Recently I visited my homeland, the great state of Michigan, for the first time in about four years. There was summer sun, glassy lake water, food cooked over an open flame, and precious time with dear friends. I have many more notes, but what’s likely to be etched in my mind for a while is something very different.
Dotting what seemed like every other road on both the east and west sides of the state were pristine, under-utilized tennis courts. Among the many things I took for granted growing up, I now realize this has to be the most profound. Sure, America’s reputation surrounding public goods might not be stellar, but much of this nation got the tennis court equation right.
So why, exactly, am I making a fuss over this rather mundane piece of the Midwestern landscape? Since diving back into the sport that dominated most of my youth a few years back, I’ve been situated in less than ideal tennis locales. I began playing again with intention in Saigon; the sun was intense and court time, while very affordable, was usually to be found at overgrown clubs hidden within the city or huge apartment complexes on the outskirts of town. Once, I trekked 45 minutes on my tiny motorbike to get some hitting on a single court built on top of a parking garage, then got caught in a tropical downpour after three rallies. In hindsight, I still think it was worth it.
Good courts. District 3, Saigon
Good courts. District 7, Saigon
Generally, I found the booking of courts to be especially challenging. Online reservations weren’t really a thing, and even as my Vietnamese language skills improved, phone conversations were dicey. As such, results were mixed. Eventually, I found a rock-solid group of guys who played in a loose collective called the Lan Anh Tennis Club, where the hitting was good and the post-match beers were excellent. I miss it to this day.
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In William Finnegan’s Barbarian Days, he describes the draw of surfing as having enough power to derail the rest of life’s endeavors. “The biggest locals can be the biggest derelicts,” a respected San Franciscan big wave ripper reported. “It’s such a great sport it corrupts people.”
I don’t think many people would apply this sentiment to the activity of tennis. In Brooklyn, though, there’s an argument to be made.
According to research from the International Tennis Federation, there are 578,000 tennis courts on planet Earth, of which nearly 215,000 are in the United States. When you break it down, that comes out to .65 court per 1,000 people (compare that to France, which puts up .48 by the same measure; again, we’re punching above our weight).
Of course, these aren’t arranged based on population density—and, as much as it pains me to admit it, this is for good reason. New York City real estate is valuable, both in dollar cost and opportunity cost. The space it takes to put up three tennis courts could be a basketball court or a small football pitch, each of which can accommodate two to three times the players. So yeah, I get it! Anyway…
Lately, on days I crave a match, I show up at Ft. Greene Park around 6:40 AM to scribble my name upon a flimsy piece of paper. Distinctively low-tech and remarkably democratized, I’ve come to appreciate this system deeply. Show up at 7 and the line snakes halfway to Dekalb Avenue—meaning your tennis plans are dead in the water. There’s no algorithm, no outbidding, just commitment to getting exactly an hour of time on one of six slightly uneven courts. No matter who you are—high-powered executives, bankers, lawyers, to say nothing of the neighborhood’s many creative directors—you’ve got to wait it out. Securing those 60 minutes of tennis, then, shapes the early hours of your day.
So is it worth all that to go slap a ball around? Undoubtedly.