Too lethargic, infirm, or unathletic For Shuffleboard? Or perhaps croquet feels a bit too competitive? Fret not, fellow old folks, and stir your fannies from the sitting room, because, boy, do I have the perfect activity for you!
Imagine that badminton, paddle ball, and ping pong (in some junk sport inspired menage a trois) produced a love child that emerged fully formed as a game for the aged (oops, ages) and even brought along an out-sized ball that’s easy to track through cataracts and can’t scamper as far as those rambunctious great grandkids. But first put your minds at ease in the knowledge that your new sport smells nothing like vinegar, nor does the thing you hit look anything like a cucumber.
It’s actually a wiffle ball on steroids-light and airy enough for arthritic hands to send a flyin’, but sufficiently solid to give smart aleck Sarah from church quite the welt from a well-aimed shot. Not only don’t things they soak in salt brine have squat to do with it, but inexplicably, the game throws other food-based terms, like “kitchen,” around. While I do not proclaim to know the rules (No sweat there since my brother and I played “backgammon” for five years like some glorified game of checkers. Boy, did we think WE were the “squat.”), as best I can tell, the kitchen part of the court is largely off-limits. My spouse could relate to that.
Although pickleball seems just recently emergent, perhaps as a socially acceptable means for retirees to lash out at something besides wokeness, the sport actually came into being as far back as 1965 when the honorable future congressman Joel Pritchard and friends (my best guess is bored out of their elitist minds) decided to scrounge together some leftover equipment from non-arduous games of the rich and famous and combine them into the least imaginative form of exercise since the evening stroll. And just slightly more strenuous.
Thus, the Frankenstein of quasi- sports lurched along unnoticed until catching fire, for whatever reason, right after the pandemic. Since then, the endeavor (perhaps) named for the Pritchard’s family mutt has exploded by more than 300% in popularity. While it is not known if the game’s cat-chasing namesake steered clear of the Pritchard kitchen, it is confirmed that some 20 million people now prowl around that portion of a pickleball court.
My first impression upon taking a crack at it was how loud the shots sound, “konking,” “bonking,” and “bopping” all over the place-like the sound bubbles in a Batman comic book (I can only hope, should anyone ever strike me sufficiently hard to make a “kerpowieeee” noise, that medical help soon arrives at the scene.)
Also, that short paddle (racket?) results in embarrassing whiffs, inevitably creating a frustrating sense of tennis envy. When swinging at things, bigger IS better. And It certainly doesn’t help that the hard plastic you’re whaling at bounces pretty much like a brick.
Surely, better technique would make me the envy of every Polident user in sight, I reasoned, before pulling up all the YouTube tutorials I could find. “Get that paddle recoiled in a hitting position, and rotate that upper body through the swing,” advised most of the experts. Too bad this torso hasn’t twisted anywhere since (blonde homecoming queen) Debbie Mooney strutted past our grade school game of kickball once.
As, sadly, has been the case with golf, professional “tips” (the “continental” grip launches most of my shots straight into orbit) only made me worse. Worse enough, in fact, to suspect that other players in the Brady’s Run Indoor Recreational Facility might try some sort of intervention. And probably recommend I stick to walking laps. I KNOW I read contempt through their wrinkles.
But then the EPIPHANY: My long, looping tennis swing could not possibly work within boundaries the size of our laundry room-not with the ball upon me quicker than Mrs. Com kicked me out of 10th grade English (which explains plenty about my punctuation). Furthermore, my fellow enthusiasts, I suddenly noticed, employed no “technique” at all, instead, treating the game like a spirited round of Whack a Mole, abandoning all notion of grace or proper form to simply make violent contact in the least athletic manner imaginable. And the best of them seemed angry-whether at the ball or their bingo pal across the net, I could not tell. Just that they looked mad, very mad, and channeled it through the ball.
Once appropriately peeved (In truth, I despise my regular opponent anyway-for stabbing each shot barely across the net and zooming much too low for my 6’2 frame to possibly return), I improved. Unfortunately, not much. But I think I will keep playing-if only in the fervent hope of smashing him a really good one. Right in the Dill (or perhaps, more like a gherkin?).
Meanwhile, I’m trying to develop a sport all my own: “Spaghetti- ball.” And not al dente, since that would defeat the whole concept of a flaccid orb that flops around like limp pasta, leaving varicose legs not far to chase it. Just grab a paddle, add oregano, and start whacking!
