For those of us lacking an endless rolodex of friends or a sports social network, finding a tennis partner in New York can be a Herculean task. Especially when you live outside the designated tennis-friendly zone stretching from Baby Stroller Belt of Central Park to the Dog Walker District of Park Slope. There are a few websites using a minimalist interface to partner you with anonymous boys and girls in your area supposedly just as eager to whack a yellow ball. These, however, are about as reliable as a Power Cell battery from a subway car merchant. What of us longtime Brooklyn residents, immigrants whose parents failed to coerce them into competitive early-development activities out of the crib?
As with all matters twentysomething, college, and, more often than not, white, all roads lead to Craigslist. If you come from south Brooklyn (the “real” south Brooklyn, where I have lived since 1990, not the one that ends at Windsor Terrace), your best chance—or prayer—is to type in something like “25/m, 3.0, seeks partner for fun and improvement.” The ubiquity and comfort of Craig’s all-purpose web tonic has flattened modern compositions of hitherto complicated solicitations to first-grade shorthand, from indecent proposals for Halo LAN parties with intimations of romantic potential to upskirt voyeurs posing as refreshingly munificent property owners.
My first venture into the world of virtual tennis soul-mates ended strangely when my partner (24/f), initially psyched over the prospect of expanding our sessions into weekdays, suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. Onward and upward, thought I. Of course, with Craiglist’s matrix of random magnetism, downward was the inevitable course. A year later and a year wiser, I accepted an offer from a 30/m, who insisted on a 7 AM rendezvous at the Dyker Heights courts (true to our Soviet roots, he was even more determined to avoid the permit inspection than yours truly, God bless him). He was an IT engineer with a decent serve compared to mine, but our ground games were fairly even. Mostly, I was heartened by his enthusiasm for the sport, evinced by the ungodly Saturday-morning wakeups…for about a week. Two Friday-night benders and three unanswered emails later, I had been dumped again. Was it time to cut and run?
Succor came in the form of an auxiliary potential I had been cultivating on the side. Flabby, and a bit on the creepy side, he was a nice guy and a spirited player who was serious about trying to get better; a stickler for the niceties of the game. Indulging him, I turned a blind eye to his for jailbait on the courts; we got on famously. For a few weeks we’d meet at the venue most convenient to me and play a set or two. Then, beset with guilt over making him ride his bike to my home court week in and week out, I assented to a match at the Caesar Bay courts on Bay Parkway.
There was something different about these courts. They were nice, for one thing, with a fresh layer of sea-blue paint, a noticeable lack of cracks in the asphalt, and mostly raked leaves. For another, there were no groups of adorable but incommodious children hogging up 30 percent of the playing space. Finally, there was no “Sergey the tennis expert” asking you to vacate his “tennis school” (commandeered corner court). With an official 180-degree twist of the baseball hat, I was ready to jam! Only one person stood between me and the elusive fruit of athletic ecstasy: a middle-aged black woman named Peggy. My partner had warned me about her. “Yo…check it out…she said it’s five dollaz without a permit—but it’s really seven.” Nice racket, I thought, but filed this caveat away under my partner’s whimsy, as he droned on and on about corruption.
Reluctantly, I committed to a game one damp Saturday evening. As usual, I showed up early, banking on the punctuality of my cohort. The challenge: getting past Peggy without a permit or money (my prideful parsimony would not permit me to part with the fiver). Implementing my go-to move, I sauntered in, with cocky self-assurance—or in a naïve stupor. Luckily, I was able to shadow a couple that had just walked in and consulted our formidable gatekeeper on a court suggestion. As soon as the threat had visibly passed and I was safely ensconced at the far end of the park, my exhalation was abruptly cut off by a booming, game-stopping “YO!” Peggy’s unmistakable shriek must have upset a few winners—a point or two for sure, between the 8 courts. I was in for it. Taking a slow walk of shame back to the tennis warden, I decided to plead with the lady, who stood, arms akimbo, looking like she’d been waiting for a fuckup like me all day.
“Ha-ha, baby! Shit, f-I did dat, I’d have to let ev’body play free.” The logic was irrefutable, the demeanor unflappable; still, I wasn’t everybody. I just wanted one free, friendly game of Brooklyn tennis with my sketchy freckled partner, that’s all! You must needs oblige me, Peggy! But it was not to be. I namedropped my partner before remembering that his expired ID wasn’t even on him—the dude bragged he’d only had to mention he was renewing it (well, you know how these things go with the City) and waiting on the card, when pressed. Figuring Peggy had nothing to lose by letting a guy tack to an almost-member with a possible permit on the way, I had to try.
