The Weight of a Double Standard

Billie Jean King’s emergence as a tennis prodigy in the early 1960s coincided with an era when female athletes were expected to be graceful, deferential, and above all, heterosexual. The cultural script was clear: a woman’s worth was measured by her marriageability and domesticity, not by her serve speed or championship titles. King, born in Long Beach, California, in 1943, grew up in a family that supported her athleticism—but within strict boundaries. Her father, a firefighter, and her mother, Betty, encouraged her to play sports, yet Betty often warned her daughter that her tennis obsession would scare away potential suitors. “You’ll never get a man if you keep playing tennis,” King recalled her mother saying. The message was insidious: athletic excellence was a liability for a woman’s romantic future.

King internalized this conflict deeply. She wanted to be the best tennis player in the world, but she also wanted to be loved and accepted. In the 1960s, society offered no models of feminine power that combined competition with conventional womanhood. Female athletes were either dismissed as tomboys or openly mocked. King remembered reading magazine articles that described women’s tennis as “a poor imitation of men’s tennis” and that advised female players to “smile more” and “be nice.” The pressure to conform was relentless. She was told to wear dainty dresses, keep her hair neat, and avoid sweating visibly. King found this performative femininity exhausting; it distracted from the pure athletic battle she wanted to wage.

By the time she won her first major singles title at Wimbledon in 1966, King was already fighting a two-front war: one against opponents on the court, and another against the ceaseless societal pressure to be “ladylike.” She chose to attack both with equal ferocity. She developed a powerful serve-and-volley game that was seen as aggressive for a woman, and she refused to tone down her intensity. When critics said she “played like a man,” she took it as a compliment. She later wrote, “I wanted to be the best, and I didn’t care if that scared people. But inside, I was terrified that nobody would ever want me if I kept winning.”

The emotional toll of living under a double standard—where male aggression was celebrated and female aggression was punished—shaped King’s understanding of inequity. She began to see that the personal was political. Every time she stepped onto the court, she was making a statement about what a woman could be. The burden was enormous, but it also gave her clarity: if she was going to be judged anyway, she would rather be judged for being herself.

Systemic Barriers: Why Champions Were Paid Like Amateurs

In the late 1960s, King’s tennis talent was undeniable. She had won multiple Grand Slam titles. Yet her financial reality resembled that of a struggling secretary. In 1968, after winning Wimbledon, she received £750—roughly one-third of what Rod Laver earned for winning the men’s title. That disparity existed at every tournament. King quickly realized that no matter how many titles she accumulated, the prize money structure guaranteed that her male peers would always be far wealthier. The inequality was not accidental; it was baked into the sport’s governance.

The United States Lawn Tennis Association (USLTA) controlled amateur and professional tennis. For years, the USLTA enforced a “shamateurism” system in which top male players could secretly receive payments under the table, but female players were held to a stricter code. Women were forced to remain amateurs longer, forbidden from accepting prize money, and often excluded from the most lucrative events. King understood that she had to challenge the entire apparatus. In 1970, she and eight other female players—later known as the “Original Nine”—signed $1 contracts with publisher Gladys Heldman to launch the Virginia Slims Circuit. It was a direct act of rebellion. The USLTA threatened to suspend and ban them from all sanctioned tournaments. King knew the risk: she could be barred from Wimbledon, the U.S. Open, and every major event she had worked her entire life to win.

She took the risk anyway. The Virginia Slims Circuit gave women’s tennis its own professional tour, with control over prize money, scheduling, and promotion. King served as the tour’s president, negotiating sponsorships and media coverage. This move not only transformed women’s tennis but established a model for female athlete empowerment across all sports. The circuit proved that women’s sports could draw crowds, generate revenue, and thrive independently. Yet the personal cost was immense. King spent many nights in budget motels, driving herself and other players between events in a rented station wagon, while male stars flew first-class. She joked grimly that she was “the only champion in history who was also her own travel agent.”

Pay Equity as a Crusade

King’s campaign for equal prize money at the U.S. Open became a central battle. She argued that women’s matches drew comparable television ratings and ticket sales to men’s matches, especially at the Grand Slam level. She lobbied tournament director Bill Talbert, the USLTA board, and even the White House. In 1973, the U.S. Open became the first major tournament to offer equal prize money to men and women—a direct result of King’s advocacy. However, the fight was far from over. Other tournaments, including Wimbledon, did not match the U.S. Open’s lead until 2007. King’s insistence on equity set a precedent that continues to influence sports governance today. She understood that pay gaps were not simply economic but symbolic—they told the world that women’s achievements were worth less.

The Battle of the Sexes: Beyond the Glitz

The 1973 “Battle of the Sexes” match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs is often remembered as a pop-culture spectacle. Riggs, a 55-year-old former men’s champion, had defeated Margaret Court earlier that year and boasted that no woman could beat him. King knew that accepting the challenge was dangerous—if she lost, it would be used as “proof” that women were inferior athletes. But if she won, it could change the national conversation. She trained with the intensity of an Olympic athlete, studying Riggs’s game, working on her stamina, and mentally preparing for the pressure of 30,000 spectators at the Houston Astrodome and an estimated 90 million television viewers.

The match was more than a tennis contest; it was a referendum on gender roles at a time when the women’s liberation movement was challenging traditional hierarchies. King won in straight sets, 6–4, 6–3, 6–3. The victory was decisive, and its impact was immediate. As historians have noted, the match helped legitimize women’s sports in the eyes of the public and corporate sponsors. King became a household name, and the event is credited with boosting the visibility of the nascent WTA. But the personal weight of representing “all women” took its toll. King later described feeling suffocated by the expectation that she must win for the entire gender. “I knew if I lost, it would set women back fifty years,” she said. The pressure was crushing, but it also forged her resolve.

The Closet and the Court: Hidden Identity

Perhaps the most deeply personal challenge Billie Jean King faced was the secret of her sexuality. She had known from her teens that she was attracted to women, but in the 1960s, homosexuality was classified as a mental illness, widely criminalized, and socially anathema. King’s marriage to Larry King in 1965 was, in many ways, a strategic decision. She loved him as a friend and partner, but the marriage also provided cover. A married woman was safe; a single female athlete was suspicious. King lived in terror of being outed. She feared not only the loss of endorsements and tournament invitations but also the real possibility of being shunned by her own family and community.

The psychological toll was enormous. She developed a nervous stomach, suffered from anxiety attacks, and sometimes cried in private after matches. She later described herself as “living in a cage of shame.” Tennis became her escape—on the court, she felt free. But the moment she stepped off, the fear returned. She sought therapy in the 1970s, at a time when even discussing homosexuality with a therapist was risky. She threw herself into activism as a way to avoid dealing with her own identity. “I kept thinking that if I could just change the world for other women, maybe I could forgive myself for who I was,” she reflected.

The Ousting and the Aftermath

In 1981, King’s former lover, Marilyn Barnett, filed a palimony lawsuit, exposing their relationship. The tabloids exploded. King lost many of her endorsement contracts—companies like Wilson Sporting Goods and Adidas dropped her. The Los Angeles Times ran articles questioning her fitness as a role model. She faced homophobic slurs from opponents and fans. Yet King refused to deny the relationship. She began the painful process of coming out publicly, becoming one of the first major sports figures to acknowledge same-sex attraction. It cost her millions of dollars professionally, but she gained an unexpected freedom. She later said, “When I stopped hiding, I stopped hating myself.” Her courage paved the way for generations of LGBTQ+ athletes.

King’s advocacy for LGBTQ+ equality became an enduring part of her legacy. She founded the Billie Jean King Leadership Initiative to promote diversity and inclusion, and she has been a vocal supporter of same-sex marriage, anti-discrimination laws, and transgender athletes’ rights. Her personal journey from shame to pride is a testament to the power of authenticity—and a reminder that even champions are human.

Mental Health and the Price of Activism

King’s relentless schedule—playing tournaments, managing the WTA, lobbying for equal pay, and hiding her sexuality—took a severe toll on her mental health. She experienced what she called “splitting headaches, insomnia, and a constant pit in my stomach.” Today we would recognize these symptoms as chronic anxiety and burnout. She pushed herself relentlessly because she believed that women’s sports depended on her success. She once quipped, “I felt like I had to be perfect every single day, because if I faltered, everyone would say ‘See, women can’t handle the pressure.’”

King sought help from a therapist during the 1970s—a brave and unusual step for a public figure at the time. She learned to manage her stress through meditation, exercise, and eventually by opening up about her struggles. She has spoken candidly about the importance of mental health, especially for athletes. Her willingness to share her vulnerability has helped reduce the stigma around psychological care in sports. In a 2020 interview with The Guardian, she stated, “The mind is the most important muscle. If you don’t take care of it, nothing else matters.”

Title IX and the Opening of Doors

One of King’s most far-reaching contributions came not on the court but in the courtroom of public opinion. The passage of Title IX in 1972, which prohibited sex-based discrimination in educational programs receiving federal funding, transformed opportunities for girls and women in sports. King was an early and vocal advocate for the law’s implementation, testifying before Congress and speaking at universities. She understood that Title IX was not just about funding—it was about changing the cultural message that girls didn’t belong on the field. She argued that “you can’t be what you can’t see,” and she used her visibility to make the case that female athletes needed equal access to scholarships, facilities, and coaching.

Title IX’s impact became visible within a decade. The number of girls participating in high school sports skyrocketed from just 300,000 in 1971 to over 2 million by 1980. College scholarships for women athletes increased exponentially. King often credited the next generation of players—including Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, and Serena Williams—as walking through the doors she helped pry open. But she also stressed that the fight was not over. She continued to lobby for equitable pay in college athletics and for the enforcement of Title IX in areas like coaching salaries and media coverage.

Legacy: The Fire That Still Burns

Today, Billie Jean King is 81 years old, but she remains an active advocate for equality. She serves on the boards of the WTA, the Elton John AIDS Foundation, and other organizations. Her autobiography, All In: An Autobiography, details the struggles and triumphs of her life. She has received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the BBC Sports Personality of the Year Lifetime Achievement Award, and countless other honors. Yet she often says that her greatest satisfaction is seeing how far women’s sports have come—and acknowledging how far they still need to go.

The personal challenges King faced as a female athlete in the 1960s and 1970s were not simply obstacles to be overcome; they were crucibles that forged a movement. She refused to accept that her gender made her less capable, less deserving, or less worthy of love. Her courage in speaking out against sexism, homophobia, and injustice changed the world of sports forever. For every female athlete who now competes under equal prize money, for every young girl who feels confident in her own skin, for every LGBTQ+ person who sees themselves reflected on the court, Billie Jean King’s story is a reminder that resistance is not futile—it is revolutionary.

King has said, “I wanted us to have a place at the table. Not just a seat, but a voice.” That voice, forged through personal pain and public battle, continues to resonate. It is a voice that tells every young athlete that they belong, that they can be strong and feminine and proud, that they can be exactly who they are. And that may be the greatest championship Billie Jean King ever won.