©twmcdermott2013
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| Station Square/FH Inn |
Every so often, I get the
urge to return to my natal stream, so to speak; not to spawn like salmon do,
but to wander the streets, closes, crescents, and open greens of my native
Forest Hills Gardens and an especially familiar old habitat of mine, the West
Side Tennis Club, with its aging Stadium.
The urge is strongest this time
of year, just before the U.S. Open.
A little more than 35 years
ago, when someone mentioned “Forest Hills,” even people who weren’t tennis fans
immediately recognized that place as a Mecca
of the international game: Only Wimbledon was better known. But, that was in
1977, the last year the Open was held at WSTC.
One didn’t have to grow up
there and attend their first “Nationals,” as the tournament was then called, as
I did in 1956, to have distinct memories of the place. Today, when people hear
the name, they still fondly recall their trips, perhaps with their parents or
grandparents to see the best tennis in the world, played on the soft green
lawns on warm, crisp September afternoons: never at night.
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| C.S. Church For Sale |
As much as I’ve come to appreciate
the Open’s more public venue at Flushing, I do not think it snooty of me to say
the mention of that particular name does not quite approach the same pleasant
mental reaction as “Forest Hills” did.
That’s branding for you, and
the Russell Sage Foundation, which commissioned landscape architect Frederick
Law Olmstead, Jr. and architect Grosvenor Atterbury to design “The Gardens,”
knew something about branding. They also knew that, by luring the club to its
10 acres from its old home on Manhattan’s West Side (hence the name), it would
make a nice marketing anchor for the new homes going up around it on Exeter,
Harrow, Groton, and Dartmouth streets, and the Greenway Terraces.
It worked extraordinarily
well, and the 175-acre community spawned about 800 houses and several attractive
apartment buildings, all of them topped with the mandatory English-style
red-tiled roofs. And, in the middle of it all, was a neighborhood gem of a
public school, P.S. 101.
Does that sound perfect? It pretty
much was. And, good thing too, because the one thing that WSTC and the stadium
did not have much of was parking. So, those who forsook the subway and Long
Island Railroad, which is to say just about everybody, had to get there early
and desperately search for parking. This was, to say the least, discouraged by
the Gardens, whose residents walked to see the matches, probably with free
tickets in their pockets.
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| Greenway South |
For old times sake, it might
be fun to imagine the path of one of those parking searches and strolls to the
club or stadium. This is a trip you can try today, but don’t even think about
the parking part, just take a ride around The Gardens, or, better yet, take the
subway and walk.
Let’s imagine that our
Country Squire or little MG exits a parkway onto Jewel Avenue and south across
Queens Boulevard, then under the LIRR trestle across Continental Avenue. Upon
entering cobbled Station Square, with the Forest Hills Inn to our left, we’re
instantly transported to the English village of the designers’ imaginations.
Since we’ve been here before,
we know not to go straight, under the arched bridge by Dartmouth Street; nobody
is lucky enough to find a space that close to the club.
Instead, we go left and then
right, under another arched bridge to enter the Greenways, then bear left up
Greenway North, with its shaded attached homes and the long open green on our
right, broken by a circle of benches across from a Moorish church (currently
for sale).
We continue as the green widens
at Flagpole Park, whose flag still flies atop the mast of the 1899 and 1901
America’s Cup Winner, Columbia. We go right at Slocum
Crescent, then a quick left on Standish Road, and, hey, there’s parking in that
private driveway for ten bucks!
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| Tennis Place/"Way" |
We hand over the sawbuck to a
very young man sporting a crewcut, who assures us that it is indeed his
parents’ driveway (fingers crossed on that), then we wander away towards
Russell Place, around stately P.S. 101, and down Slocum Crescent the other way
across Greenway South and then the same Continental Avenue on to Exeter Street,
with its still shady trees despite losing some to disease years ago and a dozen more to Sandy)
and brick and stucco homes.
At Tennis Place, we turn right.
Proust had his Guermantes Way, but this is my “way,” as I made hundreds of
trips through Tennis Place to and from my home, WSTC, and my grandfather’s house
on Fleet Street.
As we come around a soft bend,
we head to and across Dartmouth Street, past my old apartment building and the
little courtyard where I learned to play tennis against a wall; and, since we
have clubhouse passes, into the WSTC itself. Now, we probably need a gin and
tonic, Florida Special, or Cock N’ Bull brand (best ever) ginger beer at the
terrace bar.
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| Gold & Blue |
There must have been at least
a few imperfect days at Forest Hills back then, which were uncomfortably humid
or hot. And, I distinctly remember players donning spiked shoes to play (and
tear up) the grass courts slick from light rain. But, honestly, it’s hard to
summon up memories of anything other than perfect weather, maybe with a light
breeze and a hint of autumn in the air.
It was not uncommon for
ladies to wear skirts or summer dresses to show off their summer tans.
Spectators walking the field court areas or lunching under the gold and blue
awnings at the Clubhouse might have even worn Shetland sweaters around their
shoulders, an image that seems other-worldly in these days of more advanced
global warming (not to mention gym shorts and tank tops); I do not think that
I’ll be wearing a sweater next week at Flushing “Meadow.”
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| 1923 |
Forest Hills stadium has
definitely faded over the years and recently survived a plan to turn it into
attractive apartments. Instead, there is a move on to revive it as a concert
venue, with a sold-out Mumford & Sons show set for late August. The
clubhouse itself and surrounding courts look remarkably good, although a
ladies’ over-thirty tournament left the grass court baselines scuffed and torn;
but that is how it goes with east coast lawn tennis, played atop relatively
soft earth, unlike Wimbledon’s fuzzy concrete.
Some might say the club and
its stadium are well past their prime. But, who cares? To true tennis
aficionados, the WSTC's stadium is hallowed ground, like the old Yankee Stadium (both were
built in 1923; only one survives).
What does hold meaning for
me, and many others, I think, is that great athletic contests and feats occurred
there not so long ago, in a game played on lawns, with grass-stained white
balls, mostly with wooden racquets, in a more or less private world, but far
less privileged than some of its detractors might imagine.
Their loss, I’d say. Love and
love.
All photos by Author/Thanks to WSTC for permission to shoot.
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