A bitchy local guide to playing tennis in Brooklyn
The shortest queues, least torched courts & best players.
In New York, stumbling upon some tennis brethren in a non-tennis setting is interesting. Things start innocently enough. “Oh, it’s been hot out there lately!” someone might say. You nod; they nod. But tennis people are dicks, so we’re quick to pivot to some thinly veiled interrogation. And so it goes: “Where do you play?”
Though less confronting than, “How long have you been playing?,” anyone asking after your home court is not without their judgments.
That's because New York’s public tennis courts—like New York neighborhoods at large—bear their own distinct flavors. Revealing where you get it in is more than an admission of convenience—it’s a decent barometer of someone’s convictions.
Fort Greene
Halt! Who goes there?
The “I used to play D1” guy
Middle-aged doubles players that rarely miss
Touch grass/ pet dog types
Though Fort Greene’s six hardcourts are pitted and cracked in places, they’re flanked by grand, prehistoric-looking trees that remind you you’ve chosen a sport of great beauty (until they start shedding onto the court). Other obstacles may include bikes on the court if no officials are present—someone I know got tangled in one as he ran for a wide ball. His neighbor who’d left it near the doubles tram lines, a far cry from the fence, was not apologetic.
Fort Greene is one of Brooklyn’s most bemoaned hitting locales because its queue is interminable and its players are talented—both intimidating things. Fortune favors the early at Fort Greene. Early is getting earlier according to local disgruntled man, Hugo Beniada, who tells me the line starts forming at around 5:45am:
Put differently, you ought to be in line by sunrise—90 minutes before the Parks rep arrives with the sign-up sheet—if you expect to play. If you’re a snoozer-loser type, it’s rumored that early-rising neighborhood folk can be paid to line up and sign you up for later. Fraternize with the local dog owners. Everyone has a price.
McCarren Park, Williamsburg
Halt! Who goes there?
High-intermediate and advanced players ironing out kinks
Underemployed software engineers
The level is high at McCarren, too. These courts were my local when I lived in Williamsburg and for a time, I hit consistently with one guy who shall remain unnamed. He was truthfully much better than I. But, tennis is a self-imposed mental prison, and next minute, the see-saw tips. I happened to be playing splendidly one day when he was not. A passerby praised and clapped me. I’ve never before or since seen the ball so early or perceived the court so big. My guy was not happy for me, and made excuses as to why we’d never hit together again. I moved not long after and McCarren became a thing of the past.
Ego-driven mmrs aside, I like McCarren a lot. Their summer queue doesn’t run as deep as Fort Greene's but still very much a queue. As for when to post up, a regular friend of a friend says this:
Mad spotty or not, take a book and wait courtside under the trees; it’s not so bad. Irene, the longstanding Parks attendant, will take your name. *Back in my day* I enjoyed interpersonal relations with Irene, but also with the surly brick wall that is Robert, who has since shifted his operations to my home court (below), where I still make it my business to try and flip his grumpy mood.
Jackie Robinson, Bed-Stuy
Halt! Who goes there?
Kids whose grandparents grew up in the neighborhood
Sandra, everyone’s favorite coach with the best ass in Bed Stuy
Anyone who didn’t wake up early enough for Fort Greene
When my husband and I saw the listing for our current apartment, it showed four purple hardcourts across the street. We saw the place same day and signed the lease soon after. I hit at the Jackie courts most days.
When it comes to the following questions about Jackie Robinson, the answer is always “yes, no, maybe so”:
Will there be a sign-up sheet?
Will I need a NYC Parks Permit*?
Will there be a Parks attendant?
Will there be some other neighborhood guy moonlighting as the attendant, bellowing enthusiastically and/or cursing loudly? (Love you, Ralph)
Will there be commotion or a scuffle?
Should I expect it to be busy?
Will local children egg me while I play?
The drama around these courts has been well-documented. In short, there was a tussle for the teaching contract whereby someone outbid the legacy coach, Frances Ferdinand, by a margin of $35,000, and rights were transferred in 2024. Ferdinand spearheaded low-cost lessons and free clinics for kids (low-income housing fringes these courts) from 2019 to 2024, as well as the court’s $1 million renovations in 2023.
The brouhaha continues, but it’s become difficult to trace. It’s easier to just eat, pray, love MEET, PLAY, LEAVE rather than concern yourself with the ever-shifting politics. If you’re a layabout freelancer like me, you can usually get a court between 9:30am and 4:30pm without a wait. You might need a permit if Robert is there, which is weekdays from late morning to 7pm-ish—but also, sometimes not. I am not his keeper! Don’t come here if you can’t tolerate messy. By all means, come if you’d like to observe my scream therapy. Or meet my hitting partner, Dan, who writes the excellent SportsVerse.
Prospect Park
Halt! Who goes there?
Old heads who gab in the clubhouse post-hit
Tactical moms & dads whose slices atone for sleepy footwork
Anyone who grew up in Europe
I like to think I’m evolved enough to navigate everyday situations with nuance. Let’s say someone is painfully humorless. First, I silently curse them. But THEN I reason with myself: Maybe they’re having a bad day. Or, maybe they’re just like this because they had a very healthy, nurturing childhood. With the bounce of a tennis ball, though, I say to hell with nuance. I want a true bounce. A ball that rises to a predictable height in the air. It will surprise no-one to hear I grew up playing on hardcourts.
And yet, I confidently entered Prospect Park’s fall tournament last year as a clay virgin.
Technically Har-Tru, these courts are made from crushed greenstone rather than the traditional brick clay of our European contemporaries. On them, I flailed. On them, I felt deeply unchic: running down balls that bounced over my shoulder; framing short ones that skittered away from me in slow motion. Crying through it all; I can’t believe this is my life.
Show me a person who enjoys hitting slower, higher balls and I will show them befuddlement and suspicion. I showed myself the door in the second round of this singles tournament because I couldn’t adjust.
The clay here—from my thoroughly tenderfoot POV—was well-maintained though not pristine, nor should we expect it to be for the very reasonable booking fee of $15 an hour (worth noting that these are the only courts with an actual clubhouse—fostering community doesn’t grow on trees and neither does clay upkeep!!) I say this not to rationalize my (objectively shit) performance but to exercise some of that nuance I mentioned earlier.
Honorable mentions
Lincoln Terrace: Eleven honest hardcourts and chatty regulars.
South Oxford Park: Just two courts that have historically, for me, been rather straightforward to hit on without a wait.
Decatur playground: Possibly blowing up a few friends’ spots by leaking this lonesome court attached to a school, but the tall brick on two of four sides creates something I didn’t know I could have: satisfying thwacks and excellent outdoor acoustics.
Should I turn the chat on?? What would we talk about???
I bought a book called Sex as a Sublimation for Tennis: From the Secret Writings of Sigmund Freud. The description slaps: “Normal red-blooded Americans prefer tennis to sex—and Sigmund Freud always knew it. The famous doctor suppressed his findings because of a morbid fear of white shorts, but now his secret papers have been discovered”. More to come once I start reading.
A quick shout-out is in order for my very first Hard Fan (the founding tier for paying subscribers), Mark Bilski. He sent me THREE videos of him playing (vulnerable! overachieving!) and per my policies (I run a tight ship) I will be dissecting his game and style in 300 words. It will be a hoot, rather than an exercise in actual authority, obviously :)
Live in LA? Here are some secrets about the best places to hit:
