The lights feel different in February.

As Black History Month unfolds across the United States, the United States Tennis Association has turned its spotlight toward a name that already towers above the sport — Arthur Ashe. Not only in speeches or social posts, but in something far more permanent: the arena that carries his name.

At the heart of the US Open stands Arthur Ashe Stadium, the largest tennis stadium in the world. Its retractable roof has sealed in drama and defied weather. Its court has staged five-set epics, career-defining triumphs, and heartbreak that reverberated far beyond New York.

But during Black History Month, the building becomes more than architecture. It becomes testimony.

Every roar that rises toward its steel rafters echoes a journey that began in segregated Richmond, Virginia. Ashe grew up practicing on courts he was often barred from competing on. Access was limited. Opportunity, uneven. Yet his talent — precise, intelligent, fiercely disciplined — cut through barriers designed to exclude him.

When he won the 1968 US Open, he became the first Black man to capture the title. Later came triumphs at the Australian Open and Wimbledon. But to reduce Ashe to trophies would be to misunderstand him entirely.

He understood the platform he stood on.

In an era when athletes were often urged to remain apolitical, Ashe chose engagement. He spoke out against apartheid in South Africa. He was arrested protesting U.S. immigration policies toward Haitian refugees. After contracting HIV through a blood transfusion, he became a powerful advocate for AIDS awareness, confronting stigma with the same composure he once displayed on match point.

His legacy stretches beyond the baseline because he insisted it must.

That is the context in which the USTA’s Black History Month spotlight resonates. It is not merely ceremonial. It is instructional. By centering Ashe’s life and values, the governing body acknowledges that progress in tennis — access, representation, equity — did not happen by accident. It required confrontation. Persistence. Courage.

Arthur Ashe Stadium stands as daily evidence of that truth.

Each August and September, young players step onto that court chasing personal milestones. Some arrive as top seeds. Others as qualifiers clutching improbable dreams. They walk through the same tunnels, feel the same electricity under the lights, and glance up at a name that demands reflection.

What does it mean to compete in a space named after someone who redefined what an athlete could be?

The answer is layered.

It means excellence is expected — but so is character. It means visibility carries responsibility. It means that greatness is not confined to performance statistics or endorsement deals.

Ashe’s story reminds players that the platform sport provides can amplify something larger than victory. It can challenge injustice. It can expand opportunity. It can inspire children who might otherwise never imagine themselves on a Grand Slam stage.

That inspiration is tangible. Across the country, diversity initiatives and community tennis programs often invoke Ashe’s example as proof that belonging is not theoretical — it is lived. Black History Month simply sharpens the focus.

Yet remembrance alone is not enough.

The question that lingers beneath the stadium roof each year is not whether Ashe’s legacy will be honored — it already is. The question is how it will be carried forward. Which players will use their voice when it matters? Which institutions will continue widening pathways for those historically excluded?

The USTA’s spotlight signals intent, but intent must translate into action.

Under those lights, history feels present. Not distant. Not archived.

Arthur Ashe once wrote that “true heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic.” It is the quiet refusal to accept injustice as permanent. It is steady commitment, long after applause fades.

Inside the stadium that bears his name, that philosophy lingers in every echo.

And as a new generation competes beneath that roof, they do so under more than lights.

They compete under a legacy that still asks something of them.