Dear Friend,

     Padl Batl is a pingpong tournament.

Thanks for your interest and START TRAINING!!!!!!

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below is the NY PRESS article

PADDLE BATTLE
Down Williamsburg way, ping-pong's bouncing out of basements.
By Joshua Bernstein
Williamsburg's ping-pong masterminds sit across from me, expectant. Tim Daly, one half of a duo aiming to recreate recreation, deeply sips his inky Guinness. He brushes foam from his lips and asks the question that, in a bar one block from the toxic East River, will determine tonight's rainy fate.
"Want a shot of tequila?" asks Daly. His accomplice, Dillon de Give, sets his Stella Artois on the table. He straightens his visor and leans forward.
"Of course," I say. We drink a shot. The pong gods are ready to begin.
While kickball and dodgeball have undergone a hipster-certified revival with park leagues and movies, their rec-room counterpart has gone overlooked. For good reason. One cannot boot a ping-pong ball. Or inflect pain with a ping-pong ball. Sure, contestants could paddle-slap one another, but such shenanigans are better left to backward-hatted frat boys.
This is why it's a ripe time for Daly, 30, and de Give, 26, to infuse the staid suburban sport with a little rock-and-roll. And a lot of beer. Welcome to Padl Batl: It's ping-pong as all-night rager—and, oh yeah, sport.
Their slap happiness started January 2004, inside a loft deep in their dilapidated Williamsburg neighborhood. The idea: Set up Daly's creaky ping-pong table, charge a couple-buck entry fee, buy some suds and have an NCAA basketball tournament–like playoff. Word spread via email. About 40 partygoers arrived, creating an instant crush. Some dressed in sweatbands. Others, matching warm-up suits. DJs pumped jock-rock party anthems while players forehanded, backhanded and slammed deep into the eve.
"It was like a house party—with ping-pong," de Give says with pride.
"Like beer pong?" I ask.
"Beer pong is no skill game for drunkards!" de Give shouts, his exclamation point a Stella chug.
While the party was a booming success, it was far from a financial windfall. Because of the cash outlay for door prizes and suds ("The tournament was put on by Schlitz, but it wasn't sponsored by them," de Give says), the party promoters walked away with about ten bucks. They were unfazed.
"The spirit is not about making money. It's all about having fun," Daly says.
To underscore the point, Daly points at de Give.
"Not too many people are willing to go to bed with a ping-pong paddle," Daly says, smiling. De Give opens his Izod jacket and removes a blue-and-red paddle. He cuts the air with practice swishes, and replaces the paddle inside his jacket.
"Another round," Dillon says, shaking his empty glass and heading to the bar.
He buys more inebriation while Daly tells me about the second tournament.
From an attendance standpoint, the second event, in March, was a rock-out sensation. More than 100 people attended, including 40 competitors. They were introduced with "The Price Is Right" theme music, and derided by announcer Andrea Merkx.
"'Why don't you just give up? You're just waiting for the game to be over!'" de Give says Merkx shouted at feeble competitors.
The crowd rose in support of other pongers. When a woman, Julia, performed her Billie Jean King impersonation by vanquishing a male opponent, the dude-heavy crowd went wacko. "People were gathered five rows deep, pumping their fists and dancing," says Daly.
As a whole, the tournaments have been well-behaved. No cops. No fights. The only scuttlebutt has been the tournaments' two-time winner: Tim Daly. Some have cried foul, but Daly's secret is his patented moves. He slides his Guinness glass aside to demonstrate.
"I call this one 'The Milkshake,'" Daly says, shaking his fists up and down in a blur better known by another name. His tactic: use milkshake to distract the opponent's return, then blast the ball back double speed.
"And I call this one, 'Osaka Tiger Eyes,'" he says, gazing intently with beer-glassy pupils. "I stare into my opponent's eyes, then hit the ball without looking at the table… That fucks with them."
As reigning champ, Daly retains the top prize: a wind-up tin toy topped with ping-pong players. "Just watch," Daly says, winding the toy. We three stare, transfixed, as imitation men swing, swing, swing. The toy slows to a halt, its awesomeness cemented.
What is hardly awesome is this: In the last year, there have been no less than three copycat tournaments. To keep competitions inimitable, Daly and de Give have bandied ideas like monthly bar rumbles, mobile battles in vans and even competitions in elementary school gymnasiums. But school is a no-go "because we can't drink," de Give is quick to add.
So January saw a snowbound LES tourney at Arlene's Grocery, followed by a May battle at the club BPM, complete with stadium-style seating. Since then, the promoters have been flooded with ping-pong inquiries. In response, a tournament is being readied around Thanksgiving to feature Pabst sponsorship, a magician and clowns. Planning, though, is leisurely. They both work full-time (Daly is a sculptor's assistant and de Give edits TV commercials and music videos), and ping-pong careers are far-fetched.
"If I make it as a ping-pong promoter, that'd be kind of nice," Daly says, holding his half-full glass. "But I am not holding my breath."