Growing up in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, I was exposed to a pretty hard-core racquet-sports lifestyle. We lived on the lake, dominated on one end by the Indian Trail Club, where there was a swim team—which I excelled at—and three different racquet sports, which I decidedly did not. But that didn’t stop me from endless rounds of tennis lessons, tennis ladders, and tennis tournaments; and then, when the weather got colder, we’d shift to turtlenecks and sweaters and play paddle, also known as (well I guess correctly known as) platform tennis. And then when it really got cold, we moved to the cacophony of the squash court.
Paddle is more fun than tennis, for me, mostly because the small courts are enclosed in wire mesh, so you’re never more than a few feet from the ball. If you are not a skilled tennis player, you seem to spend all your time chasing down balls on neighbors’ courts. And there is something very social about paddle: there’s always paddle parties and drinking, which I also excelled at.
In fact, I threw paddle engagement parties for both my sister and my college chum Ethan in the Indian Trail Club paddle lounge. At Ethan’s shindig, the paddle bug really bit my friends Stuart and Corinne (they married soon after), and now their son Henry Fishman is the 14 and under American Platform Tennis Association junior national champion (along with his partner, Will Cannon).
Everyone played paddle, or so I thought; certainly all the clubs around us had courts. So I was a little indignant when I arrived at college at the University of Pennsylvania with my metal-rimmed wooden racquet and heavy furry ball only to find there weren’t any courts. What sort of an Ivy League school was this with no paddle?
And for a while, there really was no paddle anywhere; the sport seemed to go out of fashion in the ‘80s and ‘90s.
But now, it’s back in a big way. At least that’s what I gathered after attending the 2013 A.P.T.A. National Platform Tennis Championships, held March 7 through 10 for the first time at my hometown Indian Trail Club (where, I should disclose, I am a shareholder) and organized by the club’s energetic board member Bevinn Romaine.
The four-day event consisted of a President’s Cup Elite contest on Thursday, then two massive tournaments, the men’s and women’s doubles, which took place on the the Trail Club’s 10 courts, plus an exhibition stadium center court on the club’s great lawn; 18 satellite clubs from the surrounding area also pitched in and provided access to their courts. There was so much championship paddle to be played, and so little time.
But wait a minute: wasn’t there a huge snowstorm on the East Coast right around then? Not to worry, paddle tennis is all about inclement weather, hearty folks with rosy cheeks, and colorful, expensive sportswear. And nowadays all the court surfaces are heated. But the club lost 200 of its 500 parking spots to accumulated snow, forcing the club maintenance team to park cars on the softball field, on the surrounding roads, everywhere.
By the time the finals rolled around, the sun had come out, and the championship stadium had a clear view of both Franklin Lake and High Mountain, which served as a great backdrop.
This club is very different from the one I rode my bike to every day and where I later coached swimming.
The main clubhouse is an enormous old hay-barn that was originally attached to Bender’s Mill, which processed grain before and after the American Revolution. The mill burned down twice, once in 1878, and it was rebuilt and used first for woodworking and later as an apple-cider press. My father used to take me to watch the workers make apple cider in the fall. Then in the 1970s it burned down again, by vandals. It was a sad occasion I also remember. But the barn lives (and parties) on!
For the Friday-night party, the barn ballroom was expanded by tenting off the outdoor patio (where summer dining is served), which added an additional space.
Hundreds of players, volunteers, and paddle aficionados came for the buffet dinner. The sport has started to gain a national following, and there were players from all across the country, all uniformly healthy-looking, robust types. One guest, Laura Tillsley, a Franklin Lakes native, kind of epitomized the look: wide wale pink corduroys with embroidered bumblebees, seriously dilapidated leather boating shoes, and a Shetland sweater.
But during the daytime tourney play, the action shifted over to the newer McBride House, a two-story setting with a great dining hall and glass walls that provided elevated action viewing.
It’s a distinct vibe. The players’ (just more than 400 in total) entry fees also include meals, so there is an ongoing social element while play proceeds.
In addition there were about 3,000 spectators throughout the weekend. And lots of them wanted to be fed. I spoke to Indian Trail Club general manager Mike Azbill to get a sense of the food and beverage portions.
“We served 400 meals on Thursday, 1,300 meals on Friday, 1,500 meals on Saturday, and another 500 meals Sunday, making it by far the club’s most active weekend ever,” he said.
Orthopedic Institute of Hackensack University Medical Center was a sponsor (and its star surgeon Mike Kelly competed), providing an on-site ambulance for first aid, and even had its mobile helicopter do a dramatic flyover to let players and fans feel its presence.
The entire event was a low six-figure undertaking.
As the tournament wore on, the blizzard turned into spring, like on those time-elapsed National Geographic specials, so by Saturday afternoon, players were in shorts and shirtsleeves. Spectators left the confines of the indoor club and even the outdoor patios, choosing to sit on the grassy knoll to watch the action up close.
While I’m sure there were some grumblers, my family was thrilled that I.T.C. club pro Ana Brozna, along with her partner, Victoria Stoklasova, captured the women’s championships. Home-field advantage? Sure, why not?
