Page 64 of Pickled
Right. Professional boundaries. I turned back to the flyer, memorizing the details. The entry fee was five hundred dollars per team. Registration closed in two weeks. “I’m going to do this, Lisa. I’m going to find a partner and enter this tournament.” The entry fee money was going to be tricky, but there had to be something in my house I could sell. How much was a Miami Barracuda jersey worth?
“Piper—”
“I have to try. For Olive.”
Lisa sighed. “Okay. If you’re serious about this, we need to get you back in shape. Real shape, not just casual pickleball shape. And we need to find you a partner who won’t hold you back.”
“Any ideas?”
“A few. But first, let’s see what else you’ve got.” She grabbed her paddle. “One game wasn’t enough to show me what a former top fifty junior player can really do.”
As we walked back toward the courts, I caught a snippet of conversation from the bar area.
“…that hit was brutal…”
“…wonder if he’ll be back this season…”
“…physio is tough, man…”
It was hard not to eavesdrop, but I reminded myself that whatever was happening with the hockey team wasn’t my business. This tournament, this chance to give Olive everything I’d lost, that was my future.
I just had to figure out how to win it.
21
GIDEON
Dew coatedthe rolling fairways as the sun rose over the golf course at the Azalea Bay Club. I stood on court three with a paddle that looked like a toy, my eyes, still a little sensitive, hidden behind my aviator sunglasses. Back in my tennis-playing days, I had worn protective eyewear, but I doubted that the wiffle balls packed enough punch to cause any damage.
The plastic ball barely bounced off the surface of the court. “This feels ridiculous,” I said.
“Follow along.” Lisa stretched her arm across her chest.
I obeyed and groaned as the muscles in my body started to loosen up. I was in my thirties now, stretching was going to play a big role in the rest of my life if I wanted to keep playing.
“Try to keep an open mind. Let’s start with some drills. We will do them with both hands to give your brain a little challenge this morning.” She pointed to the far side of the court with her paddle.
For the first forty minutes, we “dinked”—a slow-motion rally I could manage with both my left and right hands. It was easy. The shuffle step I learned in tennis came in handy as I moved along the ridiculously named kitchen line.
“You’re a natural.” Lisa grinned. “Let’s move on.” She backed up to the serving line. “Forget everything you know about tennis. The serve is underhand, and you have to serve cross-court, avoiding the kitchen.”
I shook my head. “Crease is so much better than the kitchen.” Who in their right mind took this joke of a sport seriously.
The first few serves were disasters. Every instinct from my tennis days kicked in wrong. I kept trying to blast the ball, sending it flying way past Lisa.
“Ease up,” Lisa called after my fifth ball disappeared behind a Mercedes. “Imagine you’re stick-handling. You know, soft hands.”
Now, that was an analogy I could understand. I dialed it back on my next serve. This time, the ball sailed perfectly to Lisa’s waiting paddle. The ball made a pock sound as she hit it back to me. I snatched it with my free hand.
“Better. Now, let’s rally.”
The next twenty minutes were humbling. The ball moved differently from a tennis ball, and the smaller court meant I was constantly misjudging distances. At about the half-hour mark, I started to see the patterns. It was like watching plays develop in hockey, but slower.
“That’s it,” Lisa said after I executed a decent third-shot drop that landed just inside the line. “You’re starting to think pickleball, not tennis.”
“It’s like learning a new language,” I admitted, wiping the surprise sweat from my forehead. The game was way harder than I’d anticipated.
When we reached the hour mark, something shifted, and I didn’t want to stop playing. The strategic elements were clicking, and I could see how it could be a fun thing to play.
