You step onto the court, you’re already wrong. You should be farther up, towards the ‘kitchen’ (??) because your partner is about to receive the ball and hopefully score but certainly not get any actual points. That only happens when it’s your serve. Riddles abound.

You see the opposing team switch sides; “Should we be doing that?” you wonder. No, obviously not. Only a fool would think to mirror any given action at any given time in this godforsaken place. 

You breathe in and out, practice centering yourself. You’re in your 30’s, your partner is 23 and a college athlete, your opponents are octogenarians, and winning by 7 points. 

It’s your turn to serve, even though your team just lost a point.. ?

“Remember to shout the score,” your partner yells. “2-9-2” you say in a fugue state. Why is it three numbers again? The weight of the too-heavy ping pong-wannabe paddle makes your wrist ache. You glance up to see your 82-year old opponent spinning theirs idly. Mind games. 

You’re holding a wiffle ball. It’s not even called a pickle ball. Why…how…where did this name come from? There aren’t even any pickle-shaped things on the court. The brand name on your paddle is SWFT Obsidian. Like it’s trying, consciously trying, not to be about pickles. Why not American Preserve(™).

“The name is inspired by college crew pickle boats,” says your partner. What does that even mean??

“Stop stalling and serve! You only get 10 seconds after the score is called!” You win the point after ‘dinking’ the ball. You know better than to ask where the hell that term originated. Not unless you want more questions than answers. Not unless you’re looking for trouble. 

“Your serve again.” Again? Now that you’ve won a point, you get to keep serving. You could serve for forever as long as you keep winning. The idea excites you. “Yeah, but switch sides with me obviously.” Oh, NOW we switch?? Don’t question it. You can’t risk losing this feeling. This power. This one wild and precious point. 

You retreat to an area known as ‘the service court,’ behind the farthest line. You slam the ball as hard as you can directly at the elderly man diagonal to you. It literally hits him in the leg and he catches himself just before tripping to the ground. “Point!!!!!” You scream with abandon. You and your partner clang your paddles together in jubilant, maniacal glee. Before they can say word one, you’re already switching sides because now you’re in the goddamn zone. 

How long have you been playing? You’ve switched sides like 400 times. You’re sweating. you’re a freaking Olympian, a beacon of athleticism, grace, and poise. Your mind is on fire, you’ve never known joy like this. You glance at the clock, it’s been 6 minutes since the game began. 

God, what number do you play to again? How do you win this thing? You try and remember the rules from the USA Pickleball’s official website: “In a 15-point game, if the serving team has 14 points, they can serve to win provided their opponent has less than 14 points.” That’s not even a sentence, that’s an AP algebra problem you’ll never hope to solve. 4 agonizingly fun minutes pass before your ancient nemeses clinch the victory. 

When the game ends, you know you’ll do anything to feel that high again. “Please…” you pant to your biological grandparents after they bid you ‘good game, sweetie!’ “Can we play again?” 

They nod. They feel it, too. Physically fit, mentally unbound: it’s the pickleball way. You think about how to use grandma’s weak hip as an advantage this time. You’re ready to play. 

She picked me up from the airport when I visited Seattle a few weeks ago!!! She doesn’t even live there!! She drove from another city, picked me up, and then drove me to another city. I could cry thinking about it!!!

Next time I plan on writing about being a circus truther: why clowns are not evil and are in fact funny. And if you’re not ready for that conversation………………