Balls! Yellow balls, white balls, discolored balls. Balls aflutter, balls askance. Balls landing in laps, balls nicking feet, balls skimming heads. Balls exploding—off paddles. Balls shooting—from machines. Balls everywhere about the main hall of the Convention Center.
That was the scene at the USA Table Tennis U.S. National Championships, where 734 of the nation's best table tennis players—along with a smattering of recreational whiffers—competed for national titles and ratings points that could help them land on the 2004 Olympic team. It's Vegas' Other Big, Longstanding December Sports Tournament, without the hee-haws, hotties and manure.
And without media coverage.
Don't worry, the table tennis folks are used to it.
For 25 of the past 28 Decembers, Vegas has become epicenter of the American table tennis universe, drawing competitors of every shape, color and age. Opening day last Wednesday found a ripped-from-the-census mix. Metrosexuals? Check. Snowbirds? Check. Players wearing everything from baggy jeans and oversized sports jerseys to vericose veins? You know it.
On a makeshift podium overlooking the action—85 tables, half of them busied with preliminary singles and doubles action—USATT webmaster Larry Hodges sped through table tennis facts with a velocity rivaling the action below: Upwards of 20 million people play nationwide, 50,000 compete in U.S. club leagues, USATT has 8,000 members … (approaching auctioneer speed) ... table tennis is addictive; better to play in Europe and Asia than in the states ($500,000 to $1 million annual earnings compared to $30,000 to $60,000); 58 categories contested this weekend; sport would be more popular if it had huge ad budget and more media coverage. ...
On the floor, it was much quieter than at that Other Big, Longstanding December Sports Tournament—no yelping yahoos or buxom beauties. But certainly no less an athletic arena. From their Nike duffel bags, two young Asian boys retrieved a quarterback's cache of trade tools—ankle wraps, tape, knee supports. Dexterous as gymnasts and sprinter-lithe, they worked up a sweaty lather over the next 15 minutes, shuffling side to side, lunging, contorting, ripping forehands, blasting backhands, chasing balls.
Doggoned right, this is a sport, announced Los Angeleno Alex Horvath. It's sport enough to match the Atkins' Diet for efficacy—months after taking up table tennis, he'd lost the equivalent of a toddler.
"I've had high blood pressure for 25 years and today, nothing … I've dropped 40 pounds since I started playing," said Horvath, who's competed for seven years. "I always hated to run, but with table tennis I can get out here for three to four hours and get a cardiovascular exercise like I couldn't get anywhere else. I leave with my T-shirts drenched. It's a sport for everybody."
At this, Horvath eyed Neil Smythe ambling down the steps and onto the playing floor. "There's who you need to talk to," he said. Used to be a city big shot, Horvath added. The Man Round These Parts. Explanation: He brainstormed this tournament.
The short version of the story: U.S. table tennis rules called for a national championship, but American officials were running open tournaments at the time (early 1970s). Asian players would come from overseas, whip everybody, then head happily back home. So Smythe championed a national competition only open to America's best. The first tournament was in a ballroom at Caesars in 1976, where he worked in administration for years—as chief financial officer and in other posts before retiring as executive vice president of Caesars Palace in 1989; from 1981 to 1983, he was president of the Sands. The tournament moved to the convention center in 1989, where it's been held for all but three years. It was held in Pittsburgh one year. Go figure.
Smythe glanced at the floor space and smiled. Successive tables had middle-aged men volleying, two young girls feverishly dueling, a tense doubles match replete with a few "damn its." Behind him, inside a cordoned-off area, the Butterly Amicus 3000 fired ball after ball at a player: fastball, slow ball, serve with top spin. Smythe recalled the tournament's early years.
"December is traditionally a slow time for casinos. We'd have groups come in from the Orient and the casinos would [look] empty," said Smythe, who favored table tennis over golf because it was less time-intensive; he had six children to raise. "We'd bring a couple hundred people to town, room rates and convention costs were low, and encourage the players to visit the casinos. It gave visitors the appearance the casinos were busy."
As he left, the current Man Round These Parts, Peter Bazso, president of the Las Vegas Table Tennis Club, walked up. He's led the group for 18 of its 23 years. Bazso fell in love with the sport as a 10-year-old growing up in Hungary. Bazso's club averages 15 to 18 members, many of whom work swing and graveyard casino shifts, making it hard to get games going and build interest. And there are no other clubs to play against or leagues to compete in, thus limiting competition. The closest league is in Reno. Despite hosting the table tennis world each year—"English isn't the primary language spoken here," says Las Vegas David Sakai, one of half the defending U.S. Open men's seniors champs—Vegas hasn't become a hub.
Bazso blamed disinterest on poor media exposure and Vegas' transient nature. Economic clout could also play a role; that Other Big, Longstanding December Sports Tournament rustles up 10-gallon coverage on ESPN, pumps millions into the city and offers hefty prize money. Table tennis champs walk away with $2,000.
And about those whiffers … check out H.B. Barlow, a retired trucking company owner in California. Though he narrowly failed to qualify for the tournament, Barlow came anyway. For the camaraderie, he said. "Plus, it gives my wife a chance to shop."