The final point is struck. The victor screams, dropping their racket in exultation, securing a lifetime of glory. Just five minutes later, the loser—drained, heartbroken, and often humiliated—is required to walk back onto center stage, trophy in hand, and eloquently summarize their devastation for a global television audience. This is the curious, arguably cruel, mandate of the tennis runner-up speech.
In a sport already defined by intense solitude and psychological warfare, the post-match ceremony forces an immediate, televised transition from raw athletic agony to measured public grace. As many athletes and commentators argue, it is perhaps the most emotionally demanding public speaking requirement in all of professional sports.
The Protocol of Immediate Perspective
Preparing for this specific moment of defeat can be almost as taxing as preparing for the match itself. Professional tennis player Jennifer Brady, ahead of her first major final, described the necessity of meticulously writing down her thanks and acknowledgments in her phone`s Notes app—not because she might win, but because she feared the public humiliation of having «nothing to say» after a loss. She was worried about a failure of gratitude, not a failure of performance.
The script for the runner-up is rigid and unforgiving: A player must first congratulate the opponent (the person who just shattered their dream), thank the tournament staff (officials, sponsors, ball kids), and finally, attempt to articulate a positive takeaway for their own team and fans. All of this must be achieved while fighting the urge to, as Brady puts it, «just kind of want to just drown in your own sorrows for an hour.»
The inherent difficulty lies in the timing. In most major sports, the losing team is afforded the dignity of retreat—a closed locker room to process the disaster before facing the media hours later. Tennis demands immediate composure and gratitude, demanding a level of emotional compartmentalization that borders on the impossible.
When Raw Emotion Meets Global Scrutiny
The speeches that break through the formal protocol are the ones that are remembered, often defining how the athlete is viewed long after the scoresheet is forgotten. The line between being authentically vulnerable and professionally composed is razor-thin.
The Sabalenka Storm
In 2025, World No. 1 Aryna Sabalenka provided a textbook example of how this demand for immediate grace can fail spectacularly. After a crushing defeat in the French Open final, Sabalenka confessed to the crowd that the loss «hurts so much,» criticizing her own «terrible tennis» and subsequently doubling down in the press conference that her opponent only won due to her mistakes. While viewers understood the raw frustration, the comments were widely condemned as disrespectful and unprofessional. Sabalenka later admitted her regret, noting that the immediate emotional exhaustion simply overwhelmed her ability to filter her thoughts.
The Anisimova Masterclass
In sharp contrast, Amanda Anisimova`s runner-up speech following a devastating 6-0, 6-0 loss in the Wimbledon final proved that vulnerability, when framed correctly, can be a form of profound victory. Visibly distraught and fighting tears, Anisimova took the microphone and blended genuine praise for her opponent with deeply personal acknowledgments. Her tearful, apologetic tribute to her mother, who had broken a superstition to fly in for the match, went viral. It was hailed by leadership experts as a «master class in failure» because she allowed herself to be honest and human after a catastrophic moment.
«It was courageous. It was honest, and then you realize how compelling it is and how few people truly take that opportunity to be honest and vulnerable and generous after a devastating failure.»
The Debate: A Cruel Relic of Tradition?
The unique requirement for the runner-up to speak traces back to tennis`s origins as a «gentlemen`s sport»—a tradition that places courtesy and ceremony on par with competition. But in the modern, high-stakes era, prominent voices are questioning the practice.
Andy Roddick, a four-time major runner-up, emphatically labeled the tradition as «cruel» and unnecessary. Sabalenka echoed this sentiment, stating that the required ceremony is the «worst moment» and arguing that players need time to «cool down» and «disappear from this planet» before being forced into public performance.
The task is further complicated by language barriers. For non-native English speakers competing in tournaments dominated by the language, translating immediate, complex emotional pain into a second language adds yet another layer of stress.
However, not all players view the forced performance solely as a burden. ATP No. 6 Alex de Minaur found that being required to speak immediately after a disappointing loss at the Sydney International forced him to find perspective in real-time. The need to articulate a positive message helped him process his frustration and convert it into future motivation, leading to redemption the following year.
The Enduring Awkwardness
Even when the runner-up manages to deliver a perfectly scripted speech, the pressure often permeates the air, sometimes even tripping up the winner.
Jennifer Brady’s runner-up moment is perhaps best remembered not for her own gracious words, but for the delightful awkwardness that followed. When Naomi Osaka stepped up to accept her trophy, she paused to ask Brady if she preferred to be called «Jenny» or «Jennifer.» Brady quickly responded, «Jenny.» Osaka then proceeded to congratulate «Jennifer.»
This viral moment, a small, highly relatable lapse in concentration, perfectly encapsulates the high-wire act of the trophy ceremony. Even for the champion, who is supposed to be basking in glory, the performance demanded is so immediate and intense that basic human functions, like listening, can temporarily fail.
The runner-up speech remains a staple of the Grand Slam ceremony—a five-minute psychological ordeal that serves as a final, mandatory test of character. While critics call it cruel, the occasional flash of genuine human vulnerability under extreme pressure ensures that this tradition, however painful, continues to captivate the watching world.
Elton Marrow 
Torin Vale