Practice Court No. 3 at the U.S. Open, in Queens, sits at the far end of the grounds, beyond the stadiums. Last Sunday, a week before the start of the main draw, the court was at capacity. Fans packed the bleachers, sweating under the summer sun, or lined up along the concourse, hoping to nab a seat. There were plenty available at adjacent practice courts, where the Grand Slam champions Naomi Osaka and Aryna Sabalenka were warming up. But this crowd had come for Alexandra Eala, a twenty-one-year-old Filipino rising star, who has recently reached a career-high world ranking of eighteen, making her the highest-ranked Southeast Asian player in women’s tennis history. In the stands, I met Ysa Llanos, a twenty-one-year-old Filipino American. “It’s inspiring to see somebody who looks like you, talks like you, be in the kind of places we’ve never been in before,” Llanos told me, explaining that she had travelled from New Jersey with her parents and her thirteen-year-old brother to get a glimpse of Eala.
Everywhere that Eala plays, from Melbourne to Abu Dhabi, legions of fans follow, often waving the Philippine flag and signs in Tagalog (“Laban, Alex!”). Eala mania, people call it. “Many, many Filipinos, they come to watch her win,” Joan Bosch, Eala’s coach, told me recently. “You try to explain to her—there is no pressure.” Yet, in her relatively short career, practically every accomplishment of Eala’s comes with a historic superlative. Eala is the first Filipino to win a junior Grand Slam, beat a Top Ten opponent, win a Grand Slam match, reach Wimbledon’s fourth round, win a Women’s Tennis Association tournament, and attain a Top Twenty ranking. In the Philippines, many time zones away from these major tournaments, fans organize watch parties for matches that often start after midnight. Eala’s popularity has outpaced her on-court success. To meet the surging demand at tournaments, where early-round matches take place concurrently across the grounds, schedulers have scrambled to move Eala to the main courts, which have the most seats and are usually reserved for the highest-ranked players. The chairman of a recent tournament in Washington, D.C., estimated that eighty per cent of ticketing inquiries were for Eala. The Canadian Open’s director credited Eala with unprecedented ticket sales, remarking in a press conference that “a sold-out Wednesday night this early in the tournament is really unheard of.” In a post-match interview during the Dubai Tennis Championships, the American star Coco Gauff thanked Eala “for bringing a new demographic” to tennis. “I’ve played this tournament for many years, and to see the stadium full means a lot,” she said. Venus Williams, who has partnered with Eala in doubles, deemed her a “world star.”
Nowhere is Eala’s fandom more visible than at the U.S. Open. Around fifty thousand people of Filipino descent live in Queens, many of them in Woodside, which boasts New York City’s oldest Jollibee, a mega-popular Filipino fast-food chain. If Wimbledon, with its docile audience dressed in white, embodies a subdued, Old World version of the sport, Flushing Meadows Corona Park has historically flaunted the rambunctious spirit of a new version of tennis. In recent years, the U.S. Open has turned into one of the city’s most glamorous events. Anna Wintour sits beside Lewis Hamilton. Beyoncé and Jay-Z cheer on Serena Williams. Barack and Michelle Obama show up for a first-round Gauff match. Long lines snake toward bars selling the tournament’s specialty cocktail, and a David Chang stall cooks elevated chicken tenders. Last year, a nosebleed seat for Gauff’s fourth-round match, against Osaka, cost around eight hundred dollars. This year, Eala is among the biggest draws. For many of her fans, the practice court offered a chance to see her up close for free. “She makes us so proud,” a teacher who drove in from Jersey City with her family told me. “We want to be a part of it.”
Eala has said that tennis was not “love at first sight” but, instead, a game she embraced gradually. Tennis was her grandfather’s idea. Although Roberto Maniego had no formal training, he read books and magazines about the sport and instilled in his grandchildren the idea that tennis offered a path to a college scholarship. Many public tennis courts in the Philippines have a surface made of crushed shells, rather than the grass, clay, or asphalt topped with acrylic that is standard in top competitions, so Maniego trained her and her older brother, Miko, at Valle Verde, a palm-lined country club that featured the only hard court anywhere near the their home, in Quezon City. The court had also been used for basketball, with the hoops still up behind the baseline.
