Pickled

Like many seniors, I had been seduced by the enticements of pickleball, an athletic activity especially appropriate for the elderly. But this seduction was especially cruel.

You see, in December of 2021 I turned 80. A good time, I thought, to leave the practice of law with which I had wrestled for more than 50 years. I had just had the unique experience of giving a closing argument on my 80th birthday for an 80-year-old client and the trial gods had granted an acquittal. It was a good time for sayonara.

The seduction of pickleball was so, so enticing. It was a great activity for retirees. There was exercise, but not too much exercise. There was some skill, but just enough skill. It was a co-ed activity. It was non-judgmental and it was social. A wonderful activity. A perfect solution for someone who didn’t play golf and had no hobbies. I was looking forward to a fulfilling activity for my golden years.

It had been a while since I played a racquet sport, at least 15 years. I had some years ago played a fair amount of tennis and wasn’t bad at it. I’d also played racquetball and some squash. I was ok, but not great, but good enough to have fun. I could move around a bit and get the ball back regularly. I’d had two hip replacements and one of my eyes was a little out of whack, but, given the limited activity and skill required pickleball shouldn’t be a problem. I’d be playing regularly, make new friends and find purpose and fun.

And so, I reached out to a friend whose brother was a recreation director who offered an instructional. I was excited. This was going to be great. We met at an empty warehouse which had two pickleball courts. Fun was just around the corner. Pickleball, essentially, is a magnified ping pong game. Bigger paddles with a softball size whiffle ball on a modified tennis court.

So, let’s start with the serve. This should be a piece of cake for a former tennis player, no? Not so fast. Much cockier than I should have been, I tried to hit the plastic ball over the net with a big paddle from a short distance away. The first one went into the net. So did the second. So did the following 12. Finally, one made it over. Then one out of six went over. Then one out of four. None where I wanted, of course, but progress perhaps.

My mentor then suggested practicing return of serve. What I hadn’t realized is that my eyes had gotten worse, much worse. Plus, one of my eyes was partially damaged. It hadn’t really affected much of daily life over the past 15 years of limited physical inactivity. I could strut and fret upon a courtroom stage comfortably, not bumping into furniture or tripping on the carpet.

I assume the position, paddle at the ready. I hear a noise and look for a ball to cross the net and land somewhat near me. I think I see it. Eventually I do. Precisely when it’s about 18 inches from my right foot. I swing and miss. It gets by me. Try again. This time I managed to pick the ball up as it is coming over the net. It bounces. I swing. I miss. Then again. Still having a little trouble seeing this sucker. I swing. I miss again. Once more. And again. Now I am getting better. I can almost see it and, when I do, I line myself up as if I am going to return a serve. Just like tennis. I try again. I swing. I miss. And it has been so long since I’ve done anything like this that when I swing and miss, I lose my balance. I fall backwards. Fortunately, I catch myself before ending up on the floor. Twice more. Twice more again. Nothing. Finally, a hit into the net. And I’m breaking a sweat. Let’s just stop there.

And now I am getting to the really embarrassment part. The whole undertaking lasts about 30 minutes. If I keep on going, my enthusiastic instructor is going to see me for the putz I am. Worse yet I am gripped by a terrifying realization that whatever I thought I had was no more.

Shortly after we began the instruction two players, a man and a woman, probably in their 40’s, came on to the adjacent court. They began to play pickleball. But this was pickleball with a capital P. Whack! Whack! They hit the bejesus out of the ball. They bounced back and forth on the court. The harder they hit and the quicker they moved, the greater my devastation. This was a learning experience. I’m a quick learner. I got the message.

It wasn’t just embarrassment. And it wasn’t just rusty coordination. And it wasn’t just not seeing the ball. What hit me most was reality: pickleball would not be the focal point of my retirement. My retirement dreams are shattered. The lustre of the golden years had taken on a dull rusty hue.

Hello Netflix