Mary and I sit on the front porch of our new home in Franklin, North Carolina. We have a view of a thick green forest capped by reddening clouds. Occasionally, we spot deer and wild turkeys trespassing on our lawn, and one evening, we heard a bear rummaging in our outdoor trash cans.
We are part of an exodus of aging couples who have relocated here from Florida. Tiring of record heat waves, hurricanes, and floods—not to mention Governor DeSantis’ Nazification of the state—we decided that Florida was no longer a place to spend our golden years. Now, as we sip iced tea on our porch and watch the setting sun paint the clouds, we feel a sense of peace and arrival that is practically alien.
The silence is so compelling that I am hesitant to speak, so I am caught off guard when Mary asks me a question. “Tell me,” she says, “what’s with all this pickleball you’ve been playing lately?”
Pickleball, a cross between tennis and ping-pong, is played with paddles and hollow plastic balls on a twenty-by-forty-four-foot court. The game, which includes a partner, requires an underhand serve and its objective is to score eleven points on your serve before your opponents do. Pickleball is easily the fastest-growing sport in America. It is quicker than tennis, as explosive as football, and more addictive than crack cocaine, and I have been playing it twice a week at Franklin’s community center.
I am taken aback that Mary is no fan of pickleball. I say, “You do Mahjong and I do pickleball. If you ask me, that evens things out.”
“Oh really?” says Mary. “When you come back from pickleball, you’re utterly exhausted. You take a three-hour nap on the couch, which kills the rest of the day. On the days that you attend pickleball, I feel like a pickleball widow.”
Mary has given me something to weigh, but there is a heavier issue here. After all, a man needs an outlet to satisfy his primal instincts. If we had come here a couple of centuries ago, I’d have hunted bear, chased down wolves, and maybe fought an Indian or two. But lacking the athletic challenges with which Daniel Boone was blessed, I’ve been forced to embrace the frontiersman in me by playing pickleball.
“Tell me,” says Mary, “how did that sport get such a ridiculous name?”
“I think the guy who invented it named it after his dog. The dog, whose name was Pickles, kept running off with the ball.”
“So, I’m a widow to a sport named after some stupid dog.”
“It’s only a name,” I protest.
“Well, it’s a pretty asinine name.”
“There’s still much to be said for pickleball,” I reply. “It’s being played all over the country—they even play it in prisons. People of all persuasions get together for pickleball. And no one argues politics—they just whack the ball and have fun.”
“Are you telling me you play pickleball to forget about politics?”
“No,” I say, “but you can’t think too deeply on a pickleball court. Grip your racket tightly on impact with the ball, hit the ball below your waist when it’s your turn to serve. That’s all that occupies my mind when I’m playing pickleball.”
“Have you any idea how obsessive that sounds?”
“Hey, I only play twice a week. Most of the folks at the community center play it every day.”
“That’s rather sad,” says Mary.
I shrug. “Most of them are retirees who don’t have much else to do. It would be a whole lot sadder if they sat on their butts doing nothing all day.”
“So, what’s your excuse?” says Mary. “You just published your seventh book. Why aren’t you as excited about your book as you are about pickleball?”
“Books take forever to write,” I say, “and they take even longer to market. I’m more into instant gratification, and pickleball gives me that.”
“Instant gratification?” says Mary. “Don’t you have to win for that? You tell me you lose almost all your matches.”
“I’m getting better,” I say. “I’m deepening my serve. Only yesterday, I hit six service winners—there’s gratification in that.”
“Yes, I’m sure there is,” snorts Mary.
My palms are starting to sweat.
“My approach shot is also improving,” I mumble, “and I’m getting more height on my lobs. At my rate of progress, I may one day qualify for the Macon County Senior Games.”
The Games, a fifty-five-year-old-and-over competition, are held annually at the Franklin community center. Sports include badminton and horseshoes in addition to pickleball.
Since Mary is still not impressed, I am forced to expand my case. I say, “It’s been sixty years since I last hoisted a championship trophy.”
“Are you talking about that wrestling tournament you won in military school? That tournament where only four schools competed and you scored a couple of pins? My god, will I ever hear the end of that?”
“It’s worth reliving,” I insist. “It was one of my proudest days.”
“Maybe it would be more to your credit if you didn’t relive it all the time.”
“Well, if I don’t rekindle that memory, no one else is going to. And a memory that precious should live in history.” To emphasize my point, I quote from An Athlete Dying Young. “‘And early though the laurel grows, it withers quicker than the rose.’”
“You and your poems,” Mary sighs.
“What’s that supposed to mean.”
Mary swirls her glass of iced tea, and the ice cubes rattle like bones. “I’ll tell you what it means,” she says. “I can live with you playing that silly sport if it’s keeping you in good health. But if you become the Senior Games pickleball champion, don’t show your trophy to me. That has to be the lamest accomplishment I ever heard about.”
“Well, excuse me if I don’t stay a pickleball loser.”
“You’ll be less of a loser,” says Mary, “if you don’t win the Senior Games.”
I feel a thin veil of sanity stealing over my mind, and despite myself, I am forced to concede that Mary has a point. But her logic compares too poorly with the primitive joys of the game: the musket-like pop of a groundstroke, the plunge of a deadly lob, the yelp of a vanquished opponent when the ball is slammed at his feet.”
“All right,” I say to her finally. “I’ll settle for runner-up.”