Tonette Mendoza, a former college player who is now the executive director of the Philippine Tennis Association, first saw a six-or-seven-year-old Eala play at a local tournament. By then, Miko, three years older, had a growing collection of tennis-championship trophies. Eala would often partner with him against boys his age, frequently facing the brunt of the action. “The boys are always attacking her,” Mendoza told me. But rather than drift back to the baseline, Mendoza explained, “she was at the net and clearing, and I said, Oh, my God, this girl is so strong.”
Eala’s training would begin at five in the morning; after school, she did her homework in the car on the way to evening practice. She competed in tournaments around the country, and before long she was travelling the world. As a young child, in a nationally televised news segment, she expressed her dream to win all four Grand Slams. In another TV interview, a few years later, Eala said that she didn’t have much time for “normal children things,” such as “a party with friends or going to the mall. I don’t have the hours. I’m tired then.”
Her school from fourth to seventh grade, Colegio San Agustín Makati, accommodated her tournament schedule. Rowen Ayta, her sixth-grade teacher, told me she had to accept that Eala “would not be attending school every day.” She would often return from competitions to find a stack of waiting assignments, and would have to catch up on weeks of missed lessons within days. Another one of her teachers, Robynne Reyes, told me about a quote Eala picked for her sixth-grade yearbook: “I am motivated by the fear of being average.”
After Eala won a tournament in France at twelve years old, she attended the Rafa Nadal Academy, which offered her and her brother the chance to train and study at the school’s campus in Manacor, Spain. Her coach at the academy, Daniel Gomez, told me that he was immediately struck by the maturity of her game. She anticipated her opponent’s moves and executed with precise timing. Her serve was slow, but she compensated with aggression, fearlessly charging forward, cutting down her rival’s time to react. The coaches helped her hone the fundamentals, adding spin to her serve and power to her forehand, but Gomez also saw Eala developing tools that were harder to teach. She carried herself with a calmness rare in a sport that tends to incite extreme emotions, making calculated decisions on the court and celebrating wins with silent fist pumps. During a tournament in South Africa, when she was fourteen, Eala was a few points away from clinching the match when her opponent began to climb back. Eala paused to huddle with Gomez, but she wasn’t seeking counsel; she just wanted to “create doubt in the opponent’s mind,” he told me, making it seem as if she might change her strategy. Gomez remembers thinking, “My God, this girl is different.”
At age fourteen, Eala won a junior Australian Open doubles title. At fifteen, she reached the junior French Open semifinals; then, at sixteen, she won a junior French Open doubles title. A few months after her seventeenth birthday, in 2022, she raised a junior U.S. Open trophy as the first-ever Filipino winner. A few weeks later, Eala was on the cover of Vogue Philippines.
While her brother earned a tennis scholarship to Penn State, Eala dove straight into the professional circuit, competing in every event she could find. Even before she climbed the rankings, when she was playing in matches that typically feature empty stadiums, her fan base followed. “Filipinos would come to support me,” she said, on “The Player’s Box” podcast. At the 2025 Miami Open, she upset three Top Thirty players, before narrowly falling to Jessica Pegula, an American, who later marvelled at how many Eala fans were in the stands at a U.S. tournament. “Why is nobody cheering for me?” she joked.
Then, at the 2025 U.S. Open, with a rowdy crowd behind her, Eala won her first Grand Slam match, breaking into the Top Fifty in the global rankings soon after. At the 2026 Australian Open, so many people showed up to watch her practice that she had trouble getting through the crowd. All of a sudden, she was famous enough to need a security escort. She beat Top Ten players in Dubai and Berlin, and then, at Wimbledon this summer, defeated the then reigning champion, Iga Świątek, to reach the fourth round. In Washington, D.C., in August, she defeated three Top Fifteen players en route to the tournament title. After a match, an on-court interviewer asked, “What is it like to be this popular everywhere around the world?” Eala replied, “I think the question should be rephrased. It’s ‘What is it like to be Filipino?’ ”
Eala has embraced the role of ambassador. In online videos, she lists puto bumbong as one of her favorite Filipino foods, argues that the resort island Boracay isn’t overrated, shares that she named one of her (pig) slippers Chicharrón, and proclaims her love for karaoke. She walked the red carpet of an awards gala in a Filipiniana gown designed by her uncle. Nike released a commemorative shirt bearing the Philippine national flower, the sampaguita, over a grass court, and supplied her with a visor stitched with a Tagalog phrase that means “once it grows, it cannot be stopped.” Clips of her cursing in Tagalog reliably go viral. In Queens, I spoke to one Eala fan who mentioned kapwa, the Filipino virtue of honoring a shared identity, and another who brought up bayanihan, a Filipino concept of cooperation rooted in the traditional practice of a community carrying a neighbor’s house to another location.
