COLUMN: Why the Australian Open won’t ever feel like a true Grand Slam

I know how this sounds to tennis traditionalists, so I’ll start with some honesty. I respect the Australian Open. I understand its place in the sport’s history. I recognize the level of play, the champions it produces, and the physical demands it places on athletes.

I’ve been to Australia more than once. I get why people love it. And still, year after year, I find it hard to feel even remotely excited about the tournament and the entire Australian swing.

For me, the Australian Open has never quite felt like a true Grand Slam. It doesn’t even register the way Indian Wells does, which has embraced its role as, by far, the most important non-major event in the sport. Indian Wells knows exactly what it is. Indian Wells is, literally, Tennis Paradise.

The Australian Open, by contrast, as a Grand Slam, stands shoulder to shoulder with the French Open, Wimbledon, and the U.S. Open, and that comparison has always felt strained. Those three tournaments feel like the big leagues. The Australian Open feels like the only minor-league Grand Slam.

This is not about the quality of tennis. The matches are often excellent, the fields are super deep with no woman in the WTA field getting a round of 128 bye, and the winners earn every ounce of their success. But prestige in sports is about more than difficulty or talent. It is about timing, shared experience, cultural weight, and consequence. This is where the Australian Open consistently struggles.

Geography plays a real role. Australia is not just far from North America. It is emotionally distant in the sports calendar. Matches unfold while most of us are asleep. Finals are decided before the day even starts. Even devoted fans, including rabid WTA fans like me who sometimes check match scores in the middle of the night, eventually give in to reality. Watching highlights the next morning is not the same as living the moment as it happens.

Sports thrive on collective experience. The feeling that everyone is watching together matters. The Australian Open happens largely in isolation for much of the tennis world. We wake up to results instead of anticipation. Moments become summaries, and drama turns into a scoreline.

Timing adds another layer. January is an awkward moment for emotional investment. The season has barely begun. Storylines are incomplete. Players are still finding form, working through injuries, or adjusting expectations. Compare that to Wimbledon or the U.S. Open, where narratives feel earned, or the French Open, which follows a long and punishing clay season that gives it a sense of inevitability. The Australian Open often feels like an extraordinarily important event that arrives before the sport has fully warmed up.

The setting itself contributes to this feeling. Australia’s major cities are impressive, livable, and welcoming. Culturally, though, they often feel like a blend of England and Canada. Polished, orderly, and pleasant. There is nothing wrong with that, but it does not carry the same sense of mythology. Paris, London, and New York bring built-in identity to their tournaments. Melbourne brings efficiency, and efficiency rarely creates legend.

Even the tournament’s branding reflects this difference. “The Happy Slam” sounds more like reassurance than inevitability. It’s great that our beloved Dasha Saville does IG posts showing that the food is excellent in the player lounge. Grand Slams do not usually need to explain themselves. Their significance is assumed.

What ultimately separates the Australian Open from the other three is consequence. Winning Wimbledon changes how a player is remembered. The U.S. Open can redefine a career. The French Open tests identity and endurance in a way no other event does. Winning the Australian Open is unquestionably impressive, but it often feels contained. The victory does not linger in the broader cultural conversation in quite the same way.

This is not a criticism of Australian fans or Australian tennis. The crowds are knowledgeable, passionate, and deeply engaged. Nor is it a dismissal of the champions who have won there. Some of the greatest players in history have built meaningful parts of their legacy in Melbourne.

But greatness of competition does not automatically create greatness of context.

In baseball terms, the Australian Open feels like AA. The talent is real. The games matter. The stats count. But everyone understands it is not quite the show. The French Open, Wimbledon, and the U.S. Open feel like the majors because they sit at the center of tennis’s imagination. The Australian Open exists just off to the side.

That does not make it bad. It just makes it different.

Pretending all four land equally does not reflect how fans actually experience the sport. Most of us know the difference, even if we rarely say it out loud.

So I’ll say it plainly. I respect the Australian Open. I watch it when I can. I admire what it demands of players. But excitement and anticipation are harder to summon. That sense that tennis’s soul has arrived does not quite follow.

For me, it never has.

And that is not criticism for its own sake. It is simply an honest reaction to how the tournament feels, year after year.