I wasn’t spending enough time in the kitchen.
No, it’s not what my wife told me, although I know she thinks that. I was told that recently on a tennis court, where I wasn’t playing tennis. Yeah, that’s right, I thought I would try my hand at the fastest growing sport in the galaxy: pickleball.
One thing I hope people say about me is that I’m open minded. I’m not afraid to get out of my comfort zone. So, when my friend, Wanda Westover, invited me out to play with her pickleball crew, I accepted.
I’ll be honest: was curious. I had seen people play this strange new game at the Y and couldn’t help but notice that distinct noise of the wiffle ball hitting paddles. It annoyed me at first, but then I’d watch and notice the skill involved. They seemed to be having a lot of fun. Good for them, I thought.
But then I started to notice these pickleballers encroaching on the outdoor tennis courts in the summer. It had become so popular, someone even painted pickleball lines onto the courts, making tennis players’ lives even more difficult. We already had to deal with a nonsensical scoring system…now this.
Who were these pickleballers hittin’ dink shots all over my tennis courts? They’d show up in groups of ten or twelve sometimes and actually make it into a social gathering. How dare they have that much fun and create such a supportive community? While I was sweating my butt off, throwing my racket around and swearing like a sailor at missed shots, the pickleball crew was socializing and cheering each other on. Could it really be that much fun?
I decided to find out for myself. I accepted my friend’s offer, and went up on a Tuesday evening to meet a group of ten pickleballers already warming up – kids, teens, adults and seniors; this game doesn’t discriminate. Whole families come out to play. And they all welcomed me with a warm smiles and helpful tips; they were happy to bring another player into their fold. I was wary. But I could tell a few were wary of me, as well. I hadn’t drunk the pickle flavoured Kool-Aid yet. They could tell I come from across the courts.
But I had questions for them: was it similar to other paddle sports I’d played? why was it called pickleball? and just what in the hell was a dink shot anyways? Before I had time to start my inquiries, I was handed a paddle and ushered into the pickle jar (I’m assuming that’s what the court is called). I was standing there, paddle in hand, ready to enter the kitchen, feeling oddly hungry for some reason.
As I began to play, all my questions were slowly answered. A dink shot? Well it’s a soft, controlled shot that is strategically dropped over the net, often used near the kitchen line to keep the ball low and close to the net. And the kitchen? It’s the first seven feet on either side of the net, also called the non-volley zone. It was, apparently, a very important zone.
And why the name pickleball anyway? Well, you can blame the Pritchards who named it after a rowing term, pickle boat, back in the 60s, which refers to the leftover rowers who would just compete for fun. So, it was founded in the spirit of comradery, which is exactly how it comes across. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves and wanting to foster community.
It’s pretty cool to see so many people of all ages getting together for something that doesn’t involve screens or vices. There were youngsters, teens, adults and seniors all playing together, learning, and getting exercise. In fact, some of the best players were kids and a seventy-year-old gentleman who I had the privilege of playing both with and against. He taught me a few things as a partner and then whipped my ass as an opponent. He’s the one who told me to spend more time in the kitchen, to hit 80% of my returns down the middle, and the stand at the baseline every time he served. He was patient with me as I learned the rules and the wacky scoring system that was more akin to volleyball. He liked to win, though, and was worried I would slow him down as we faced down two fourteen-year-olds. I eased his concerns and I hit my fair share of well-placed shots to get us to eleven and showed those teens who the adults on the court were.
I was two for two at this point and feeling like maybe I was a natural. Pickleball seemed to me like a blend of tennis, ping pong, and badminton, and I was good at all three, so maybe this was my jam.
And then the teams got split up and I found myself facing my old partner who proceeded to whallop us with ease. My paddle skills started to let me down. I was playing like a tennis player, something I’m proud of, but something that won’t take me far in this game. Bit of a pickle, I guess. Either way, I lost my third game.
So, respectably, I ended my first pickleball outing with a winning record, and not once did I get ‘pickled’ which means getting skunked. I know there were a few laughs at my expense for playing like a tennis player and trying for big shots with top spin, but it worked for awhile, until it didn’t and I had to rethink my technique.
Here’s the thing. I had a lot of fun. I loved the sense of community. Everyone seemed so dam nice and supportive. They were happy to bring new people into the sport and help them learn the game. I can respect that. I better understand the draw of the game and why it’s growing so fast. I’m happy it’s bringing so many people of all ages together for healthy activity in an age when screens are sucking our souls.
So I will I play pickleball again? Absolutely.
Will I stop playing tennis? Absolutely not.
I’ve always been a fan of compromise and will find a middle road when I can. I will keep playing tennis a lot in the summer months and the pickleball will be played more in the winter. I’m told there are regular games happening all winter long in arenas around Grey County, and it’s popular! I imagine there are league nights happening all over the Grey Bruce Simcoe…all over Canada..hell the world.
And when the snow melts in the spring, and the nets go up, I’ll be bringing my tennis racket to the courts most of the time. I’ll wave politely at the pickleballers, my new friends, and maybe even sneak in a game or two.
But the kitchen I’ll be spending most of my time in will be in my house, making meals for my wife, who will likely tell me I’m not using enough salt.
Written by Jesse Wilkinson
