Pickleball

It was my fifth time on the pickleball court.  

A game, somewhat like tennis, a little like racketball, and a bit similar to pingpong, I was lured to the game by friend Janet.  She tried all summer to get me to play but the lawn needed mowed, the dogs needed a walk, the garden need tilled or harvested, and there certainly was a giant bowl of bread proofing that had to be divided and put in the refrigerator for its overnight proofing.  

Finally fall came with its killing frost and the market closed for three weeks.  I took the plunge on a sunny November afternoon, walking out onto the green and blue courts amongst mostly strangers (Janet was there, thank goodness), keen at serving a thousand mile per hour serve complete with top spin in my direction. 

That first time was rough, but I was good enough to come back.  And I did come back. 

The weather turned from late fall to winter, a snow storm decked the south court with slushy white snow, the gate was locked, and the green screening taken down.  The outside courts were closed for the season. 

Inside we all went.  Inside the Thayne Civic center gymnasium where children scream at the top of their voices, creshendoing into crazy bird-like screeches resonating back and forth off the white concrete blocked walls.  The children leave, the pickleball games begin.

It was just my fifth time on the pickleball court. 

I got scooped into a game by a bunch of strangers.  A man, no taller than me, decked out in court safety glasses, wearing some kind of black strap on his right arm, a muted red tee shirt with the number 16 and a pair of shorts, stood on the sideline tracking our score.  This was rather unusual. Of course, everything is new and unusal at this stage of learning!  Scoring in pickleball is one of the more difficult things to learn so it was a bit of a treat that this man was tracking our game.  He stood in the narrow space between the edge of the net and the wall and barked out the score.  "One, zero, two".  "Two, zero, two".  And then some players showed up for the other court and he abandoned us to our own score keeping.  Off to track his own score. 

Games on both courts finished about the same time.  I moved courts and as our group of four was getting set to play, the Scoring Man is suddenly standing at my left.  He glares me down and orders me - and I mean orders me - to serve the ball.  "SERVE THE BALL!" he barks.  I look at my team mates, they are not ready for me to serve the ball.  I look at him and he glares back.  "SERVE THE BALL!"  So, I serve the ball. 

"Your serve is very close to being an illegal serve," he enlightens me.  "It's very close, watch that you don't go above your waist!" he barks defiantly.  Then he turns and walks to his court to play. 

Today was my sixth time on the courts.  Scoring/Barking Man, whose name I have learned in Mike, was absent today.  I exhaled a sigh of relief.  The women to men ratio is 5 women to 3 men.  We play, we laugh, we curse, we all put everything we can muster into this effort of moving our not-so-young bodies to hit a plastic ball with holes from one side of a net to the other and staying within the gray lines.  It is challenging, frustrating, exhilerating, and fun.  I like this game! 

At a break during my fifth time on the court, Scoring/Barking Man graces me with his wise pickleball wisdom and I learn a few things.  He grabs his bag, reaches in, and pulls out a gallon ziplock bag filled with a lot of somethings.  "Here," he says, somewhat kindly, "would you like a zipper pull?"  I am astonished and giggly with delight as I pull out a blue and purple zipper pull.  Thank you, Scoring/Barking Man!  I knew there was a marshmellow heart in there somewhere!!  

Next time I see him, I will be a better player and he will get a tube of my Lip Stuff for his bag.  We are destined to be pickleball friends, I just know it!