How pickleball enriched my life
Four years ago, I took a road trip from San Francisco to Palm Springs with Avi, one of my lifetime besties. There he introduced me to pickleball. I was hooked immediately. But little did I know how pickleball would change my life.
I’ve been a member of the Front Runners since 1985, the LGBT running club with groups all over the country and world. I’ve been an open-water swimmer, kayaker and rower with San Francisco’s Dolphin Club at Fisherman’s Wharf for 26 years. For decades, I’ve done our club’s Escape from Alcatraz triathlon and Marin County’s cross-country race up and over Muir Woods, the famed Dipsea.
A few years into pickleball, I began to resent the training necessary to prepare for these two amazing events. Instead of regularly doing long swims and mountain runs that I used to revel in, I wished I were playing pickleball. I realized it was inauthentic to keep doing something just to preserve a streak. So, last year, I quit the races. I still run the Dipsea trail and do long swims, but on my own clock. And now I have time to play pickleball four or five times a week.
One of the major attractions of pickleball for me is how present I have to be to follow the action. When I’m receiving a serve, for example, I have to make a quick decision about where to be to successfully return the serve. There’s no time to stew over the latest awful thing the monster in the White House just did. Pickleball offers me a respite from the foreboding I’ve had throughout this administration—that we have been transported to early ‘30s Germany.
(I try to be mindful not to use this welcome distraction to avoid doing what I can to resist the assault on our democracy.)
Sometimes, we reserve a court and four of us play for 90 minutes, with no others waiting for the court. That’s a lot of fun, but it can be like herding cats to agree on a time or to find a sub if need be.
Other times we go to courts that have open play. One puts a paddle down in the rack, and before too long—usually—one is in a game. That feels reminiscent of childhood—going to the schoolyard or park and getting into whatever game is going on. I appreciate this system because it’s on my own schedule.
My pickleball companions are diverse. I play with my partner, Rob, and with best friends. I play with strangers. The sport attracts all ages, genders and ethnicities, and is especially popular with seniors. And in San Francisco, that means a lot of badass older Asian women. I am grateful for the chance to get to know people who don’t look exactly like me.
Most players are welcoming, even across skill levels. Of course, as in most sports, it’s more exciting to partner with those who are slightly stronger players. But the kindness shown to newbies is a pleasure to see. After all, this sport was new to most of us until relatively recently.
It’s satisfying to feel one’s skills improve, with practice, and tips from each other. I like the problem-solving nature of the sport. Each time I play, I try to focus on one aspect that needs attention.
I learned something useful last year when chatting with one of my favorite partners, a straight Chinese man my age. He told me he was skinny growing up and hurt by the dismissal of other boys because he wasn’t good enough for sports, in their eyes. And now, he’s elated to be part of a sports community that embraces him. Oddly, I hadn’t considered that the toxic masculinity of our culture that harmed gay boys also harmed straight boys—an equal opportunity weapon!
In addition to the joy of the sport, the community aspect is a draw. For years, when traveling, I would seek out the local Front Runners club. Now, I also pack my paddle and check out the local pickleball courts. I just returned from two weeks in my native New York and fell in with a welcoming group of picklers at Orchard Beach in the Bronx, where I first learned to swim. It was a wonderful addition to the trip.
And of course, there’s a lot of kibitzing on the court.
After a long and exciting back and forth, I often say, “that almost looked like pickleball.” When both players fail to return a ball hit between them, I like to say “nobody home.” And when an opposing player sets me up for an easy kill shot, I say “it’s rude to refuse a gift.” In the process, I commune with my long-dead father, who used the same lines over and over again, no matter how many times we heard them. After years of thinking I was nothing like him, pickleball has taught me: I am him.
One hears a lot about pickleball injuries. Stretching before and after can be key to minimizing risk, as it is in many sports. I’m grateful to have thus far avoided a serious mishap. Every time I have worried—uh-oh, now you’ve done it—a few days later, I have trouble remembering which side I had tweaked. Starting slow, being mindful of conditions such as rainy courts (or better, not playing on wet courts!) and focusing on improving hitting skills rather than chasing a ball to the other side of the court are useful strategies for protecting oneself.
Pickleball has been a great source of joy in my life these last few years. I heartily recommend it.