When West Chop Summers Began at Moody’s

In the early 1970s I was the head tennis professional (actually the only tennis professional) at the West Chop Club. To gear up for the summer, I would make an annual trip to the Moody’s tennis shop in Milford, Conn. It was the white-hot beginning of the tennis boom and Moody’s was in the thick of it.

My Moody’s visit in mid-June coincided with the pro tour’s arrival in England to play warm-up tournaments for Wimbledon. As I’d drive onto the ferry, sitting next to me on the front seat of my aged Karmann Ghia would be the New York Times sports section with the latest results from Eastbourne or Queen’s Club. It got me in my summer mindset of all tennis, all the time.

At Moody’s, I was in my element. Here were my people. We all spoke the same language and were excited about anything that had to do with the sport. The interior was laid out like a pro shop, but more so — bursting at the seams with gear, clothes, equipment, posters of players and imbued with an excited esprit du sport.

The focal point was a massive wall display featuring wooden racquets tightly stacked on wire racks, hanging enticingly like candy canes on a Christmas tree. Here were the icons of the era: the Wilson Jack Kramer, which I played with; the Davis TAD; Dunlop Maxply (later McEnroe’s favorite); and the Spalding Pancho Gonzalez, soon to be joined by the Wilson T2000 steel racket that Jimmy Connors made famous, followed shortly after by Wilson’s Chris Evert Autograph.

Near the back, the shop featured a dedicated racquet-stringing station where employees hand-strung the frames, threading nylon or gut strings in a criss-cross, over-and-under pattern as if they were weaving a basket. The area always smelled strongly of newly cut strings, leather grips and freshly opened cans of balls.

The apparel racks were packed with classic whites and pastel sportswear. The array included pleated skirts, canvas tennis shoes (such as classic Tretorns and canvas Converse which I wore), and polo shirts from top-tier tennis brands such as Fred Perry and Lacoste and soon-to-appear Fila, which was made famous by Bjorn Borg.

West Chop rules required tennis players to wear white, and Moody’s classic line-up fit the bill.

After finishing my shopping, I would return to the Island with the back seat of the Ghia stacked high with boxes of sneakers, and towers of socks, shorts and shirts. I was armed and Moody-ready for another 10-week gauntlet of lessons, clinics, round robins, tournaments, interclub matches and endless baskets of balls.

At about this time, my winter rental on Tashmoo avenue would be coming to an end, just in time for me to take possession of the small room the club provided me in the inn, the club’s spartan accommodations for visiting families and guests. The transition to the club meant no more rent to pay, plus the major benefit of receiving daily breakfast and dinner at the inn’s dining room.

With my room and board taken care of, my tennis payments added up quickly, allowing me to send my income down the street to Andy Skeens, the carpenter who was building my house on a lot on Franklin street that I had purchased from Quimby Brown the previous year. Quimby was the generous soul who, with his brother Dudley, had sold a number of lots to young choppers at below-market prices to encourage the next generation to stick around and support the community.

I usually structured my days around 7 a.m. start, when I helped Joe Bettencourt, the Chop’s indispensable fix-it man, and the much-loved Ken Murphy, a former high school principal, sweep the Har-Tru courts for morning play which began at 9 a.m. After breakfast, my first block of private lessons (9 a.m. to noon) began. I charged $5 an hour for lessons, $2.50 for a half-hour. The federal minimum wage that year was $1.60 an hour, so I thought I was doing pretty well. I took a break from noon to 3 p.m., when families went to the beach and for my trips to see what Andy was doing on the building site.

At 3 p.m. the kids came streaming back for their clinics, sand still clinging to their knees and hair wet from the sea. We’d play games and run tag-team races after which the winning team would happily run up the dirt path past the playground to the Chop Shop and receive their reward: bottles of pop (orange, purple or lime). Later in the evening, a parent might slip me a $20 bill and the keys to their van, and I would haul a group off to miniature golf in town and ice cream afterwards.

Those kids are now in their 60s, and it gives me great pleasure to be asked to play doubles with them and see them hit the strokes that I helped mold — each stroke as unique as a fingerprint. I can still identify a player from a distance simply by watching them hit a forehand or a backhand. Thomas Cox continues to remind me that I labeled his thunderous service motion the Tomahawk Serve. And I often look with pride at the red shields on the walls of the West Chop casino, where I see many of their names painted in white indicating championships won in singles and doubles, men’s and women’s in the years (and decades) after my teaching stint had concluded.

Today, tennis is still the No. 1 activity at the Chop, but Moody’s, alas, has since faded into history. In addition to the continuing evolution of equipment, playing styles and rules, the all-white requirements at most clubs were eventually relaxed and the company suffered. Although Wimbledon (and West Chop) still require all-whites, the once high-in-demand togs are now referred to as ‘vintage’ sportswear. You could say that about my years at the Chop as well.

David Lott lives in Vineyard Haven.

This article appears in August 21, 2026.