πŸ† League Awards

Honoring excellence, mediocrity, and everything in between

SuperRon receives his $32.50 check

SuperRon Paradiso receives his $32.50 prize

πŸ† 2026 Awards

πŸ” Mr. Magoo

Bob Calabretta

In tennis, we rely on the honor system. A player calls the lines, and we trust that call reflects reality. But what happens when revenge clouds a man's vision? When the desire to settle a score turns a ball that was "in by a mile" into a phantom fault? This year, we witnessed the most egregious revenge call in league history when one player, channeling his inner Mr. Magoo, called Henvey's shot out β€” a shot so clearly in that NASA could have tracked it from orbit. For his commitment to alternative facts, I present this year's MR. MAGOO award to Bob Calabretta.

🌿 Call to the Vapepen

Chris Monteleone

When you need a sub, you call the group chat. When the group chat fails, you call your contacts. When your contacts fail, you apparently call whatever Jeff Spicoli-looking dude happens to be wandering past your house. One player took the concept of "substitution" to new lows this season by inviting a man who had never played in the league, never met anyone in the league, and appeared to be three bong rips deep into his morning. For his dedication to filling a slot at any cost, I present this year's CALL TO THE VAPEPEN award to Chris Monteleone.

🎰 Slice is Right

SuperRon

Bob Barker once said, "Come on down!" But nobody told this player to come on down to the net. Why would he? When you've perfected the art of the slice β€” that low, skidding, maddening shot that never bounces above knee height β€” why would you ever hit anything else? Forehand? Slice. Backhand? Slice. Overhead? Believe it or not, slice. This man has turned one shot into an entire philosophy, a lifestyle, a religion. For his unwavering commitment to the most annoying shot in tennis, I present this year's SLICE IS RIGHT award to Super Ron.

πŸ¦• The Luddite

Doug Schmidt

Last year, I joked that this player's racquet was purchased in 1779. I was being generous. After further carbon dating, we can confirm his equipment predates the Geneva Convention. While other men have embraced modern technology β€” lighter frames, larger sweet spots, actual strings β€” this man continues to wield what appears to be an artifact from the Eisenhower administration. For his ongoing commitment to playing tennis like it's still the Cuban Missile Crisis, I present this year's LUDDITE award to Doug Schmidt.

πŸ₯© The Porterhouse: Lifetime Achievement

Coach

Some things in life are certain: death, taxes, and this player at The Palm every Thursday night. While lesser men might skip a steak dinner for league play, this man has his priorities in order. A 16-ounce bone-in ribeye waits for no man β€” certainly not his doubles partners. At this point, The Palm should name a booth after him. For his unwavering dedication to beef over backhand, I present the PORTERHOUSE: LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT award to Coach.

πŸ”” The Nutcracker

Rob Schetty

One player won "Best Technique" last year for his smooth strokes, soft hands, and elegant court presence. This year, he used that technique to destroy a man's future children. When his forehand connected with Tom Henvey's groin at approximately Mach 2, witnesses report Henvey dropped like a sack of potatoes and remained prostrate for a full ten minutes β€” long enough to serve out the set, check his email, and feel no remorse whatsoever. For this surgical strike on a man's dignity, I present this year's NUTCRACKER award to Rob Schetty.

🐦 The Canary (Chirping Hall of Fame)

Sal Marino

At what point does an award become a birthright? At what point do we stop giving a man a trophy and simply name the trophy after him? One player has now won the trash-talking award so many consecutive years that we've retired "Oscar the Grouch" and replaced it with something more fitting. Like a bird that cannot stop singing, this man chirps from the first serve to the last handshake. The early calls. The celebrations. The commentary. The unsolicited opinions on your backhand. I am not giving him another trophy β€” I am inducting him into the CHIRPING HALL OF FAME. Congratulations to this year's CANARY, Sal Marino.