I waited for him on a bench by the water, watching Chinese, Russian, and Puerto Rican fishermen impress their kids with fresh pulls of jetsam-fed bass and bluefish. 45 minutes later, my accomplice finally surfaced, offering the usual line of lame excuses. Meting out the requisite scolding, I bit my tongue and prepared to go through the motions of a lackluster tennis game, perhaps my last with this laggard. He hastened toward the tennis courts. Then it hit me—Peggy! No sooner had he led his bike through the gate, me still gathering my stuff, than I heard that hardened, coarsely glib voice—this time without its exuberant jollity: “Oh no, you don’t, Frank!” Her shrill scream jolted me—not in the least because my partner’s name wasn’t Frank at all.
The soothing feel of my car keys jangling in my pants pocket could not break me away from social obligation. Marching up to the club entrance, the scene unfolding between my eyes recalled my stepping into a cheap glue trap in my closet the day before. Meanwhile, the overcast Bensonhurst evening had conjured more characters on the scene. The standout was a tall, gangly, bearded Russian professional named Alex. He sported blue-tinted, out-of-fashion sunglasses. Computer or civil engineer during the day, Alex was now trying to engineer amity, or at least détente.
Peggy was in no mood for peace. It seemed “Frank” had tried to bulldoze his way in after Peggy curtly denied him proper entrance. She was disinclined to swallow any more horseshit about renewed permits that were in the mail. It wasn’t business—it was personal—as evidenced by 2 claret pools engulfing unblinking pupils. The clash of wills was exposing the dark side of tennis before my very eyes. It also created at least 3 different impressions of this melee. “Why you not just take bike outside?” Alex suggested. What was clear to all present was that Peggy was taking the stand of her life. She was full of wrath and ready to wrangle. Cross the line, motherfucker, and you’re mine.
“I’ve lived in this fucking community all my life! She can’t do this to us...she’s pocketing that money…how do we know she even works here?” It was equally, and more painfully, clear that Frank was taking a stand of his own. I stood by my partner—not tall—but I stood by. Like getting your ass kicked by the enemies of a friend you don’t particularly like, or going to an in-law’s birthday party, it was a moral duty. While admiring my own sense of the same, it had come to the attention of those that paid it that Peggy was about to clock Frank—and Frank was about to jab the handlebar into her fiery eyes. Even Alex’s assurance that Peggy certainly was in Parks Service’s employ went unheeded. I took the bridle on my partner while Alex handled Peggy. We exchanged looks, both shrugging to acknowledge our roles as seconds come duel time. Unscrewing his water bottle, Alex led a reluctant Peggy toward a paint-chipped bench. Shaken, she sunk in defeat. Alex rubbed her shoulders a moment or two, before resuming his game.
Before I had a chance to sprint toward my car and hurry away, Frank was leading me to that back court, open spoils to the victor. “Looks like it might be raining. We’d better get a set in at least,” he said, pumped. The man had a point.
As with all matters twentysomething, college, and, more often than not, white, all roads lead to Craigslist. If you come from south Brooklyn (the “real” south Brooklyn, where I have lived since 1990, not the one that ends at Windsor Terrace), your best chance—or prayer—is to type in something like “25/m, 3.0, seeks partner for fun and improvement.” The ubiquity and comfort of Craig’s all-purpose web tonic has flattened modern compositions of hitherto complicated solicitations to first-grade shorthand, from indecent proposals for Halo LAN parties with intimations of romantic potential to upskirt voyeurs posing as refreshingly munificent property owners.
My first venture into the world of virtual tennis soul-mates ended strangely when my partner (24/f), initially psyched over the prospect of expanding our sessions into weekdays, suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. Onward and upward, thought I. Of course, with Craiglist’s matrix of random magnetism, downward was the inevitable course. A year later and a year wiser, I accepted an offer from a 30/m, who insisted on a 7 AM rendezvous at the Dyker Heights courts (true to our Soviet roots, he was even more determined to avoid the permit inspection than yours truly, God bless him). He was an IT engineer with a decent serve compared to mine, but our ground games were fairly even. Mostly, I was heartened by his enthusiasm for the sport, evinced by the ungodly Saturday-morning wakeups…for about a week. Two Friday-night benders and three unanswered emails later, I had been dumped again. Was it time to cut and run?
Succor came in the form of an auxiliary potential I had been cultivating on the side. Flabby, and a bit on the creepy side, he was a nice guy and a spirited player who was serious about trying to get better; a stickler for the niceties of the game. Indulging him, I turned a blind eye to his for jailbait on the courts; we got on famously. For a few weeks we’d meet at the venue most convenient to me and play a set or two. Then, beset with guilt over making him ride his bike to my home court week in and week out, I assented to a match at the Caesar Bay courts on Bay Parkway.
