Day 3 of this month’s U.S. Table Tennis Open, and though Wimbledon’s hitting its stride across the pond, tiny nets—and getting tiny balls over them—take center stage in Vegas. All races and ages compete (the oldest entrant is 102; other participants’ heads barely clear the tables); merchandise tables and Nathan’s Hot Dog carts are abundant. Players add glue to their racquets for speed and spin—official signage reads “Gluing Area” and immediately below, in black magic marker on white paper, the addendum, “OUT SIDE.” Seems the adhesive is smelly and a bit toxic, and some varieties are even banned, and 1,000 contenders stinking up the warehouse expanse of two combined Convention Center halls is severely frowned upon.
Steve Federico creates hot table-tennis action. Photograph by Iris Dumuk
Even the “frictionless rubber” Steve Federico’s opponent uses today is on the verge of being banned. Though the 57-year-old owner of a North Miami tennis specialty store, No. 1-ranked player in Florida’s senior division and only player in the country to retain Top 20 national status for the past 40 years doesn’t say much about his accomplishments, he points out the game’s intricacies. “It’s about stamina and strategy, putting spin on the ball,” he says. “The key to the game is the serve; you try to get them to hit it just a little bit off. It’s like playing tennis and chess at the same time.”
And strategize Federico does, crouching low on rock-solid leg muscles. Serves are all slashing speed and blurry motion, the pings and pongs clacking like a crazed metronome. Three games out of five win the match, and Federico takes the first, then the second, in a matter of minutes. But soon that elusive, frictionless rubber gets the best of him. The glued material effectively stops the motion of the ball’s spin and reverses it, thus negating 40-plus years of anticipatory skill. The former college hustler drops one game, then a second. Only minutes before he was poised to advance; now he’s out.
Federico towels off and ambles around to check out other matches. Shouts echo down the way, where a pair of pre-pre-preadolescents are locked in battle, while a silently reverent grandstand takes in two matches between ripped, intensely focused late-teen girls. Bystanders eye Federico as he sits down. He’s a well-respected veteran, almost a celebrity of the sport, and though he’s out of this tournament, he’s nowhere near down. As he puts it, “It’s a game of adjustments.”