πŸ“ The Longest Yard

Sal Marino

Between points, loose balls accumulate. They roll to the fence. They drift into corners. They sit there, waiting for someone to pick them up before the next serve. This is where Sal Marino draws the line. During points? He'll chase anything. But the moment the point ends, a six-foot radius forms around him β€” a no-shag zone. A dead ball lands nearby, he looks at it, then looks away, as if they've never met. His partner jogs across the court to grab three balls while Sal stands at the baseline, racquet ready, conserving precious steps. For his unwavering refusal to shag a loose ball that isn't directly underfoot β€” and even then, it's 50/50 β€” I present this year's LONGEST YARD award to Sal Marino. The balls are right there, Sal.

🐺 Wolf of Broadway

Sal Marino

"Sell me this pen." That's what Jordan Belfort asked his trainees in The Wolf of Wall Street. But could Belfort sell a 5-pack of his worst sessions to an unsuspecting buyer? Apparently, yes β€” if that buyer is Lu Cortese. In a masterclass of salesmanship, one player managed to offload his least desirable matches onto Lu, convincing him these were premium sessions, exclusive opportunities, can't-miss tennis. Lu bought. Lu learned. For his ability to move garbage inventory like a penny-stock hustler, I present this year's WOLF OF BROADWAY award to Sal Marino. And Lu, call us before you sign anything.

πŸ‘» Snuffaluffagus: Dynasty Edition

Joe Bonventre

There are records that stand the test of time: DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak. Wilt's 100-point game. And one player's commitment to not showing up. For the third consecutive year, this man has achieved what most players cannot β€” complete invisibility. Did he sign up? Unclear. Did he play? No. Is he here tonight? Of course not. At this point, he is less a league member and more an urban legend, a man whose existence we can no longer verify. For his unprecedented three-peat of absence, I present the SNUFFALUFFAGUS: DYNASTY EDITION award to Joe Bonventre. Joe, if you're out there, you know where to find us. Actually, you clearly don't.

🌿 Cousin Spike II

Adam Feldman

Last year, we gave one player the Cousin Spike award for showing up 10 minutes late despite owning cars with sub-3-second 0-60 times. Did he learn? Did he adjust? Did he set an earlier alarm? Absolutely not. This year, he has doubled down β€” still 10 minutes late, still arriving looking like he just emerged from a Grateful Dead parking lot. At this point, we've stopped being annoyed and started being impressed by his consistency. For his continued dedication to being fashionably late and spiritually elevated, I present this year's COUSIN SPIKE II award to Adam Feldman.

🎯 "Are We Gonna Play This Way?"

Lu Cortese

Every league has its traditions. The handshake. The warmup. The post-match drink. And one player asking "Are we gonna play this way?" every single time someone hits a lob. This man, a player of refined tactical preferences, believes the lob is a coward's shot β€” a cheap trick unworthy of true competitors. Unfortunately for him, the rest of us disagree. So for another season of audible disgust at the most legal shot in tennis, I present this year's "ARE WE GONNA PLAY THIS WAY?" award to Lu Cortese. Yes, Lu. We are.

πŸ₯‹ Cobra Kai

Cousin Sonny

In 1974, a young man named Daniel LaRusso learned karate from a wise mentor named Mr. Miyagi. "Wax on, wax off," he was told. One player apparently learned tennis the same way β€” from a 1970s martial arts VHS tape. His backhand defies physics, biomechanics, and the Geneva Convention. It is less a tennis stroke and more a defensive combat maneuver β€” part chop, part block, part spiritual awakening. For bringing the ancient art of Kung Fu to Court One, I present this year's COBRA KAI award to Cousin Sonny. Sweep the leg.

πŸ† Golden Racquet

Tom Henvey

Running a men's doubles league is a thankless job. Scheduling. Substitutions. Complaints. Egos. Navigating the group chat like a diplomat in a war zone. This year, while I stepped back from league operations, one man stepped up β€” handling the logistics, managing the personalities, and keeping the whole thing from falling apart. He did this while also playing more sessions than anyone, taking every sub request, and somehow still showing up to crush forehands at people's midsections. For his leadership, dedication, and tireless service to this league, I am honored to present this year's GOLDEN RACQUET award to Tom Henvey. Thank you, Tommy.