There was something different about these courts. They were nice, for one thing, with a fresh layer of sea-blue paint, a noticeable lack of cracks in the asphalt, and mostly raked leaves. For another, there were no groups of adorable but incommodious children hogging up 30 percent of the playing space. Finally, there was no “Sergey the tennis expert” asking you to vacate his “tennis school” (commandeered corner court). With an official 180-degree twist of the baseball hat, I was ready to jam! Only one person stood between me and the elusive fruit of athletic ecstasy: a middle-aged black woman named Peggy. My partner had warned me about her. “Yo…check it out…she said it’s five dollaz without a permit—but it’s really seven.” Nice racket, I thought, but filed this caveat away under my partner’s whimsy, as he droned on and on about corruption.
Reluctantly, I committed to a game one damp Saturday evening. As usual, I showed up early, banking on the punctuality of my cohort. The challenge: getting past Peggy without a permit or money (my prideful parsimony would not permit me to part with the fiver). Implementing my go-to move, I sauntered in, with cocky self-assurance—or in a naïve stupor. Luckily, I was able to shadow a couple that had just walked in and consulted our formidable gatekeeper on a court suggestion. As soon as the threat had visibly passed and I was safely ensconced at the far end of the park, my exhalation was abruptly cut off by a booming, game-stopping “YO!” Peggy’s unmistakable shriek must have upset a few winners—a point or two for sure, between the 8 courts. I was in for it. Taking a slow walk of shame back to the tennis warden, I decided to plead with the lady, who stood, arms akimbo, looking like she’d been waiting for a fuckup like me all day.
“Ha-ha, baby! Shit, f-I did dat, I’d have to let ev’body play free.” The logic was irrefutable, the demeanor unflappable; still, I wasn’t everybody. I just wanted one free, friendly game of Brooklyn tennis with my sketchy freckled partner, that’s all! You must needs oblige me, Peggy! But it was not to be. I namedropped my partner before remembering that his expired ID wasn’t even on him—the dude bragged he’d only had to mention he was renewing it (well, you know how these things go with the City) and waiting on the card, when pressed. Figuring Peggy had nothing to lose by letting a guy tack to an almost-member with a possible permit on the way, I had to try.
I waited for him on a bench by the water, watching Chinese, Russian, and Puerto Rican fishermen impress their kids with fresh pulls of jetsam-fed bass and bluefish. 45 minutes later, my accomplice finally surfaced, offering the usual line of lame excuses. Meting out the requisite scolding, I bit my tongue and prepared to go through the motions of a lackluster tennis game, perhaps my last with this laggard. He hastened toward the tennis courts. Then it hit me—Peggy! No sooner had he led his bike through the gate, me still gathering my stuff, than I heard that hardened, coarsely glib voice—this time without its exuberant jollity: “Oh no, you don’t, Frank!” Her shrill scream jolted me—not in the least because my partner’s name wasn’t Frank at all.
The soothing feel of my car keys jangling in my pants pocket could not break me away from social obligation. Marching up to the club entrance, the scene unfolding between my eyes recalled my stepping into a cheap glue trap in my closet the day before. Meanwhile, the overcast Bensonhurst evening had conjured more characters on the scene. The standout was a tall, gangly, bearded Russian professional named Alex. He sported blue-tinted, out-of-fashion sunglasses. Computer or civil engineer during the day, Alex was now trying to engineer amity, or at least détente.
Peggy was in no mood for peace. It seemed “Frank” had tried to bulldoze his way in after Peggy curtly denied him proper entrance. She was disinclined to swallow any more horseshit about renewed permits that were in the mail. It wasn’t business—it was personal—as evidenced by 2 claret pools engulfing unblinking pupils. The clash of wills was exposing the dark side of tennis before my very eyes. It also created at least 3 different impressions of this melee. “Why you not just take bike outside?” Alex suggested. What was clear to all present was that Peggy was taking the stand of her life. She was full of wrath and ready to wrangle. Cross the line, motherfucker, and you’re mine.
“I’ve lived in this fucking community all my life! She can’t do this to us...she’s pocketing that money…how do we know she even works here?” It was equally, and more painfully, clear that Frank was taking a stand of his own. I stood by my partner—not tall—but I stood by. Like getting your ass kicked by the enemies of a friend you don’t particularly like, or going to an in-law’s birthday party, it was a moral duty. While admiring my own sense of the same, it had come to the attention of those that paid it that Peggy was about to clock Frank—and Frank was about to jab the handlebar into her fiery eyes. Even Alex’s assurance that Peggy certainly was in Parks Service’s employ went unheeded. I took the bridle on my partner while Alex handled Peggy. We exchanged looks, both shrugging to acknowledge our roles as seconds come duel time. Unscrewing his water bottle, Alex led a reluctant Peggy toward a paint-chipped bench. Shaken, she sunk in defeat. Alex rubbed her shoulders a moment or two, before resuming his game.
Before I had a chance to sprint toward my car and hurry away, Frank was leading me to that back court, open spoils to the victor. “Looks like it might be raining. We’d better get a set in at least,” he said, pumped. The man had a point.
