A busy night, the line of paddles on the floor extending from beyond the baseline to the net, and the time between matches, even with match point at seven, longer than ever, but giving players the opportunity to chat, hydrate, stretch, sit, strategize, watch, whatever; some faces registering impatience, others sweet relief. For the first time ever—nobody telling me (or others) what to do! No mumbled grievances, no dirty looks, no eye-rolling—none that I noticed. I was having so much fun that it wouldn’t have mattered. Why? Because I had the gigantic pleasure of playing two or three matches with the girls from my original pickleball group, and with my wife, a self-taught fireball. When we play together we do it with intensity but without tension, without judgment, without complaint, without spitting out unsolicited instruction. Smile, laugh, make faces, mock in good humor—that’s what we do. If only all recreational players could shed their egos, hang-ups, insecurities and what have you and remember that everyone there paid to play and have fun. Do away with the cliques, the whispering, the mean-spirited analysis, the posturing, the huffing and puffing and head-shaking. Crank it up and get moving and grooving.
I saw some ripped serves and smacked forehands. I think Tyson McGuffin would call them “Ferrari” forehands. They come so fast that unless you can defend or counterattack or reset, you can only watch them whiz past like bullets, arrows, darts. Ha! If you get in the way, be sure to have armor on. Prepare to get bodybagged!
Lobs again. And again. And again. Smashers were there, too, though only a few; they would rather swing their arm out of the socket than try another attack, or dink, or find an angle, an opening, an opposing team’s weakness to exploit, learn anticipation and pattern recognition, or incorporate strategy of one sort or another–placement over power, for example–into their game. I saw the bangers rubbing their arms and shoulders to relieve the discomfort of overhitting and bad form. Some players will never learn that a narrow view of the sport and its strategies makes for an even narrower overall game, a reminder to clean up and reinforce the circuits between mind and body. Hard work, dedication, consistency, discipline, attitude, athleticism, study, and practice, many would agree, might set them straight. Hey, I admit that I’m nothing more than an average amateur recreation player. I play for fun, never burdening myself with expectations. I've never worried for one second about “upping” my game or elevating my pickleball rating (or my DUPR), whatever those numbers may be. But for years I have followed the PPA tour and observed and learned from the best players. Their games are layered, dynamic, refined—“complete,” I often say. From them I have gotten my pickleball education and from watching them in tournaments I have formed and shaped my analysis, like it or not.
A few made comments about the balls, examining them as a doctor would a sick patient, refusing to play with a ball here, a ball there, as if at the amateur recreational level the ball is going to affect their overall performance. Such balls, by studying players’ faces and body language, did not meet their rigid, inflexible standards. This is rec. ball, not MLP-PPA play. Funny how serious, intense, and controlling (and pretentious) these players become during what should be casual games among families, friends, community members. Play hard, sure, go full steam, but be realistic, easygoing, flexible. Such egos require endless fluffing, and there are those who, believe it or not, seem more than willing to do the fluffing. Not sure why. People—it’s pickleball! We’re not saving lives or advancing on a battlefield. Hilarious, it is. Fellow players, breeeeeathe.
I hadn't realized how widespread and popular pickle ball was until I started reading you writing about it and then found out in the media here and there.
Back when I was able, soon after my paralysis, when I would take a swing with a tennis racket in either hand, hitting the tennis ball would knock the racket out of my hand. But, I could play badminton quite well, but not volleyball. Even played a bit of ping-pong. Did quite well switching from right to left playing pool. Although I couldn't put any English on the ball, I won matches from some sharks that were dumbfounded that I could.
Now that I think of it, I probably could have played pickle ball when I could still move pretty well on my feet without running, scooting back-and-forth to keep from tripping.
Very well written as well as describing, in detail, all of the psychological aspects of competitive sport whether it be professional or just among friends. Enjoyed reading about how intense some people take their games. I was always rather lackadaisical. Played hard, but if I lost, it didn't bother me.
This book tells the story of the 1999 Providence College Friars baseball team, the last season that the sport was played at the institution. Baseball was set to be eliminated after that season in order for the school to comply with Title IX regulatio
"HOMEGROWN: The Making of the 1972-73 Providence College Friars" is a retrospective of that remarkable season as well as a history of the school's basketball program, which was responsible for drawing the local talent that propelled that team to succ
"HOMEGROWN: The Making of the 1972-73 Providence College Friars" is a retrospective of that remarkable season as well as a history of the school's basketball program, which was responsible for drawing the local talent that propelled that team to succ
PICKLEBALL JOURNAL– ENTRY 10
