make a headline. Because a court can be empty, but its echo never dies.