When I first heard about pickleball, I thought (like most of you), “What a bogus sport!”
Wiffle ball mixed with tennis? Named after a sour cucumber?
It’s turned out to be my favorite sport, not because I’ve realized it’s a legitimate sport but because I still think it’s kinda bogus.
Let me explain. I have a problem with competition. I’m addicted to winning.
If that sounds like a boast, believe me, it’s not. Not to get too Freudian, but it might date back to when my parents divorced when I was five.
There’s a conversation in the film “Searching for Bobby Fischer” that really touched on this. Parents of a chess prodigy argued about how best to raise their son.
The mom asked, “How many ball players grow up afraid of losing their fathers’ love every time they come up to the plate?”
The dad, a sportswriter, answered, “All of them!”
An addiction to winning might have served those ball players and chess masters, driving them to greatness. Mine drove me to compete fairly well in the U.S. Open for Table Tennis when I was younger. But the joy and elation of winning rarely countered my anger and frustration when I lost or didn’t live up to my potential.
I realized my addiction to online chess was a problem when I started playing after dinner, and then, after a few games and a few more, I realized the sun was coming up. I quit. I rarely play chess anymore. Same with ping-pong or tennis. The more I played, the more I turned into John McEnroe, who famously threw his racket when he got ticked off.
But pickleball?
It came into my life at just the right time, as I’ve been working on understanding and growing through my addiction to winning.
I started playing pickleball some months ago, and since I had been a longtime player of racket sports, I picked it up fairly quickly. I found a new superpower in my initial games at the courts and Field Park.
I didn’t give a damn. Win? Lose? It really didn’t matter.
Sure, I’d put in effort – but never enough to hurt myself. I realized how blind I was to the hidden moments of joy in the game. Now, I consciously celebrate great plays made by me and others, even on points that are lost.
I recently wrote on social media about this newfound love of pickleball, which, in my mind I’ve maintained as a bogus sport, and someone responded peevishly that “some of us take it seriously,” and they’re offended by my calling it a bogus sport.
Okay, here’s the thing. All sports are bogus. They’re games somebody made up, and they all have some silly elements. If you don’t believe me, look up on YouTube Robin Williams’ take on the invention of golf, devised by a twisted drunken Scot.
And I’m sorry, but pickleball is just plain weird. The scoring is needlessly complex (really, each point needs three scores?) so they can justify selling paddles for $300. Don’t even get me started about the whole kitchen thing. (For the uninitiated, the kitchen is an area near the net, but you can enter sometimes but not others – it’s complicated.)
My wife and I started playing at Field’s Park last year, and we’ve been loving it. When we first started, I was befuddled by the racks outside the courts. Single players would put their paddles in there to queue up for a chance to be rotated into games.
I usually would come with my own singles pair (my wife and I). Or doubles friend. Now, I’m the guy who puts the paddle in in the queue slot, going any time of the day to get some exercise in. And these days, I usually know half the people there.
There’s the Manitou mayor and his wife, who usually show up before 7 a.m., because they think they stink (they don’t!).
There’s Randy, a mentor for the whole city (“You’re swinging too high with your serve.”) He has a low, mean serve and a gentle disposition.
There’s Red, a congenial guy in jeans, who brings his folding chairs onto the side of the court and loves to drawl folksy southernisms, like “that one went all the way to Wyooooming!”
There’s our statuesque friend Laura, who seems like a nice person until she smashes an overhead at your crotch. And our friend Diane, whose backhand looks like a classic ballet move.
I may have suggested that I don’t respect pickleball. I suppose I don’t. But that’s why I love it. I enjoy the exercise, and mostly I enjoy the people. I find that not only have we made so many new friends playing pickleball, but it seems like just about every week, we see an old friend on the courts at Fields Park.
“You play pickleball?”
Who knew?
