COLUMN: When Davis Cup was a stage, not a scheduling problem

When I was a kid, the Davis Cup felt enormous. It was not just another competition squeezed into the tennis calendar. It was a spectacle. Flags draped over railings. Crowds roaring for players they had watched all year on television, now suddenly clothed in national colors.

The very best in the world showed up, and they showed up because representing their country meant something that went beyond ranking points or prize money.

There was celebrity in the air. Drama, too. You tuned in because you expected to see legends. You stayed because you knew something chaotic and patriotic and unforgettable might happen.

Today, Davis Cup often feels like something else entirely. For too many ties, the question is no longer “Which stars are playing?” but “Who is willing, ready, and available?” And those are not the same thing. Not even close.

That reality surfaced again today in comments from Tallon Griekspoor, who told SpilXperten that while his relationship with the Dutch federation is “fine,” he simply decided not to play Davis Cup. On criticism he has received for competing in Russia, he was equally blunt: “I couldn’t care less to be honest. As long as the politicians do their job, I’ll do mine.”

Those quotes are not outrageous. In fact, they are refreshingly honest. They capture the modern professional mindset with startling clarity. Players are independent contractors navigating crowded schedules, political scrutiny, surface changes, injuries, travel, and the constant need to protect their ranking and earning power. From that vantage point, Davis Cup is not sacred. It is a calculation. That, more than any reminder of the format changes or the relocation to neutral venues, is what has truly altered the competition’s soul.

Once upon a time, the best players almost always turned up. Now, in many early rounds, we can and sometimes do get matchups between someone ranked in the 500s and someone ranked in the 200s. That may be wonderful for development. It can be inspiring for emerging nations and fringe tour pros who suddenly find themselves on an international stage.

But let’s be honest about something else too. From a fan’s perspective, that is clearly not the same show. When you grow up watching the Davis Cup as a clash of titans, it is difficult to summon the same excitement for a tie headlined by players most casual followers have never seen. Youthful experience is valuable. National depth is admirable. Neither is a substitute for star power.

This is not nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It is a recognition that sport’s biggest events depend on the presence of its biggest names. Wimbledon without the greats would feel smaller. So would the World Cup without its superstars. The Davis Cup was once in that category. It felt essential. Non-negotiable. Now, even players with solid relationships with their federations can opt out without controversy. That alone tells you how much the cultural gravity has shifted.

Griekspoor’s comments about Russia open another window into the modern game. His position is pragmatic to the point of bluntness: politics is not his department, tennis is. That stance will anger some and resonate with others, but either way it reflects how players increasingly separate their professional obligations from broader geopolitical debates. In the Davis Cup’s earlier eras, national representation and political symbolism were often inseparable. Today, many players are trying to keep those worlds apart.

That, too, dilutes the old mystique. The problem is not that players are selfish. The problem is that the incentives no longer align. The tour calendar is, as I have written many times, absolutely brutal. The format has changed. The event no longer unfolds over long weekends in packed home arenas where fans camp overnight for tickets and visiting teams walk into hostile, unforgettable environments. When those elements disappear, so does part of the emotional pull that once made participation automatic.

In some ways, it has become an opportunity. For younger players, it can be a first taste of pressure tennis with something larger than themselves at stake. For nations without top-ten stars, it offers rare visibility. Those are not small things.

But it has also become something less predictable and, often, less compelling. It is no longer guaranteed that the best will show up simply because the event exists. They must want to. They must believe it is worth the physical cost, the scheduling disruption, and the potential controversy. Increasingly, many decide it is not.

That is the tension at the heart of modern Davis Cup. It wants to be a grand, nation-against-nation spectacle in an era when tennis careers are ruthlessly individualized. It wants to trade on history while operating inside a sport that now revolves around optimization, not obligation.

Maybe that is just the way of elite athletics in 2026. Romanticism gives way to spreadsheets. Flags compete with flight itineraries. Still, I cannot help missing the version of Davis Cup that felt unavoidable. The one where the question was not who was willing, but who would rise to the moment. The one where the early rounds were stacked with household names and the atmosphere crackled from the first ball.

Today, too often, it feels like a tournament that has to ask players to care, rather than one that makes caring inevitable.

And for an event that once defined what it meant to play for something bigger than yourself, that might be the most telling change of all.