History has left Filipinos hungry for solidarity. Across the archipelago’s more than seven thousand islands, countless sovereign communities once bloomed with distinct languages and traditions, until Spain claimed them all under a single name. The writer José Rizal described Filipinos, in the nineteenth century, as a fragmented people unified by a “common misfortune.” After the Philippines attained independence, in 1946, with the country’s economy constricted from more than three centuries of colonization, a diaspora spread around the world. Immigrants raised children in the U.S. or Australia, and overseas foreign workers sought jobs as housekeepers around the Persian Gulf or as deckhands on cruise ships. Even today, remittances account for roughly ten per cent of the Philippine economy.
When Eala was growing up, Manny Pacquiao united Filipinos anytime he stepped into the boxing ring. In the Philippines, “it was like a holiday,” Eala said on Andy Roddick’s podcast, “Served.” “Crime rates would go down, everyone would gather.” If, as Jimmy Connors has said, tennis is boxing at ninety feet—a lonely battle of wills that punishes the slightest lapse in concentration—Eala’s southpaw forehand drives resemble Pacquiao’s blazing left hooks. In a post-match interview at Wimbledon, Eala tearfully explained that a third-round win “may seem small” for some players, “but for someone who grew up in the Philippines,” training “every day after school with my ruffled socks and my light-up shoes and chubby cheeks, so—to her, this is everything.”
Mendoza, of the Philippine Tennis Association, told me that new public courts are being built around the country, and the government is constructing a new national tennis center. Eala’s grade-school tennis coach, Polly Hipolito, said that in the past year the number of students who’ve signed up for tennis at the school has doubled, explaining that several recent players told him, “I want to be like Alex.” Some kids call her Ate Alex, Tagalog for “older sister.” “People tell me I’m a role model for people back home,” Eala said on “Served.” “I’m the only Filipina that people really see in high-level tennis . . . so I really do my best to be on my best behavior and represent the best of the Philippines.”
With her new stature, some in the Philippines have sought to project Eala onto their political agendas. Pacquiao, after all, eventually became a senator and an ally of the disgraced former President Rodrigo Duterte. After partisans on social media argued that Eala wore a green outfit to a match to express support for Duterte’s embattled daughter, Vice-President Sara Duterte, who is facing an impeachment trial, others responded by circulating a fake quote claiming that Eala opposed her. And, during the trial, legislators on both sides gave speeches celebrating Eala. But, for now, Eala remains a unifying figure and seems focused on becoming more than just the best tennis player from the Philippines, a title she has already earned. “Every error I hit on the court keeps me grounded,” she said in a Tennis Channel interview. “When I wake up in the morning, I have bad hair—keeps me grounded.”
Eala’s first competition at this year’s U.S. Open was an early morning mixed-doubles match on Tuesday. Filipinos filled the stadium’s lower bowl. Some told me that they’d woken at five to make the commute from other boroughs, New Jersey, or upstate. “Only for Alex,” Gilda Wong Penaco, a seventy-one-year-old from Yonkers, who came with a group of fellow retired nurses, told me.
Tagalog chatter filled the air. People ran into folks they knew. “It’s like we’re in the Philippines,” Christian Battung, a thirty-two-year-old from New Jersey attending the match with several family members, told me. After watching Eala on TV last year, Battung bought a pair of racquets and started playing the game with his three-year-old son.
Among the young fans in the crowd was a six-year-old girl. Her parents, Monique and Anthony David, had driven an hour and a half to get to Flushing Meadows. Anthony told me that they had watched so many of Eala’s matches that their daughter had become enamored. Their daughter knows Eala is Filipino, “but I don’t think she really understands what it means,” Monique said. “She just sees her as a tennis player.” ♦
