In the States, tennis is sixth or seventh on the totem pole as

Andy Roddick once declared with frankness: “In the States, tennis is sixth or seventh on the totem pole as far as sports go.” At first, these words sound like a lament, an honest admission that the game he dedicated his life to does not stand in the highest rank of national devotion. Yet beneath this confession lies a deeper truth: that greatness is not always measured by popularity, nor does the worth of a discipline diminish simply because it is not placed at the top of the hierarchy.

The origin of this truth lies in the culture of America itself. In the States, the great monuments of public passion have long been football, basketball, baseball, and more recently, soccer and others. These sports command the stadiums, the screens, the roaring millions. In comparison, tennis, despite its elegance and its history of champions, stands humbler on the so-called totem pole. Roddick, himself a warrior of the courts, speaks not in bitterness but in realism: the path of a tennis player in America is one of dedication often without the same adoration granted to athletes in other fields.

The ancients understood such hierarchies. Consider the Olympic Games of Greece, where the pankration and the footrace drew the largest crowds, while disciplines like the javelin or discus, though equally demanding, were met with less fervor. Yet those who competed did not abandon their craft simply because it drew fewer cheers. They knew that honor is not granted by the mob, but by the devotion to one’s calling. Roddick’s words echo this ancient wisdom: the measure of a sport is not in its rank upon the totem pole, but in the discipline and courage it demands of those who play it.

There is an emotional power in this truth, for it reveals the lonely path of those who serve an art not fully understood by their nation. A tennis player in America may never feel the overwhelming roar of a packed football stadium, but in the stillness of the court, in the intensity of the rally, he feels the fire of greatness all the same. His passion burns even if the crowd is smaller. And perhaps this is the truest test of love: to dedicate oneself not for applause but for the joy of the game itself.

Consider too the story of Vincent van Gogh. In his own time, his art stood near the bottom of the cultural totem pole, dismissed, misunderstood, even mocked. Yet he painted with unrelenting passion, not because his society crowned him, but because his soul demanded expression. Today, the world reveres his genius. In the same way, tennis in America may not stand in the top ranks of passion, but those who devote themselves to it keep alive a flame whose value cannot be diminished by rankings of popularity.

The lesson for us is clear: do not measure your worth by where you stand on the totem pole of public opinion. Whether your passion is praised by millions or understood by only a few, its value is not lessened. What matters is the love you bring, the effort you give, and the courage with which you walk your chosen path. Popularity is fleeting; devotion is eternal.

Practical action follows: whatever your chosen craft, whether it is applauded loudly or noticed only in quiet circles, give it your whole heart. Play your game, write your story, build your vision, not for the height of the crowd’s roar but for the depth of your own spirit. Remember that even the “sixth or seventh” pursuit, when embraced with full devotion, can become the source of greatness and legacy.

Thus, Andy Roddick’s words become more than a commentary on sports in the States. They are a teaching for all: the totem pole of public passion is not the true measure of value. What matters is the dedication of the player, the artist, the worker, who loves their craft enough to pursue it, even when the world places it low. For in that devotion lies the seed of true greatness, a greatness that does not need to be first to be eternal.