New York City has 286 municipal synthetic-turf fields, with more under construction. In Inwood, the northernmost neighborhood in Manhattan, two fields were approved via Zoom meetings during the pandemic, and Massimo Strino, a local artist who makes kaleidoscopes, says he found out only when he saw signs announcing the work on one of his daily walks in Inwood Hill Park, along the Hudson River. He joined a campaign against the plan, gathering more than 4,300 signatures. “I was canvassing every weekend,” Strino says. “You can count on one hand, literally, the number of people who said they were in favor.”
But that doesn’t include the group that pushed for one of those fields in the first place: Uptown Soccer, which offers free and low-cost lessons and games to 1,000 kids a year, mostly from underserved immigrant families. “It was turning an unused community space into a usable space,” says David Sykes, the group’s executive director. “That trumped the sort of abstract concerns about the environmental impacts. I’m not an expert in artificial turf, but the parks department assured me that there was no risk of health effects.”
Artificial turf doesn’t go away. “You’re going to be paying to get rid of it. Somebody will have to take it to a dump, where it will sit for a thousand years.”
Graham Peaslee, emeritus nuclear physicist studying PFAS concentrations, University of Notre Dame
New York City councilmember Christopher Marte disagrees. He has introduced a bill to ban new artificial turf from being installed in parks, and he hopes the proposal will be taken up by the Parks Committee this spring. Last session, the bill had 10 cosponsors—that’s a lot. Marte says he expects resistance from lobbyists, but there’s precedent. The city of Boston banned artificial turf in 2022.
Upstate, in a Rochester suburb called Brighton, the school district included synthetic-turf baseball and softball diamonds in a wide-ranging February 2024 capital improvement proposition. The measure passed. In a public meeting in November 2025, the school board acknowledged the intent to use synthetic grass—or, as concerned parents had it, “to rip up a quarter million square feet of this open space and replace it with artificial turf,” says David Masur, executive director of the environmental group PennEnvironment, whose kids attend school in Brighton. Parents and community members mobilized against the plan, further angered when contractors also cut down a beloved 200-year-old tree. School superintendent Kevin McGowan says it’s too late to change course. Masur has been working to oppose the plan nevertheless—he says school boards are making consequential decisions about turf without sharing information or getting input, even though these fields can cost millions of dollars of taxpayer money.
In short, the fights can get tense. On Martha’s Vineyard, in Massachusetts, a meeting about plans to install an artificial field at a local high school had to be ended early amid verbal abuse. A staffer for the local board of health who voiced concern about PFAS in the turf quit the board after discovering bullet casings in her tote bag, she said, which she perceived as a death threat. After an eight-year fight, the board eventually banned artificial turf altogether.
What happens next? Well, outdoor artificial turf lasts only eight to 12 years before it needs to be taken up and replaced. The Synthetic Turf Council says it’s at least partially recyclable and cites a company called BestPLUS Plastic Lumber as a purveyor of products made from recycled turf. The company says one of its products, a liner called GreenBoard that artificial turf can be nailed into, is at least 40% recycled from fake grass. Joseph Sadlier, vice president and general manager of plastics recycling at BestPLUS, says the company recycles over 10 million pounds annually.
Yet the material is piling up. In 2021, a Danish company called Re-Match announced plans to open a recycling plant in Pennsylvania and began amassing thousands of tons of used plastic turf in three locations. The company filed for bankruptcy in 2025.
In Ithaca, university representatives told planning boards that it would be possible to recycle the old artificial turf they ripped out to make way for the Meinig Fieldhouse. That didn’t happen. An anonymous local activist tracked the old rolls to a hauling company a half-hour’s drive south of campus and shared pictures of them sitting on the lot, where they stayed for months. It’s unclear what their ultimate fate will be.
