Musings of a 60-Year-Old Towel Boy

Some of the greatest jobs aren’t the ones that pay the most—they’re the ones that shape you. For my brother John and me, that job was being towel boys at the Evanston Court Club.

Back in the ’70s, racquetball was all the rage. At its peak, over 12 million people in the U.S. played regularly. The sport itself is a perfect metaphor for life—loud, chaotic, and moving way faster than you want it to. I spent hours watching exhausted newbies scramble desperately after a ricocheting ball while seasoned old-timers barely had to move, letting the game (and life) come to them. And while we were just a couple of teenagers earning $2.35 an hour, we walked away with more than just a paycheck—we left with life lessons that have stuck with us to this day.

The Life of a Towel Boy

Our main duties were simple enough: keeping the towel supply fresh, tidying up public spaces (including emptying ashtrays—yes, smoking was still a thing!), and doing whatever the front desk staff needed. That was the easy part. The real battlefield? The men’s locker room.

Every shift, we waged war against soapy hair globs in shower drains, clogged toilets, and sinks coated in lather and beard stubble. We also became pros at vacuuming around men who had an unsettling fondness for baby powder—seriously, it was everywhere. But the real heart of the club wasn’t the courts or the towels—it was the men’s whirlpool. That bubbling cauldron of wisdom, business deals, and BS housed a rotating cast of characters: cops, dealers, jocks, businessmen, celebrities, and regular guys of all ages, shapes, and colors.

The Perks of the Job

One of the biggest benefits of working at the club? After closing time, the place was ours. We’d play racquetball way past our bedtimes, burning off teenage energy under fluorescent lights. The whirlpool, though, was our real headquarters. Like young Greenland sharks, we gathered in that churning water, talking about our adolescent fears, plotting our next dumb scheme, and dreaming of successful futures.

Of course, the whirlpool was also a source of endless stupidity. One Christmas Eve, we decided to dump an entire gallon of shampoo into it. The result? A tsunami of foam that turned the locker room into a winter wonderland of suds. We were late for church that night—after spending hours hosing everything down.

The Final Throwdown

In 1984, the club was sold to the YMCA of Evanston. But before the keys were handed over, John and I decided to send it off properly—with the coming-of-age goodbye party to end all parties. By then, we had been promoted to the front desk and used our newfound power to print up handbills advertising the event. On Saturday, December 29, a couple hundred kids packed the club, dancing and drinking to Chicago House spun by one of our DJ friends. We trashed the place, of course. Turns out, my mom had secretly taken out a liability policy on us. Smart woman.

Echoes of the Past

As racquetball’s popularity faded, so did the club. A developer eventually bought the building and converted it into condos, where it still stands today. But every time I pass 1101 Dodge Avenue, I can still hear the pumped-in sound of Billy Joel’s My Life or Pablo Cruise’s Love Will Find a Way. I think about that younger version of myself, sitting in the whirlpool with the crew, imagining the future.

If I could tell him something now? I’d probably say he’s a pretty cool kid and that, despite the ups and downs, things will work out. Life, like racquetball, is unpredictable and fast, and sometimes you have to clean up the occasional mess—even if it’s a small turd in the whirlpool’s trap.