Building belonging in tennis

On most days, when Damita Curry steps onto the tennis courts, she already knows what she will see; very few faces that look like hers. 

For more than 40 years, tennis has been her joy, her grounding, and her connection to family. It has also been a space where she often stood alone. The only Black player in her neighborhood, the only girl traveling across Cleveland to practice, and even now, sometimes the only Black woman on the court.  

She has gotten used to it, but she has never accepted that. 

Today, Curry serves as the first executive director of the Southwest Tennis Foundation, the philanthropic arm of the USTA Southwest Section serving Arizona, New Mexico, and El Paso County, Texas. The foundation raises funds in order to provide grants and scholarships to undeserved communities, adaptive players, and individuals who may not otherwise have access to the sport. 

Growing up in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, Curry was the youngest of five children in a close and athletic family where sports were not just optional but expected. Her father introduced her to tennis while she was still in middle school. It would quickly become her sport. 

“My older brothers and sisters were very accomplished in their sports,” Curry said. “I wanted something that could be my own.” 

She and her sister would always walk to public courts with their racquets in their hands, ready to practice their fundamentals. It was simple and assessable. Truly, it was the beginning of a lifelong bond that would not just be with the game, but with her father. That bond would shape everything. 

Curry’s family was the first Black family to move onto their street in the 1970s. On local courts in her neighborhood, she was often the only Black player. When she eventually auditioned for Robert Binns Jr.’s Forest Hills Tennis Club, an all-Black tennis organization in Cleveland, her world would drastically shift.  

“It meant everything,” she said. 

For the very first time, she saw Black players her age who were better than she was. Excellence. Possibility. Community.  

Curry and her sister would take two buses and a train twice a week during the summer just to get to practice. It was three hours of traveling for just roughly one hour on the court. But for Damita, it was all worth it. 

“I saw what excellence looked like,” she said. 

The lessons would extend beyond just tennis. 

She mentioned that her father was everything to her. A trailblazer in his own right, he became the first Black photographer hired by a major publication in the state of Ohio. He understood what it meant to be first, as well as navigate rooms as the only one. 

“He was helping us navigate this life of firsts,” Curry said. 

Now, decades later, she finds herself having similar conversations with her own son. She is seemingly coaching him through what it feels like to be the only person in his work environment who looks like him. 

“Much has changed,” she said, “but much hasn’t changed.” 

Tennis, however, remained a safe place throughout all this. 

After taking a 25-year break from the sport to raise her family, Curry eventually returned to the court. But the return was not without a challenge. 

Following a breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, she stepped back onto the court for the first time during her recovery.  

“It was emotional,” she said. “I just cried.” 

The court brought her back to her childhood, back to her father and back to the foundation of who she was before all the titles, leadership roles, and adversity she endured.  

“It was a healing like no other,” she said. “It grounded me.” 

Facing her mortality changed something in her. It made her more intentional about the impact of the communities that she wanted to serve. 

But Curry knows that access is still a challenge for many people. 

“Tennis is still very much an elitist sport,” she said. “You have to have the money, the time and access to play.” 

Courts are not always ready and available to use in underserved communities. Equipment can be expensive, and lessons can sometimes feel out of reach. The perception of exclusivity remains. 

That is why Curry helped launch the Courts & Culture program. This program is a clinic that is designed specifically for Black and brown women. 

Just last fall, 65 women signed up. Nearly half had never picked up a racquet before. 

“To see folks having fun and finding later in life that this is something they want to try and take up, that’s when it becomes very rewarding,” she said. 

She believes that representation can change everything on the ground level. 

“You meet folks where they are,” Curry said. “You partner with them. You don’t just tell them what they need.” 

When young Black girls see her leading in the sport, Curry hopes they feel something simple and undeniable. 

“I hope they feel, without hesitation, that this sport belongs to them just as much as anyone else,” she said. “More than anything, I want them to feel welcomed, seen, and supported as they write their own story in tennis or in life, knowing there is space for their brilliance and their voice.  

Even now, after decades in the sport, she sometimes still finds herself as the only Black woman on the court. 

“It’s normalized for me,” she admitted. “But that just needs to change.” 

During Black History Month, as the nation reflects on pioneers like Althea Gibson and Arthur Ashe, and modern stars like Serena and Venus Williams, Curry sees both progress and responsibility.  

“We know we’re out there,” she said. “But it’s still not enough of us.” 

Her vision extends beyond the Southwest. 

“Opportunity shouldn’t have borders,” Curry said. “When we share tennis and sport across cultures and continents, we expand what young people believe is possible for themselves and their futures.”  

For Curry, tennis has never just been about winning matches. It is about who gets to step onto the court in the first place and about someone who feels like they belong once they get there. 

For years, Curry learned how to survive being the only Black player in her neighborhood, the only girl traveling across Cleveland to practice, and the only woman navigating spaces that were not initially built for her.  

“Legacy is a strong word, and one I wouldn’t use in this context,” she said. “But if you are asking me about my impact, I hope they say I helped make the sport feel more welcoming. It gives me joy that the work I did made it a little easier for someone else to step onto the court or into the boardroom and know they belonged there.” 

Now, she is making sure she won’t be the last. 

“They may bury me on the court,” she said. 

Not because she refuses to leave the game, but because she refuses to leave it unchanged.