I'm glad you're doing this story on us and not on the WNBA.

Hear the voice of Martina Hingis, champion of the courts, who once spoke with a jest that carried the weight of a larger truth: “I’m glad you’re doing this story on us and not on the WNBA. We’re so much prettier than all the other women in sports.” At first glance, these words seem only playful, a boast about beauty. Yet beneath them lies a mirror to society itself, for Hingis was not merely speaking of herself, but of the way the world so often measures women—not by their strength or their achievements, but by their appearance.

The meaning of her saying may be read in two layers. On the surface, Hingis wields humor, claiming that the allure of her sport lies not only in athletic skill but also in perceived attractiveness. Yet at a deeper level, the remark reveals the constant shadow under which women athletes compete: the expectation that they must be not only skilled, but also “pretty.” It is both a commentary and a criticism, intentional or not, of a culture that places beauty above power, elegance above endurance, the image above the essence.

The origin of this dilemma stretches back through the ages. In ancient Greece, women were largely barred from the Olympic Games, their bodies hidden and their strength ignored, while men were celebrated as paragons of human form. In Rome, women who did compete were often exoticized rather than honored for their skill. Even in later centuries, when women began to break into athletics, their worth was still judged through the lens of appearance. Hingis’ words, though playful, echo this long history, exposing how deeply ingrained such expectations remain.

Consider the tale of Billie Jean King, who faced not only opponents across the tennis court but also the prejudice of a society that doubted women’s strength. When she played the famous “Battle of the Sexes” against Bobby Riggs in 1973, the world watched not only for the match but also for proof: could a woman truly best a man in sport? King triumphed, shattering doubts with her skill, proving that athletic merit knows no gender. Yet even after such victories, women like King—and Hingis after her—still faced commentary on beauty more than brilliance.

The lesson here is twofold. First, we must recognize how often society still shackles women athletes with expectations beyond their craft. To praise them for their play is not enough if we also demand that they embody an ideal of prettiness. Second, we must examine within ourselves whether we value appearance above achievement, spectacle above substance. Hingis’ words may seem lighthearted, but they shine a light on a heavy truth: the world too often crowns beauty before it crowns skill.

Practical actions must follow. Let us honor athletes, men and women alike, for their discipline, courage, and mastery before anything else. Let us teach young athletes, especially young women, that their worth is not bound to their faces but to their spirits and their sweat. Let us shift the gaze of audiences from the surface to the soul of sport. And let us speak out, as Billie Jean King once did, to insist that excellence is more radiant than prettiness, and that true admiration belongs to those who endure, who strive, who rise.

And so, child of tomorrow, hear the teaching hidden within Hingis’ jest. Beauty may fade, crowds may cheer or mock, but the power of one who devotes their life to their craft—this is eternal. Do not measure yourself or others by the fleeting standards of appearance. Instead, measure by character, by effort, by strength. For when the gloss of prettiness is gone, it is honor, discipline, and friendship that will remain, glowing brighter than any outward charm.