The Secret Sauce of Pickleball

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love to play pickleball (pickleball lovers, PLs) and those who hate pickleball (pickleball haters, PHs). All pickleball lovers are alike; each hater hates in his or her own way (apologies to Tolstoy). Some haters claim to be driven mad by the sound the whiffle ball makes when it is slapped hard with a wooden or composite paddle. Members of this group have usually spent their life savings to move to a quiet retirement community where they like to sit by the pool, take walks, listen to birds singing sweetly, and play canasta with other pickleball haters. I feel for them and truth be told I would protest if my house and ears were within reach of the sound the little whiffle ball makes when it hits the hard paddle. Imagine a gun battle. In your living room.

A second type of pickleball hate group is composed of tennis players. Members of this group think their racquet sport is the only one that deserves acreage at parks and country clubs. They are usually younger than PLs and have not yet had knee or hip replacements. Their contempt has increased significantly as municipalities have converted a few of their tennis courts into many pickleball courts. This hate group is the least menacing though because tennis PHs know that one day, not too far from now, they will blow out a joint and no longer be able to run the length of a tennis court. They will want to play pickleball. Pickleball requires a lot less running, and points can be made just by standing still and meeting the ball with your paddle when it comes straight to you. They will be welcomed into the fold as former tennis players are usually excellent pickleball players. And they are incredibly nice people. I’m one myself.

 A third type of PHs are, well, snobs who pretend they are more elegant and refined than pickleball players. They roll their eyes and curl their lips into snide smiles whenever the subject comes up. This PH group is the saddest and the least redeemable. They secretly long to wiggle into tight compression shorts, spend $200 on a paddle and jump into a game with the cool kids. Sometimes I’ve convinced them to try the game and I’m proud to say I’ve converted quite a few former stuck ups to PLs. I guess I’m a pickleball missionary.

I’m a former tennis player who blew out her knee, playing tennis, in 2015. I had a total knee replacement in 2016 and mourned for the end of my physically active life. I loved tennis, having learned at the age of 14 one summer at The Bath and Tennis Club in Westhampton. I took to it quickly and was soon employed by the Head Pro, Mr. Fink—who come to think of it walked with a limp and could no longer play himself-- to care for four courts and spent all my time there. I rose early each dawn to sprinkle the clay courts with water, then brush the courts and sweep the dust off the lines. My friends and I would play tennis for hours only breaking to jump in the pool and eat chef’s salads which we covertly took turns charging to our parents’ club accounts. I grew lean, bronzed, and slept like a baby each night. By August I was getting paid to hit with adults and was also giving children lessons. At last, I was good at something!

That fall back at home in Miami Beach I mentioned in passing to my parents that I was thinking about trying out for the school tennis team. Dead silence ensued. They made eye contact with each other. My father cleared his throat and said: “Why in the world would you want to do that?” I’ll translate: “If you think we are going to schlep an hour to your school to pick you up after practices and games instead of you taking the school bus home, you’re sorely mistaken.” I said I could ride the public bus. Silence fell again. I left the table. And never tried out for the team.

During the Covid-19 pandemic my husband and I left New York City and moved to a quiet Long Island community, Southold. He was retired; I worked via Zoom. One day the local Recreation Department advertised free pickleball lessons. Intrigued, I asked my husband, Nathan, to try a class with me. He had a lifelong aversion to sports of any kind quickly said no. When he was a kid his otherwise nice father, Louie, would yell “missed the shot again you fat klutz.” I pointed out to him that the class was free, promised nobody would insult him and could tell he softened a bit. I signed us both up and dragged him to the first lesson. Our instructor was a delightful 78-year-old retired high school sports coach named Henry. In an hour he had us dinking (hitting softly at the net), lobbing, serving and, most importantly, laughing out loud. We were learning that the secret sauce of pickleball was the socializing and merriment with others. Pickleball is a virtual fountain of youth, like the old people in Cocoon becoming energized and youthful after swimming in a pool.

We bonded with our fellow novice picklers and after a short while formed a crew. We created a 20-player group text to schedule games, and to ask for dentist, plumber and joint replacement surgeon referrals. The Covid pandemic motivated us to get outside and cohered the bonds of friendship considerably. We are a religious, political and socioeconomic diverse pack, mostly in our sixties and seventies (except for Woody who is 84 years old and 6 feet five inches tall and beats us regularly). We’ve become close and often socialize, culminating in an end of year Christmas luncheon. This year we held a charity raffle and lo and behold I won and was gifted with the honor of sending the cash to my favorite charity, Camp Sunshine, in Maine. Half of our group departs for Florida around New Years, where many PLs and PHs live and quarrel the winter away. The rest of us play in the cold, even shoveling snow off the court if need be. Fortunately, a beautiful indoor facility, Box Pickleball, opened in Riverhead so we can play indoors, for a fee, when it’s raining or frigid. My husband gleefully organizes the indoor play, even though it’s not free. Louie would be proud.

Truthfully, we are hooked. This game is addicting. All the players joke about going into withdrawal if they can’t play for a few days. But why, I wonder sometimes. It’s the exercise, sure. And the fresh air, OK. But I think it’s also the sublimation of a little aggression when my paddle slams that ball, flies into the opponent’s court and is not returned. When that happens, I’m 14 years old again, delighted to be good at something and craving another hit. I furtively glance at my opponents’ faces when they slap a shot past me and note the variety of smiles they struggle to suppress. I’m still working on completely muzzling my own grin. Thus far, nobody has raised a victorious fist in the air. As Freud said, and I paraphrase, sublimation saves civilization. We’re smacking a little plastic ball, not each other.

I cannot imagine my parents or grandparents being so active or social in their sixties or seventies. In ten years’ time I hope to be like our inspiring 84-year-old friend Woody, or our outstanding teacher Henry, and still be out there with my husband (who loves the game even more than I and is no longer feels like a klutz at all) three or four times a week howling like kids as we play outside with our friends. There’s a playground adjacent to Tasker Park where we play. Sometimes in summer I hear the children shouting and laughing in the playground and my pickleball friends, with deeper voices, shrieking and squealing as they win and lose a point. Strikes me as the same. Music to my ears.

I know pickleball joy won’t last forever. I’m aging and hear the relentless tick tock, tick tock as the hourglass of my lifetime empties in the background. But if my joints allow, I’ll long be playing, organizing games, and hopefully converting the recalcitrant to PLs.