THE GAME THAT DARE NOT SAY ITS NAME (IF IT HAD ANY SELF-RESPECT)

I tell you what it is: another chance
for people to buy stuff that will
wind up in the back of the closet in
six months.

 About eight weeks after purchasing the proper equipment and sneakers, my wife and I finally played pickleball. Well, not exactly. We just smacked the ball against a backboard (read: wall) in a nearby park for 30 minutes. 

And just to make it harder, we accidentally used the "indoor" pickleball ball rather than the "outside" version. And by "accidentally", I mean I brought the wrong one. Just what the difference is other than the number of holes is a mystery. Wait, no it's not. It's to make you spend more money on a piece of plastic resembling a round slice of Swiss cheese. 

It's that kind of persnicketiness that appeals to the kind of players you see around the neighborhood. The people who actually take seriously a game called pickleball. 

... Before moving on to the 
cocaine craze.

That's right, I said "game", not "sport". If the local players are any example, pickleball is for people who never played tennis, but now consider themselves on the same level as Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Naomi Osaka, or any other name they can't pronounce.

Pickleball is what jogging and rollerskating were in the '70s: an athletic fad that "everybody" loved until realizing they didn't love it. The only reason I agreed to take up pickleball at my wife's request was because I knew that if I did, sooner or later she would change her mind. 

The champ prepares to massacre
all opponents.

So how did I wind up in John Jay Park on a humid Sunday morning slapping the "wrong" ball on a tan wall? Well, I had to do something to justify the cost of the paddles, balls, and the white Adidas sneakers that I thought made me look like Jerry Seinfeld circa 1997, yet impressed my daughter because they're supposed to be hip. Meaning, I guess, rappers are paid to wear them.

My wife had gotten a head start on me, having played a few rounds with a friend at an athletic center near the lower West Side during the spring. I was initially concerned that she would have an unfair advantage over me -- after all, while she was practicing, I was home watching B-movies starring actors you wouldn't recognize. (At least that gave me an advantage if I ever quizzed her about Arthur Hohl or Paul Cavanaugh.)

Having the co-ordination of a sloth at naptime, I was concerned about making a fool of myself. Yet once we started to hit the (wrong) ball to each other by bouncing it off the wall, I got the hang of it fairly quickly. 

This was the grand slam that put a crack
in the wall.

Note I didn't say "well". For every bullseye shot, there was one that went over the wall or rolled on the ground. But over time, I became more selective about the hits to take; too, I somehow figured out how not to send the ball flying two stories up into the air.

By the end of the half-hour, I had to admit that this pickleball outing was not just a lot of fun, but felt good. Other than my daily walks (which get slower as the humidity rises), this was the best exercise I'd gotten in a while. Is it possible that I wanted to repeat the pickleball experience?

With nod of my head and a raise of the eyebrows, I answer, Yes. Not the real pickleball, mind you. Y'know, playing doubles against the self-deluded "pros" who get mad if you miss a shot or hit outside the lines, or bring those damnable inside balls. The people who take it seriously. 

The kind that my wife now also wants to avoid. 

I knew it would happen eventually! Keep that wall standing. We're going to be seeing a lot more of it this summer with whatever ball I bring (unless my wife corrects me).

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