🎾 Tennis Whore: Lifetime Achievement

Tom Henvey

Some men play tennis. One man IS tennis. For yet another year, this player has logged more court hours than most of us log at our actual jobs. He takes every session, subs into every open slot, and will play through injury, exhaustion, and the protests of his orthopedist. At this point, HIT should name a court after him β€” or at least give him a parking spot. For his continued dominance as the league's hardest charger and most prolific player, I present this year's TENNIS WHORE: LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT award to Tom Henvey.

πŸŽ’ Have Racquet, Will Travel

Connell Boyle

In 1957, Richard Boone starred in Have Gun, Will Travel β€” a Western about a gunslinger-for-hire who would show up anywhere in the territory at the drop of a telegram. Connell has spent the last three years building the tennis equivalent. Need a fourth? Connell is on his way. Need a fourth in twenty minutes? Connell is already in the parking lot. Was Connell actually signed up for this session, or did he stroll over from Total Tennis again because he saw four guys warming up and a Henvey rocket clipped the fence? Unclear. The man has now won so many awards for sub responsiveness that we've stopped giving him trophies and started giving him a Bat-Signal. For his continued service as the league's wandering swordsman β€” available to any captain in need at any hour, for the right price (free tennis) β€” I present this year's HAVE RACQUET, WILL TRAVEL award to Connell Boyle. Send him a telegram. He'll be there.

🎩 The Consigliere

Anthony Centrella

Every family needs a consigliere β€” the quiet advisor in the corner, working the angles, whispering counsel, never on the ballot but always in the room. In this league, that role has been filled, unofficially but unmistakably, by Anthony Centrella. Need a partner reshuffled? Anthony has a thought. Need a court reassigned? Anthony has a thought. Need someone subtly agitated into a controlled detonation by Wednesday morning? Anthony will handle it personally and you will not see his fingerprints anywhere. He doesn't want to run the league. He just wants to be in the room where it happens. For his quiet, persistent, deeply effective architecture of league politics, I present this year's CONSIGLIERE award to Anthony Centrella. Tell Pauly to bring the car around.

🦊 Crazy Like a Fox

Gavin Meier

In 1980s Little Italy, Vincent Gigante used to walk around in his bathrobe. He was the "Crazy Don" β€” a man who seemed unhinged, unpredictable, maybe a little touched. But here's the thing about him: he wasn't crazy. He was crazy like a fox β€” trying to beat a murder rap with an insanity plea. One player channels this same energy on the court. The muttering. The giggles. The thousand-yard stare. You think he's lost in his own world β€” until his second serve is past you before his first serve stops bouncing. Is he crazy? Maybe. Is he beating you 6-2 while you're still trying to figure out what just happened? Absolutely. For his masterful use of psychological chaos and the fastest serve in the league, I present this year's CRAZY LIKE A FOX award to Gavin Meier. Keep 'em guessing, Don.

πŸ˜‡ Mr. Nice Guy: Hall of Fame

Lloyd Gitler

Every year, I try to find something β€” anything β€” to roast one player about. A bad call. A complaint. A sideways glance. An unkind word. And every year, I come up empty. This man is, simply put, too nice for this league. He's too nice for most leagues. He's the kind of guy who apologizes when YOU hit HIM with a ball. Who compliments your serve after you double fault. Who probably helps old ladies cross the street on his way to the court. In a league full of trash talkers, revenge callers, and men who will aim for your spleen, he stands alone as a beacon of sportsmanship and human decency. For being so relentlessly pleasant that it's almost suspicious, I present this year's MR. NICE GUY: HALL OF FAME award to Lloyd Gitler. We don't deserve you, Lloyd.

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