Pickleball Elbow

I seem to involve myself frequently in activities that garner little sympathy should I get hurt or sore while doing them.

Marathon spectating for one.  And now, my latest sport of choice seems even more unlikely to earn any compassion should it debilitate me temporarily to any degree.

My new love is Pickleball.

[“Yes, pickleball” I mutter.]  You read that right.  And I’m not ashamed…of the sport anyway.  However, the name of said sport, yes.  Who invents a challenging game and then intentionally gives it the most ridiculous name ever?  My spell check doesn’t even recognize the word “pickleball” as legitimate unless I type it as two separate words.  While I write, my computer is rudely underscoring it in red every time I type the name, just to oppose the nonsensical nature of such a malignantly titled sport even further.  Humph.

Photos on the internet like this don't help the matter much...

But there you have it.  I’ve gone and found an ideal sport with an absurd name.  And what’s more, I’ve swapped it in for a legitimately named one.

Let me explain. I love the game of tennis.  Love it so much that I even watch a fair amount of tennis finals on TV.  I have for years.  I don’t live and breathe the sport but I really enjoy playing and watching it when I can.

The only problem is; no one in my family will play tennis with me.  Playing tennis requires a considerable amount of skill and if you don’t have it, you’re not gonna wanna play tennis at all.  Clumsy tennis players end up running around for two hours fetching the ball and rarely hitting it.  Ball fetching is not an entertaining sport.  Consequently there’s a lack of willing tennis opponents around my house, which, has inevitably caused my game to suffer.  I have gotten so rusty that now I should in all reality be classified as a “ball fetcher” than as an actual tennis player.

Then last year, while waiting for my macho husband at the finish line of a marathon, the solution to my tennis quandary presented itself.  There, while standing for three hours at a barricade, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a tennis tournament underway at some courts that were adjacent to finish line.  My eyes narrowed and focused intently until I realized they were pickleball courts!  It was a pickleball tournament! [yes that deserves TWO separate exclamation points thankyouverymuch.]

I had long forgotten about my days in high school gym class when I was a reigning doubles pickleball champ in my P.E. class--two years in a row no less.  Yes, prestigious, I know.  I’m a gym class record holder.  I can feel your adoration—or is that mortification?  What’s even grander, (yep, I’m continuing my highly misguided boasting as if I didn’t pick up on this being ridiculously embarrassing) is that my fantastical show of expertise and agility on the P.E. pickleball scene, runs in the family.  My son Mitchell mastered the same coup in his P.E. class some twenty years later. Yes indeed, were a family of remarkable champions aren’t we?  So there I was, caught in a flashback--in the swirl of distinguishing under-achievements and tender nostalgia for those P.E. days long gone by--that I almost presently missed Mark’s grand marathon finish.  So while Mark crossed the finish line, my mind was made up. I crossed over to the dark side of geriatric tennis...Pickleball.

At this point I must tell you that not only does pickleball have a lame name, but it’s also got a bad wrap.  You see, it’s known to be a sport for blue-hairs.  Yes, an old peoples game.  When you’re too elderly for tennis and lack the stamina to play the real game, apparently one converts to pickleball.  It’s where every exasperated “ball fetcher” turns when they’re ready to admit Tennis is outta their league.  They trade in their racquets for a paddle.

It was that day, when I should have been concentrating on Mark’s marathon but was really preoccupied with the blue-haired pickleball tournament, that an idea stirred. I went home and ordered: 

• 8 paddles
• 24 pickleballs, and
• 2 official Pickleball nets

I was all in. This was something I could convince my family to do!  Not to mention it would put me back on a court, albeit a smaller and more geriatric one, playing a condensed version of my beloved tennis.  And guess what?!  It worked! 

Once I had them hooked, it was time to widen the “senior circle”.  But it’s not easy to convince a tennis player to step onto a pickleball court.  I only succeeded once.  I had to swear on oath, that I would not tell ANYBODY that a certain male acquaintance (a bonafide tennis enthusiast) and his wife came and played pickleball with us.  ANYBODY.  See how bad the stigma is?  However after one game he and his wife were hooked.  Do you know how you hook a tennis player on a cheesier version of their beloved racquet sport?  You convince them to place a bet on the game, say, like dinner out, for instance, and then you annihilate them on the court and then talk trash about how easily they lost over dinner they have to pay for!  Sweet success. 

The second route to recruiting new players is to find people who’ve never heard of the game before.  On this wise, you don’t have to look far.  You sucker people in with the likelihood of going out for ice cream afterwards.  In life, most people are in it for the ice cream.  You can pretty much talk people into anything if you lure them in with a trip to an ice cream parlor afterwards.

I knew exactly which family to profile.  The Sharps.  They’re our dune buddies and you can count on them to always be up for anything, especially if it’s a friendly competition.  It only took one game and they morphed into pickleball purists.  It brought tears to my eyes when they went out and ordered their own net and paddles.  We now have regular tournaments, which puts me back on the court again!  Mini court yes, but court nonetheless.

The first time we played them our family showed up in 80's sweatbands and dorky clothes just to set the right mood...that we were absurdly serious about playing the lamest named sport on the planet.

Over the course of our informal tournaments, Deanne and I paired up as a doubles team and we’ve started taking it pretty seriously.  We like to win.  Or at least we hate to lose to certain opponents.  We recently stepped up our game and Deanne and I decided we needed our own custom uniforms.  Yes, I’m being serious here.  We didn’t tell anyone about this ahead of time, and we decided to unveil our unified look at our most recent family tournament.  We call ourselves “Queens of the Court” complete with a custom designed logo by yours truly.  

 

Please note though, that this is the one and only time you’ll ever catch me purposefully matchy-matchy with another human or even non-human for that matter; coordinated shirts, shorts, and socks and pink tiaras to top it all off.  It was a wise move, these things all successfully throw your competitors off their game.  We looked absolutely ridiculous and the great Sun-Zsu himself, the foremost authority on annihilating one’s opponent, even he would have been proud of this tactical matchy move. 

Here’s the trouble though.  I get so serious about not wanting to lose (which is waaay more important than the winning part), that I give the sport my all.  Barbaric grunts, wild gestures at my opponents, mocking commentaries directed across the net, and yes, even cutesy high-fives with my doubles partner.  I do it all. Indeed, tactics which are embarrassingly cheesy yet victoriously effective...as you see here...

Yep, that's Deanne and Me at the top of the podium with our cheesy plastic FIRST PLACE trophies!  Which I have proudly displayed on my bedroom mantel:

The result of trying to win so bad?  Besides a shiny plastic trophy... Pickleball elbow.  No joke.  It's like being disabled from tennis elbow only far more senior sounding and embarrassing.  My freaking elbow is sore.  And if I move it in any way that makes it appear as though my arm feels uncomfortable, then people are sure to ask what the heck is wrong.  Telling people you’re sore from pickleball is sure to elicit more ridicule than sympathy.  Even your neighbor the bowling champion will disdainfully laugh at you.

I tell you with all seriousness, pickleball elbow is no laughing matter.  Nor is recuperating from spectating a marathon. However, it seems there both matters to get you laughed at.  

Note to self: Need to find a reckless hobby.